Page 78 of The Lie
His stepdaughter, after opening up to Sam and then beginning her therapy, had got worse before she’d got better: the enlightened company she worked for had given her a month’s sick leave, more if she needed it. So Finch went round to see her most weekdays. He’d sit with her, often in silence, make her lunch that she didn’t eat, try to encourage her out, which she refused to do. She kept insisting he need not be there, but she didn’t seem to mind his company.
So he stayed, ferrying her back and forth to the therapist on Tuesday and Friday mornings, finding anodyne movies on Netflix to watch in the afternoons, pressing treats on her – a lovely bath essence or her favouritechocolate – and telling her endless funny stories about her mother. In fact, it reminded him of those months when Nell was ill and he’d done every practical thing in his power to try to make things better. They never talked about Michael.
Finch missed Romy. But it wasn’t a missing like the tearing heartache when they’d first split up. It was more a quiet, almost pleasurable knowing that she was still there, and a hope that soon they might be together. Though he worried that Grace might never willingly accept Romy’s presence in her life.
He called Romy after supper every night, when he got back from his stepdaughter’s house. He would pour himself a glass of wine and sit by the glowing stove in the sitting room. Romy would do likewise down in Sussex. And they would talk about everything, getting to know each other in a way their previous encounters had barely allowed for – so overshadowed had they been by their troubled pasts, by Michael’s stroke, by Grace, and taken up with the powerful physical attraction that existed between them.
Romy told Finch she had secured a part-time job at the Arun Wetlands Centre, two days a week, working on a project to protect Bewick swans in their migration path. She said she and Cathy from the deli were becoming friends. Finch told Romy about Grace’s progress, his plan to run a fundraising marathon in Russia next spring and his thoughts about getting a dog, perhaps a collie.
And, gradually, he watched Grace coming back to life. At first it was just the odd flash of her old ebullient personality, followed by troughs of silent despair. But theflashes were becoming more the norm, and both Finch and Sam began to allow themselves some hope.
Now, they climbed in silence. Finch was fitter than Grace, after her weeks of hibernation, and he heard her laboured breathing as they reached the top of the rise and looked out across the rolling hills of the National Park.
‘Wow,’ Grace said, when she’d caught her breath.
‘It always takes my breath away.’
Grace laughed. ‘It was that bloody hill took mine.’
After another moment during which they both gazed out at the glorious view, she went on, ‘So do you like it here, Finch?’
‘I love it.’
She turned a sharp eye on him. ‘Honestly? You’re not just saying that?’
‘What’s not to like?’
Finchwasbeing honest. He felt at home in the cottage, even though he knew nobody in the surrounding area. This place was wilder, less manicured, less populated than Sussex, and he liked that. But he found he missed the sea, missed his harbour runs, missed his own house more than he’d thought he would.
Grace stroked his arm. ‘You and Sam have been so amazing. I can’t believe how patient you both are. You literally saved my life.’ She let out a long breath. ‘Mum would have been so proud of you,’ she said, and Finch could hear the wobble in her voice.
They turned and walked east along the path that breasted the hill and dipped down towards a copse of trees in the distance. The wind was fierce up there, and they both shrank into their scarves and coats, handsburied deep in their pockets, noses pink with cold. Finch glanced sideways at his stepdaughter. The words were itching at the back of his throat, but he was so scared of tipping Grace back into the depths. He waited a moment longer, then took a deep breath.
‘Do you mind if we talk about Romy?’
Grace immediately turned to him. ‘Are you seeing her?’
‘No, but we’ve kept in touch.’
She nodded slowly but didn’t reply.
‘What do you feel about her, Gracie?’
His stepdaughter’s voice was tight as she said, ‘She wasn’t to blame for what happened.’
‘But?’ They’d turned back towards home now, the wind behind them.
His stepdaughter stopped beside him, kicking the loose stones on the path with the toe of her boot. ‘She was Michael’s wife.’ Her tone was blunt. ‘Which I know isn’t fair … because she’s a victim too.’
‘She reminds you of him, obviously.’
‘That … and I suppose at the time I saw her as the catalyst for me having to open up about Michael.’
They continued down the hill in silence.
‘But I have absolutely nothing personal against her, Finch.’
He nodded.
