Page 9 of The Lie
Her husband shrugged. ‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘I don’t know … but don’t you want to find out who she is?’
‘Nope,’ he snapped.
‘Well, I’d like to, even if you don’t,’ Romy said. ‘We should work out who she is and why she’s written a letter out of the blue like this. Even though she says she’s not going public, we don’t know she’ll stick to that, now she’s made the first move. Shouldn’t we at least be prepared?’
Michael frowned. ‘So you want me to find her? Confront her? That’s probably exactly what she’s after.’ He shook his head. ‘I feel sorry for her. She’s obviously got issues.’
Romy wondered if Michael could be right. That the girl –woman– was some sort of attention-seeker, perhaps, and had fixated on him because he’d meant something to her when she was young?
‘I’m amazed you feel sorry for her, Michael, making false accusations like that. She could cause you a lot of trouble.’
‘Which is my point, exactly. It’s not a can of worms worth opening.’ His voice was calm now, almost matter-of-fact, and Romy, not a little puzzled by his reaction, sat without speaking. She didn’t know what he should do, either. But he didn’t seem angry with the anonymous girl, didn’t seem to find her significant at all.
‘Are you just going to leave it, then?’
‘Well, what else do you suggest?’
‘I don’t know …’
Before she’d had a chance to say any more, Michael seemed to shake himself. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘What about that pork belly?’
7
‘Maybe we should arrive separately,’ Finch joked. They were sitting round the oak central island in his kitchen. He’d poured her a glass of white wine and pushed a bowl of pistachios towards her.
Romy laughed. ‘We were invited separately and nobody’s aware we even know each other. So if we arrive together won’t it just seem like coincidence?’
‘Hmm, well, almost nobody.’ He looked a bit sheepish. ‘I did tell my friend Jenny. But I don’t think she’ll have told anyone.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Although who am I kidding?’
Romy was enjoying herself, her eyes drawn to the many photographs on the walls of Finch’s family. ‘That’s Nell?’ she asked, pointing to a frame with an attractive blonde and a girl of about twelve, with a cheeky smile and wheat-coloured hair in a thick plait.
‘Yes, and Gracie, my stepdaughter. She lives in Manchester with her husband, Sam. I adore her.’ Romy noted the tenderness in Finch’s voice as he gazed at the photograph. ‘She’s the only family I have.’
Cathy and Keith’s home was above the delicatessen on the main street of the village. The place wasn’t smart – the walls could have done with a freshen-up, the furniture had seen better days – but Romy instantly felt at home as shesank into the huge sofa and accepted a large glass of wine from their host. Keith was loud and overweight, with a manic, laughing energy. He never talked about anything but food, never did anything that wasn’t food-related – it was his lifelong obsession. Cathy was quiet and blonde and well organized, the perfect foil for her husband.
Supper consisted of a huge home-cooked ham with baked potatoes and numerous salads. Finch sat across the wooden table from her, flanked by Jenny and Cathy. Romy had Keith to her left and their teenage son, Louie, on her right. It was impossible not to catch Finch’s eye over the candles. She felt suddenly lighthearted from the wine and their innocent secret as the conversation flowed and laughter rang out above John Denver on Keith’s Bose stereo.
Jenny was talking to her. ‘How are you finding village life, Romy? Don’t you miss the bright lights of London?’
Romy thought her smile a little forced. ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I needed a change of scene, a new direction to my life.’
Jenny nodded, clearly unconvinced. ‘You won’t get bored with all us bumpkins and run back to the excitements of the city?’
Romy couldn’t resist giving Finch a grin. Life in the country was far more exciting than she’d previously imagined.
But Jenny must have clocked the look, because she added, rather sharply, ‘It’s very different from weekending, you know. That lot never involve themselves, just invite their London mates to stay, bring their own fancy food instead of buying locally, then bugger off back tothe Smoke.’ Although she’d spoken lightly, Romy sensed the simmering anger behind her words and thought it might be about more than weekend visitors and second homes. ‘I hope you’re going to be a proper part of our community.’ It was as if she were throwing down the gauntlet.
‘I fully intend to,’ Romy said, drawing herself up and giving Jenny her very best smile. When she glanced at Finch again, she saw his eyes widen in mock-alarm. ‘I was brought up in the country, Jenny. I know how it works.’
It was true: her parents had been hippies – before hippies were invented. Her father, Alan, was part of what would now be called the ‘gig economy’ – a part-time gardener, handyman, painter and decorator – while her mother, Peggy, baked cakes for the village shop, looked after their extensive vegetable garden and chickens, and smoked the trout Alan regularly pulled from the local river.
Romy and her brother Blake lived a wild, unsupervised childhood, roaming the fields and woods around the village with glorious freedom. They never wanted for anything, although their clothes and every single thing in the house were secondhand, picked up from goodness knows where by her father on one of his mysterious forays with his bicycle and trailer. They didn’t have a fridge, a Hoover, heating or pocket money and certainly not a television. It was Michael’s party piece, to recount her parents’ eccentricities – he seemed almost proud of them – but she wondered with amusement how Jenny would view the way in which she’d been brought up.
‘Game, set and match,’ Finch joked, as they walked home later that evening.
‘Is Jenny always that fierce?’ Romy asked.
