Page 28 of The Lie
She didn’t answer, stung by his jibe. She had been a dedicated mother, an accomplished hostess, a loyal wife and a valuable asset on his arm as he had climbed up through the network of the judiciary. The fact that none of these roles attracted an actual salary was not her fault.
She had done random office work in the early days, but the jobs she had been really interested in – and for which her environmental degree qualified her – involved working in the countryside, studying the natural world. But Michael had wanted to be in London and, as he frequently pointed out, he was the one earning the money to support the family.
Michael had covered his face with his hands – a familiar gesture when he was tense or upset. When he raised his eyes to hers, he said, ‘Be honest, Romy. You owe me that at least.’
Romy had taken a deep breath. ‘OK, well, we never talk. We don’t eat together, or hang out. You work twenty-four/seven … The boys have gone.’
He nodded slowly, although she didn’t know if this signified his agreement, or was just an acknowledgement that he’d heard her.
‘That’s the situation as it stands,’ he said evenly, ‘but I’m still waiting for thereasonit became as bad as this between us.’
She felt like a rabbit in the headlights. The letter hung like a flashing neon sign between them. She wasn’t going to be the one to mention it, but could he honestly pretend it wasn’t a valid reason?Thevalid reason?
Michael turned away, his mouth set in a tight line. He looked strained, tired, Romy thought, as she watched and remained silent. The room seemed to freeze-frame as they faced each other, their bodies rigid with tension, their lives halted on the brink.
‘OK,’ he said, taking a deep breath, his energy apparently restored. ‘I’ll say it, if you won’t.’ He stood, legs apart, in a dominating stance, his arms crossed.He only needs his wig and gown, she thought. ‘You believe the letter that woman sent you. You think I’m a sexual predator. You perhaps even worry that I’ve done it more than once. You no longer trust me.’ He stopped, stared at her. ‘Have I left anything out?’
Romy winced. The coldness in his voice was like a stab to her heart.I want you not to be that man in the letter so badly it hurts, Michael, she longed to say.So why won’t you at least try to make me believe?But she knew, for whatever reason, that he would not.
What she actually said was, ‘What am I supposed to think, when you won’t talk about it?’
He lowered his eyes as she spoke and she couldn’t see his expression. ‘I shouldn’t have to explain anything.’ His eyes met hers again, his gaze level. ‘You should be on my side, Romy, without question.’
Romy let out a tired sigh.Stalemate. She no longer had the energy or the desire to control herself, to protect him from the knowledge that there was, indeed, that tiny sliver of doubt in her mind.
‘A woman writes to me to say you’ve molested her. You show no interest, not even much outrage. You don’t even remember –you say– who she is. And apparently have no interest in finding out or even talking about it.’ She paused. ‘Look at it objectively, Michael. If this were one of your clients, wouldn’t you find it all a little strange?’
His stare did not waver and he didn’t move a muscle, as if he had suddenly been turned to stone. Romy felt a frisson of dread that he might be about to admit some level of guilt. But he gave a harsh laugh and his features returned to normal.
‘Ha! If you’re comparing me to my clients, Romy, then there’s no reaction on earth I would find the slightest bit odd.’
‘So you’re not prepared to talk about it, even now?’
He leant forward, arms akimbo. ‘Read my lips.There is nothing to talk about.’ The last words were almost shouted across the coffee table, flecks of spit shooting from his mouth.
She wanted to bang his head against the wall, to knock some sense into him somehow, to dislodge the infuriating denial that had finally driven them apart. But she knew it was pointless.
‘It’s not just me who’s been different since the letter,’ she said. ‘You completely shut me out. As ifIwas somehow to blame.’
Michael had paced up and down for a minute, then gone to lean against the mantelpiece, tapping the wood impatiently with his fingers. ‘Only because you clearly thought I’d done it,’ he said, his tone aggrieved. ‘But how can I prove I didn’t? I could say so till the cows comehome, but you wouldn’t necessarily believe me. So I wasn’t going to waste my breath.’ He sighed. ‘And you wanted to talk about nothing else. Are you surprised I avoided your company?’
Why didn’t you say this at the time?Romy had found she couldn’t speak. Bubbling up inside her was a melting pot of emotions that made her feel almost nauseous. Doubt – of herself and him – fury at his intransigence, love for the man she thought she remembered, and finally bewilderment that they had got to a point at which the connection between them appeared so flimsy that his presence was like that of a stranger.
She’d just wanted him to leave, so she could go upstairs and cry out her frustrations in private. But before she could find her voice, her husband had slammed the door of the cottage, and she’d heard his car revving angrily in the lane outside.
Now, in Michael’s darkened bedroom, she shivered at the memory. She had never been scared of him before that day, but his pent-up fury at being abandoned had felt explosive, almost dangerous in the small Sussex sitting room. As she shook out the patchwork counterpane and pulled it gently across the duvet, tucking his arms inside, she had to remind herself that the man before her was no longer capable of frightening anyone. He seemed like a child, like Leo and Rex when they were ill and fractious as boys, and she almost dropped a kiss on his forehead. But she stopped herself and walked away.
20
‘That was a bit rubbish,’ Jenny said, as Finch pushed open the heavy glass door of the cinema complex and they emerged into the warm May evening. ‘Fun,’ Jenny added, ‘but rubbish.’
Finch laughed as they wandered across the paved courtyard towards the burger joint where they always ate after a movie.
‘So, how’s it going with Romy?’ Jenny asked later, picking a long sweet-potato fry from the metal canister they were sharing and dipping it into a pot of mayonnaise.
Finch heard the same veiled snippiness from the supper with Cathy and Keith. He’d known Jenny might be jealous, from the flirtatious smiles she always gave him, the hand on his arm as she spoke, the way she took him about the village as if she owned him. But he had never been interested in her in that way. Never been interested in any woman since Nell, until Romy. As he took a bite of his burger, he knew he didn’t want to talk to Jenny about her.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Jenny was saying.
