Page 39 of The Lie
‘I just wanted to tell him myself. In my own time,’ Romy said. ‘And I would have, but Michael and his bloody stroke got in the way.’ Finch winced at the harshness in her voice. ‘He said he thought Leo already knew,’ she went on. ‘But in fact he was just being spiteful. Scoring points.’
Finch couldn’t help experiencing a guilty surge of pleasure at her disparagement of Michael as he heard Romy add forcefully, ‘Anyway, it’s done now, and I’m glad he knows.’
‘I’m glad you’re glad,’ he said, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. ‘I should tell Gracie. She’s coming down from Manchester this weekend. In fact, I was wondering … maybe it’s too soon … but if you were here, perhaps we could meet up for a drink or something casual. I’d love you to meet her.’
‘Me too. But it’s your call. I was coming down on Saturday, anyway. I’m sorely tempted to just leave the miserable bastard to his own devices permanently, see how he likes that.’
But you won’t, he thought.
‘See how it goes with Grace,’ Romy was saying. ‘I won’t be the least offended if you decide not to tell her yet. I’ve just been through the conversation with Leo, and you should think carefully about whether it’s the right time or not.’
‘I just want Grace to know how I feel about you,’ he said simply, aware, as he spoke, that he wanted to tell as many people as possible about him and Romy. It seemed to him that the more public their relationship, the more it would cement it in everybody’s eyes – including Michael’s.
26
When she arrived on the doorstep later that afternoon, Anezka was clearly nervous.
‘Come in.’ Romy welcomed her warmly, but she was anxious about how Michael would cope with the meeting.
They stood in the hall in silence. Anezka handed her a fancy box from the patisserie in the mews off Sloane Square.
‘He’s in the sitting room.’ Romy waved her hand towards the door.
Michael had put on a don’t-give-a-toss act when Anezka had finally texted him earlier to ask if she could drop round.
‘Nice of her to grace us with her presence, at last.’ But Romy noticed his agitated blinking. ‘I’d better get spruced up, I suppose,’ he added, with the same studied nonchalance.
She’d helped him shower and dress – he’d insisted she shave his head properly because he kept nicking himself, then fussed about which shirt to wear.
‘I can’t wear those disgusting things.’ He looked in despair at the grey jogging-pants Romy held out to him. ‘“ Sweatpants are a sign of defeat,” some wise person once said.’
‘Maybe, but your others will be hard to get on and off … Peeing might be tricky.’
Michael’s mouth pursed in an angry line. ‘Bloody stroke. Bloody, bloody, fucking stroke.’
‘Do you want to try your normal ones, then?’ she asked, sympathizing with his loathing for the pull-on bottoms. Michael had always taken such a pride in his appearance: the traditional barrister’s wig and gown, the beautifully tailored suits he’d favoured before the stroke, which shaped his slim frame so elegantly.
He’d thought about it, then sighed. ‘No, probably stick to these hideous things. Don’t want to piss myself because I can’t get my flies undone.’
Now he was sitting in his armchair, his iPad on his knee, spruced up as best he could manage. Yet Romy couldn’t help seeing her husband as Anezka would see him: old and frail. He was no longer the virile, successful, charismatic QC, with whom Anezka had fallen in love, swanning confidently into her restaurant with a host of important-looking colleagues.
Romy watched her hesitate on the threshold. Either Michael had not realized she was there, or he was pretending not to do so, because it wasn’t till Anezka said his name that he raised his head.
‘Anezka,’ he said, holding out his good hand and beckoning her closer. ‘I won’t get up,’ he joked.
Romy went to the kitchen to make tea and lay out the pink and greenmacaronsfrom the fancy box. She could not hear anything from the other room at first because of the noise of the kettle. But once she’d poured the hotwater onto the tea and left it to brew, she found herself guiltily creeping to the door, ear cocked. Anezka’s voice, however – normally so strident – was quiet today and Romy could catch only a low murmur.
When she went through with the tea tray, the two were sitting in silence. Anezka had pulled up the leather pouffe Michael had brought back from a Moroccan trip decades ago and had taken his weaker hand in hers. But Romy caught the expression on her husband’s face. He looked as if he were holding on to himself very tightly.
Anezka turned as Romy approached and she saw the tears in the woman’s eyes. ‘I should go,’ she said, and jumped up from the pouffe, before Romy had even put the tray down.
Michael didn’t move a muscle.
‘Oh … I’ve made tea,’ Romy said.
But Anezka pushed past her with a muttered ‘Sorry, sorry …’
Romy hurried after her. Anezka was in the hall, searching in her bag for something. She stopped when she saw Romy.
