Page 8 of The Lie
As she poured red wine into the long-stemmed glasses, she realized she was almost shaking with nerves. Theletter had taken on gargantuan proportions, acquiring a physical presence way beyond the single sheet of paper on which it was written.
Their sitting room was an elegant space, high-ceilinged and wide. Long windows gave onto a balcony that fronted the red-brick block of flats, the view looking down the length of the street opposite. Romy had kept the décor simple: a long sofa, lined with cushions, in pale tweed; two tapestry-chintz armchairs either side of the gas log fire; a heavy black lacquer coffee table on which stood a vase of yellow tulips; books on the wall by the door and ochre and blue curtains. Michael had seated himself in his chair to the right of the fireplace, head resting back on the cushion, eyes shut.
Romy placed his glass on the coffee table, keeping her own in her hands.Should I wait till after supper?she asked herself. But she knew she was just being cowardly. She turned abruptly and went to retrieve the letter. Arm outstretched, she handed the sheet of paper – no longer in its envelope – to her husband. ‘This came in the post today.’
Michael raised his eyebrows as he grasped the letter and began to read. It seemed to take him a very long time, longer by far than the short text allowed for. His expression did not change, remaining almost mask-like in its stillness, but she thought his olive skin paled.
Then he waved the sheet of paper in the air, shaking his head in apparent bewilderment. ‘This is ludicrous. I don’t understand. Who is this woman?’
‘I thought you’d know.’ Romy saw him blink rapidly, then his eyes returned to the page.
He looked up at her. ‘We have hundreds of kids doing work experience in chambers. How am I supposed to know which one this is?’ His tone was aggrieved.
‘Well, she gives the date.’
‘The date is irrelevant, Romy, because this is all complete nonsense. I’d never attack anyone.’ Michael flapped the letter angrily. ‘Thirteen years ago? I can’t remember that far back, for God’s sake, with all the people who trail through the place every day.’
Romy thought this was probably true. An insignificant teenager about chambers … Although she knew her husband had a razor-sharp memory, almost photographic in its recall.But why should he remember someone who wasn’t important to him?she asked herself.
Her husband reached for his wine and took a long gulp. Romy didn’t know what to say. But obviously she couldn’t leave it there.
‘Can you try to remember, Michael? It’s important you do.’
He frowned. ‘Why? Sounds like she had a bit of a thing for me … She almost admits she did. And now her life’s gone to the dogs and she’s looking for someone to blame.’ He shrugged.
Romy had retreated to her chair, but she was sitting on the edge of the cushion, leaning towards her husband. ‘So you don’t remember any incident where you gave a girl some wine in your office and she sat on the sofa …’ She paused. ‘She seems to know a lot of detail.’
‘Romy?’ Michael stared at her, a wounded look in his eye as his glass clunked down on the table. He seemed to be waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t know whatto say. ‘You don’t honestly think I did this, do you?’ He jumped up, still clutching the letter, and began pacing back and forth across the window bay. ‘Of course she knows details. She was probably in and out of my office all week.’
Neither spoke for a moment. Then Romy said. ‘2002 was when you were doing the Charlie Brigham case, wasn’t it?’
Brigham was a music promoter accused of grooming an underage fan. It had been a long drawn-out case, because more victims had come forward pre-trial, with a lot of publicity attached. Michael lost and Brigham had gone to gaol. Romy had been working back to the date since she read the letter.
It was a summer she would not forget. She had fractured her right tibia falling off a bike and careering down a steep bank when they were staying with friends in the New Forest during the boys’ half-term. She was in plaster, couldn’t drive for the rest of the summer, and Michael was hopelessly unreliable in helping out with the boys, then aged twelve and nine. She remembered him being tense and bad-tempered for weeks, which she felt was moreherprerogative.
‘It was the summer I broke my leg.’
Her husband nodded as he threw the letter onto the table, a frown of concentration on his face as he began pacing again. Then his expression cleared slightly, although the frown remained. ‘There was one girl around that time … Emily? Emma?’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m sure she was older … already at college.’
Romy sighed. ‘What was she like?’ she asked. ‘Did you do stuff with her?’
Michael rounded on her. ‘What do you mean by “ stuff ”, Romy? Areyouaccusing me of molesting her now?’
‘Of course not. I meant did she help you sort documents – as she said in the letter? Did she … I don’t know … Were you friendly with her?Didyou offer her wine?’
He threw his arms into the air. ‘I offer lots of people wine, but I haven’t attacked a single one of them. I told you, Idon’t know who this person is,’ he almost shouted, thrusting his head towards her, dark eyes blazing.
‘OK, OK. Calm down. I’m just trying to get a picture of the girl, trying to work out why she would accuse you like this.’
‘This is insane,’ he muttered, throwing himself into his chair again and covering his face with his hands. ‘And really upsetting.’
There was a long silence.
‘You could ask James?’ Romy suggested. ‘Or Wendy? She’s bound to remember. Nothing goes on in the place that gets past Wendy.’ Romy paused. ‘And she said she borrowed a cardigan from –’
Before she could go on, her husband’s head flew up. ‘Seriously? You want me to bring this ludicrous accusation up with my colleagues? How do you think that will play?’ His look was scornful, but he also seemed hurt by her reaction.
Romy waited for him to say more, but he remained stubbornly silent. ‘So what are you going to do, Michael?’
