Page 7 of The Lie
Finch didn’t want to talk about Romy to anyone yet. It felt too new, too delicate for gossip. For so long the only name on his lips had been Nell’s. But Jenny’s stare was insistent and he gave in, surprising himself with the flutter of pleasure he felt as he said her name.
When he’d finished, Jenny was frowning. ‘“ Claire ” … I know that name.’
‘They used to be weekenders, but she lives here full-time now,’ he said. ‘She’s separated, used to be married to a barrister.’
‘Well, you must introduce me,’ Jenny said brightly, but Finch sensed a distinct lack of enthusiasm, which he thought stemmed from her general cynicism about relationships, her own having gone south around the time Nell died; her husband had announced he had a two-year-old child with a much younger work colleague.
‘Way too soon to think it might go anywhere.’
Jenny seemed to pull herself together. ‘It’s been a long time since Nell, Finch. You shouldn’t be alone.’
‘It’s the hardest thing, letting her go. I’ve been sort of OK, living with her spirit … but Romy has a good spirit too.’ He stopped, embarrassed at his ramblings in front of his friend. It would have been simpler if he didn’t feel so much for Romy. Then he could have walked away andstayed in the safe zone – however lonely – of his past with Nell.
But Jenny didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Got it! I knew the name Claire rang a bell. Michael shares chambers with my old friend James Bregman who used to weekend here. It was the Claires he sold his cottage on the harbour to, about fifteen years ago, I think.’ She stopped. ‘James was a close friend of Nell’s, as I’m sure you know.’ Her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
Finch was puzzled. No, he didn’t. Nell had always told him everything, but he’d never heard of James Bregman.
‘Hope I haven’t spoken out of turn?’ Jenny said, a concerned frown on her face, which didn’t seem entirely genuine to Finch.
6
October 2015
Romy glanced quickly at the post, which held nothing of any interest except one handwritten letter, addressed to ‘Mrs Claire’. The envelope was cream and good quality, her name and address handwritten in italics and black ink, a script she did not recognize. It was addressed to Michael’s chambers, ‘Private. Please Forward’ in the top left-hand corner, Wendy’s neat redirection sticker sitting beside the crossed-out black ink.
Intrigued, but with no time to waste – she was due in Barnes, at the London Wetlands Centre, where she volunteered one day a week, taking groups of school children around the park – she stuffed the letter into her handbag, dumped the rest of the mail on the ledge above the hall radiator, then hurried down the stairs and out into the gusty autumn day, pulling the hood of her parka over her head to prevent the drizzle playing havoc with her already chaotic curls.
It wasn’t until Romy was seated on the Tube, trundling along the District Line to Hammersmith, that she remembered the letter and took it out of her bag. At first she couldn’t understand what she was reading. She stared at the words, but they made no sense. She glanced furtivelyat the man sitting next to her – the contents seemed to be shouting at her, and she worried he could somehow hear too. But he was deep in the yellowing pages of a John Updike novel.
The carefully scripted words swam before her eyes as she read and reread the text. The woman – as she would be now – said it was ‘too small a world’ to identify herself, whatever that meant.Is she implying she knows us?she wondered. Stations came and went, passengers ebbing and flowing around her. The sun pierced the grimy window in a blinding shaft as the train came overground and Romy shook her head in shock, quickly followed by bewilderment.There must be some mistake, she thought.She can’t be talking about Michael. Romy’s husband.
But it was clear that she was. She had seen him on the television, named him specifically. Romy’s thoughts were a jumble as she tried to work out what it meant, who this woman might be. She was so explicit. The sofa in Michael’s office; Wendy’s beige cardigan. Her stomach twisted. For one horrible split second she couldn’t prevent the thought that the letter might be telling the truth: that her husband might actually have done such an appalling thing.
Then she pictured Michael – her intense, charismatic, workaholic star of a husband. His dark eyes were always sharp with intelligence, but also vulnerable and fiercely honest.
There’s no way on this planet Michael would attack anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl, for heaven’s sake, Romy told herself sternly.I would have known. He wouldn’t have been able to hide such a terrible thing from me. She tried to pinpoint thedate in the letter, to recall what was happening at that time, but her mind was spinning.
As the minutes passed, Romy’s heart still pounding in disbelief, she felt a flare of anger.How dare she write such vile things about Michael?And, what’s more, imply that she, Romy, knew what he’d done. Imply she was somehow complicit … ‘assuming you don’t already [know].’How bloody dare she?Michael was not perfect, not by a long chalk, but he was certainly no sexual predator.
Who is this woman?Romy wondered. She had been around the justice system long enough as Michael’s wife to know that there were people out there with a skewed version of reality, which they nonetheless clung to wholeheartedly … although the contents of the letter seemed perfectly rational. And so detailed.
The train drew into Hammersmith station, the doors opening, life going on for all the other people in the carriage. This was her stop, but Romy was paralysed. She sat with her bag clutched to her body, the letter singeing a hole in the tan leather, like a hot coal, as the train trundled on to Ravenscourt Park, where she managed to lurch from her seat and step out onto the platform.
‘Gemma, it’s me.’ She called her friend, who organized the school trips around the Wetlands Centre. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m on the Tube, but I’m not feeling well. I think I’d better go home.’
Gemma was sympathetic – although Romy barely registered what she said. She quickly crossed to the eastbound platform. As she waited for the train, she wanted desperately to call Michael, then and there, to have him instantly confirm the absurdity of the whole thing. But itfelt too exposing to read the letter over the phone in a public place.
The journey home seemed to take an age, each rattle of the train and brush of a passenger almost painful in her state of suspense. Because she knew she wouldn’t get any clarity until she could speak to her husband face to face.
Michael was late home that night. He looked exhausted, dropping his briefcase in the hall with a thud and slinging his dark overcoat – glistening wet from the day-long drizzle – onto the hall chair. Romy stood and watched him from the entrance to the kitchen. She wanted to look hard into his face and find proof of innocence there. Reassure herself that he was the man she thought him to be, the man she had trusted for nearly three decades, before the waters were potentially muddied with denials and justifications, accusations and rage.
He sniffed the air. ‘Mmm … Smells good,’ he said, with a tired smile.
‘Pork belly,’ she said. ‘Do you want a drink? There’s the remains of the Bordeaux from last night.’
‘Love some,’ Michael said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back earlier.’
She nodded. After so many years as his wife, she didn’t need yet another explanation about the pressures of being a top silk. She turned away. ‘I’ll bring it through.’ The letter was in her bag. She had read it on and off throughout the afternoon. But she’d put it away before Michael got home – like her own dirty secret.
