Page 69 of The Lie
‘What will you do, now you know the truth?’ James asked, his mouth twitching nervously. ‘Will you go to the police?’
‘It’s not my secret to tell, James. If anyone goes to the police, it will be Grace.’
49
Grace and Sam had been holidaying in his house while he’d been away – Finch could almost feel their recent presence. They’d left butter and milk, some banana bread in tin foil and two apples in the fridge. And despite his reluctance to come back, he found himself giving a drawn-out sigh of relief as he imbibed the familiarity of home.
His stepdaughter was coming the following night, without Sam, who was attending a work seminar in Leicester on Saturday. Finch was looking forward to seeing her. He didn’t know how he could help Grace, but as the only person she was close to who was aware of the assault, he could at least try. He could give her a hug and let her know he loved her. That was what he had come home for.
Finch wandered about, getting reacquainted with his home. He went over to the photograph of Nell on the kitchen wall and stood for a while staring at her face. But somehow the time away from his habit had broken the link. His wife’s image was still powerful – he knew it always would be – but it was just an image now, a memory. He no longer sensed she was there with him, or felt the urge to talk to her in the way he had. And since his talks with Marty, he was all right with that.
It was late and pouring with rain when Grace arrived. She looked exhausted and bedraggled, her eyes round as saucers in the overhead kitchen light. Finch hugged her for a long time, then sat her down to a supper of watercress soup, bread and cheese. But he could see that she was struggling to eat, struggling to be cheerful as she went through the motions of questioning him about his time in Argentina.
‘Finch,’ she said, after a long silence, turning her mother’s eyes up to him as he stood to clear the table, ‘I need to tell you something.’
He sat down again.
For a moment she did not speak, just took another sip of wine.She’s drinking way too much, Finch thought, watching the kitchen light cast shadows on her lovely face.
Another silence.
‘I met Romy.’
Finch jolted. He hadn’t expected that. Since being back in the same village, he’d thought of little else but her.
‘Where?’ he managed to ask, although he realized, stupidly, it was the least important detail of all.
‘The harbour. She came up to me, introduced herself.’
Finch nodded, not daring to interrupt, not trusting his voice to do so.
‘I didn’t want to talk, but she insisted.’ Grace was clearly wrestling with her thoughts. ‘She told me Michael had adifferentversion of what happened,’ she gave a cynical roll of her eyes, ‘but she said she believed me.’
‘OK …’
‘We didn’t talk for long – I didn’t want Sam to see us together so I asked her to leave.’
Finch tried to imagine the scene.It must have taken a lot of guts for her to approach Grace, he thought. He knew Romy would be sensitive – he could almost see those eyes of hers, full of determination, and his heart went out to her. It made him feel almost weak, the wave of longing that swept over him.
‘I’m glad she told you she believed you,’ he said.
Grace stared at him. ‘Yeah,’ she conceded eventually.
After another pause, during which Grace fiddled with the bread left on her plate, taking crumbs and rolling them into small balls between her fingers, which she then placed carefully in a pile, Finch said, ‘Looks like things are pretty difficult for you at the moment?’ He couldn’t find a tactful way to say how distracted she seemed.
She nodded dumbly, head bowed. ‘There’s something else,’ she said, and paused for what seemed like a very long time. Eventually she added softly, ‘I lied to you, Finch.’
He held his breath. His heart was flapping like a flag in a storm.No, no, please, no, he thought.Don’t let this whole thing about Michael be some terrible invention. He stared apprehensively at his stepdaughter, trying to fathom from her expression what she was about to reveal. But Grace wasn’t looking at him. When she did begin to speak again, she simply sounded resigned and infinitely weary.
‘When I said I didn’t tell Mum, I wasn’t being quite honest.’ She drained her glass and set it down gently on the table. ‘It was true I didn’t, but she already knew at least some of it. From James Bregman.’ Letting out a long sigh, Grace continued, her eyes filling with tears, ‘But she didn’t believe me when I told her my version of what happened.’
‘What?’ Finch spat the word out as if it were choking him.
‘James must have said it was just a kiss, made out it was consensual or something.’ Grace spoke very quietly, so Finch could barely make out her next words, the rest lost as Grace began to sob.
He got up and came round the table, sat on a chair beside her and put his arm round her shoulders until she quietened down a little. She turned her face towards him.
‘It wasn’t Mum’s fault, Finch. James spun her what must have been Michael’s account and she believed him. We weren’t getting on back then, of course. She thought I was drinking too much, hanging out with the wrong crowd. I was judgemental about her having a thing with a married man …’
