Page 48 of The Lie
Daniel continued: ‘He would not eat his lunch. He has had only a small piece of toast all day. Then the physio came – not Imogen – and he slipped when she was walking with him on the frame.’
‘Slipped?’ The word impinged on Romy’s scattered consciousness and she tried to focus.
‘It was not serious,’ Daniel said quickly. ‘He just slid over and ended up on the floor. We picked him up, but his breathing was very fast and he make this moaning sound. I thought at first he might be badly injured or maybe he have some sort of attack.’
Daniel had her full attention now. ‘Attack? What sort of attack?’
‘I was not sure, but I thought, so soon after a stroke … So I ring the surgery and the locum doctor came out.’
‘Wait – the doctor? Why didn’t you call me, Daniel?’
Daniel gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I did. I left four messages.’
Romy blinked. Then she remembered her phone wasn’t on. She’d waited for a miserable agonizing hour for Finch to get in touch after he’d left. But she couldn’t stop herself checking the bloody thing every two minutes, so eventually she’d turned it off.
‘What did the doctor say?’ she almost snapped, feeling so guilty for missing Daniel’s calls.
‘By the time he get here, Mr Michael was better. But when I describe what had happened, he thought it might be a panic attack,’ the boy replied. ‘He was very careful ? he checked him out, but he couldn’t find anything that was wrong, except his pulse was high.’
‘A panic attack?’ Romy said, but she was remembering a couple of evenings ago and her husband suddenly clutching his chest and breaking out in a sweat, his breathing laboured. It had frightened her, too.
‘He said we must keep him as calm as possible for the next twenty-four hours and get Dr Beech to see him,’ Daniel added, his young face searching hers for approval.
‘Did somebody die?’ Michael asked, his eyebrows raised as he noted her expression.
Romy stood in the doorway to his bedroom. Despite her concern for him in the light of what Daniel had told her, she found she couldn’t bear the sight of the man. ‘Not you, obviously,’ she retorted, forcing a smile which probably looked more like a grimace. Her husband,whatever had gone on earlier, looked the picture of serenity as he lay back on his snowy pillows – the most cosseted man on earth.
‘Sorry to disappoint you on that front,’ he said, with mock-seriousness. ‘I did my best. Had them all going this afternoon. But apparently it was just a bit of run-of-the-mill hysteria.’
Romy wasn’t in the mood for Michael’s banter.
He patted the duvet with his good hand. ‘Sit down, tell me all about it.’
‘Nothing to tell,’ she said dully.
‘Good weekend?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Action Man playing up?’ He was joking, and she expected to see a jealous sneer on his face, but all she saw was what looked like genuine concern.
Romy sighed. She hadn’t moved from the doorway and had no intention of doing so.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I go to bed?’
Part of her wanted to blurt out, then and there, what Finch had told her, finally force him to tell her the truth. But she knew she was too wound up, too exhausted to be coherent. Plus Michael needed to be kept calm. She didn’t want him disappearing behind another panic attack just as she was getting to the crux of that evening with Grace. It would wait till tomorrow.
As she slipped into bed, Romy felt as if she’d been put through a mangle and spat out the other side. She still remembered her mother’s mangle and could instantlyrecall washday and the delicious soapy smell of the laundry powder bubbling away in the steamy water of the twin tub, the clothes churning beneath the surface. Then her mother picking them out with wooden tongs and squeezing them briefly – the spinner bit of the ‘twin’ didn’t work, like much else in the house – and feeding them through the two wooden rollers of the mangle.
Romy, as a small child, was allowed to turn the handle and watch the flattened clothes slide out the other side and plop stiffly into the waiting clothes basket before her mother hung them on the line outside. She felt like those clothes now: squashed flat, lifeless, devoid of her normal shape.
She could understand Finch’s position all too well. If she were him, she would surely have reacted in the same way. But instead of sympathizing with Grace and being as appalled as he – which any decent person would have done – she’d gone on the defensive and virtually blamed the girl for Michael’s behaviour.
That night, sixteen years ago, sat like a stone in Romy’s stomach, as if she had been there too, as if she herself were also to blame: Michael’s sleazy partner in crime. She knew it was ridiculous, but she felt like those mothers of serial killers who stand by their sons and say in all honesty, ‘My Frankie’s a good boy. He’d never do such a terrible thing.’ She had seen it in Finch’s eyes, his shock and bewilderment when she continued to side with Michael.
What did he do that night?she asked herself, as she lay there on the edge of sleep, eyelids drooping from tiredness in the stuffy bedroom.
But, whatever the truth, nothing would mend the chasm that had opened up between her and Finch. Apologizing for blaming Grace would not wipe Romy’s words from his memory or hers. So even if she did say sorry, and she would, and even if he completely forgave her, which, being Finch, he might, Romy couldn’t see him choosing her over his stepdaughter, overNell’s daughter. And he would have to choose, because Grace was never going to be comfortable having Romy around for weekend visits or jolly family get-togethers.
