Page 3 of The Lie
‘No.’ Finch held up his hand. ‘It’s been four years. I’m fine with it.’
He didn’t seem particularly fine to Romy, but as she was worrying how to reply without putting her foot in it even more firmly, Finch saved her by asking, ‘What’s your story?’
‘I’m not with anyone,’ Romy said quickly, her tone unintentionally fierce. She wasn’t even sure it had been what Finch’s question implied, but he would ask eventually, and she might as well get it out of the way.
He looked a bit startled. ‘OK …’ he said, and his wry expression made her laugh.
‘Sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m separated, not actually divorced yet. Just getting going on a new life down here.’
Finch was regarding her with his steady brown eyes. She could not decide what he was thinking, but she was aware of relaxing under his gaze, as if she were letting something go – but also, at the same time, stirring something up. The feeling took her completely by surprise. She had not thought herself capable, not after what had happened.
Finch was a handsome man. Not in a chiselled, classical way, but his regular features were open and appealing, his brown hair and eyes, the healthy glow to his skin, those of a much younger man than someone in their late fifties – another fact dropped into her lap, unsolicited, by her gossipy neighbour.
‘I’m off to my bed.’ Stuart was looming over them, pulling on his purple North Face jacket and fiddling, head bent, with the zip.
‘I suppose I ought to go, too,’ Romy said reluctantly.
Finch yawned. ‘Yeah, I’m knackered.’
Outside the rain had stopped, but the March night was chilly and damp. Romy shivered after the warmth of the pub as they made their way along the lane towards the village-hall car park. She suddenly realized how tired she was, too, even though she hadn’t run the race.
Finch hesitated. He wasn’t looking at her as he clicked his key fob towards a silver Toyota parked along the fence, flashing on the orange indicator lights.
‘Maybe we could go for a walk or something, when the weather improves?’ He stared down at her in the half-light of the single security lamp high up on the bricks of the hall, his expression uncertain.
She smiled her agreement, but felt the panic rising.Do I want to see him again?The brief banter with an amusing man had been fun – more than fun – but way out of her recent comfort zone. So far out, indeed, that part of her hoped he wouldn’t get in touch. Because that would be simplest. She wasn’t sure she was ready … or would ever be. Men were not on her to-do list.
Maureen was as good as her word and regularly took Romy under her wing on the Mondays that followed. There were around twelve volunteers, mostly middle-aged, more men than women, all of them in weathered anoraks and beanies, boots that had seen considerable action. Romy was self-conscious with her brand-new gardening gloves and squeaky boots. But they welcomed her enthusiastically, happy for an extra hand to tackle the bracken and bramble, or coppice the hazels straying onto the path. It was sweaty and exhausting, but Romy loved every minute – she lost herself in the work.
Later, when they were all perched on a damp log with lukewarm Thermos tea and squares of Maureen’s deliciously sticky gingerbread, the chat was all about the rewilding of Knepp – the estate down the road. For a glorious few hours, Romy felt as if she’d been untethered from her past. It was like a soft spring breeze blowing through her body.
She had left her phone in the car while she worked, not wanting any interruptions. When she checked it again, before driving home, she saw a text.About that walk, it said.Saturday is supposed to be fine, if you’re still up for it? Finch
‘Do you fancy a drink, maybe a bite to eat?’ Finch’s question was tentative as he and Romy rounded the corner and saw the car park up ahead. It was a beautiful day, hot for April, and Romy had struggled to keep up as they strode the two-hour route round the Roman villa, although she was sure he was modifying his pace to suit her own.
She had been nervous the day might be awkward – she barely knew the man and they hadn’t seen each other since that night in the pub, nearly a month ago now. But her fears melted away as they walked. Conversation was so easy with Finch, as if they were tuned to the same wavelength. She couldn’t say exactly what they talked about, except neither ventured into very personal territory. But he made her laugh and she forgot, for a while, the thoughts that regularly tormented her. At times Romy sensed the weight of their pasts in the unsaid, but it was so enjoyable to walk with a companion for a change – especially someone as personable as Robert Fincham.
She hesitated before replying to his suggestion. Part of her would have loved to sit with him and a glass of cold white wine, somewhere outdoors on this stunning spring evening, but another part clung to her default position. Before she had given herself time to think, the wariness won out. ‘That would have been lovely, but I’ve got someone coming over later,’ she blurted, before she couldchange her mind. She was sure her words rang false and she quickly regretted her lie.
But Finch did not look discomposed in the slightest. He merely smiled. ‘Shame. Another time, perhaps.’
The following morning, Romy woke up disappointed with herself. But the past few years had been so confusing, she wasn’t sure she could trust her instincts any more.It happened on Thursday, 13 June 2002 …
As she lay there, uncomfortably catapulted back into the past, her phone rang. It was barely seven and she knew it would be Rex – it was the best time to talk from Australia.
‘Hey, Mum. How’s it going over there?’
He sounded upbeat, as always. Her laidback son – now twenty-seven – seldom showed signs of stress, unlike his elder brother, Leo. Rex had deliberately chosen a lifestyle for himself that didn’t include it: a barista job in a trendy coffee shop in Sydney, blue skies and a nicely waxed surfboard, the stunning beach a stone’s throw away.
She listened for a while to Rex’s account of a spectacular wave the previous weekend, and caught up with news of her brother, Blake – who had emigrated with his family to Sydney twenty years ago – before her son stopped mid-flow, his tone suddenly serious: ‘Tell me howyouare, Mum.’
‘Well, I’m OK, actually. Better than I’ve been for a while.’ She went on to tell him about Maureen and the conservation group, Keith in the deli and his wife, Cathy. She didn’t mention Finch, although she wasn’t sure why not.
‘Go for it,’ Rex said, when she stopped talking. ‘Love it that you’re into Thermos tea again. Remember those sausage and fruitcake picnics in Scotland? And that day Dad swam in his Y-fronts across the freezing loch?’ She heard Rex chuckle. ‘I wished I’d been brave enough to go with him.’
Rex and Leo had rarely spoken of Michael since their parents had split up. Romy didn’t know how to articulate what had happened between them to her sons, and they clearly didn’t know how to ask.
But she couldn’t help laughing as she remembered the Scottish holiday. Those had been the best times. ‘Your father never does anything by halves.’
