Page 44 of The Lie
‘You’re leaving me with Daniel, then?’ Michael asked. ‘Aren’t you worried he’ll neglect me? Starve me? Or, worse, make me eat that disgusting muesli mix he seems to dote on?’
Romy laughed. ‘Probably be very good for you.’
He shrugged and did not reply.
‘You don’t need both of us any more, Michael. You’re not incapable,’ she said, more snappishly than she intended.
‘Oh, thanks, good to know,’ he retorted. ‘Because from where I’m sitting – standing being a fucking nightmare, of course – it certainly doesn’t feel like I’m in such great shape.’
She sighed inwardly, sorry for her impatience. ‘No, OK. I sympathize, you know I do. But you seem to have forgotten you can make your own decisions. You just wait for people to do things for you – to you – that you’re perfectly capable of doing yourself.’
‘Such as?’
‘Cleaning your teeth at the washbasin and not in that nasty plastic bowl. You can lean against the basin now. Washing yourself in the shower ? you just wait for Daniel to do it. You even asked me to turn out your bedside light the other night.’
Michael glared at her. ‘My bad hand is closest, that’s all.’
‘I know you think I’m being a nag. But I saw it with Barry. He just gave up after his stroke and Angie became his slave.’
‘Ha! Is that what you’re worried about? That you’ll become my slave?’ His tone was peevish.
‘No, Michael,’ she said, trying to be patient. Although it wasn’t far from the truth. It did scare her that he wouldn’t make enough effort to be independent. ‘I just want you to get better. Is that such a bad thing?’
He turned his head away. When he looked back, his face was rigid with fear. ‘You don’t understand, Romy.’ His voice rose. ‘I get so bloody terrified … I don’t even know what I’m terrified of, only that sometimes my heart pounds and I feel so scared I want to shit. But I can’t even do that because I can’t bloody get to the bathroom in time.’ He gave a sardonic laugh, leaning forward, away from the pillows. ‘Do you have any fucking idea what that feels like?Do you?’ His eyes were shooting fire and she felt she must physically stand her ground or be blown away by his rage.
‘No,’ she said quietly, heart hammering. ‘No, of course I don’t. I’m sure it’s absolute hell.’
His gaze softened and he muttered sheepishly, ‘When you’re here, I don’t feel quite so scared.’
Romy cringed. Taking a deep breath, she said firmly, ‘It’s not good, getting too dependent on me or anyone else, however harsh it might seem to you right now.’
Michael closed his eyes. ‘OK, OK.’
She sat down on the edge of his bed and took his limp hand. It was cold, as always, and she rubbed it between her own. Neither spoke for a while.
When he opened his eyes, he said, his voice pleading, ‘I’m sorry I shouted. I know you’re right, but it just feels so hopeless. I do the same sodding exercises every day,over and over till I want to scream, and nothing changes. Imogen keeps telling me – youallkeep telling me – that I’m doingsowell and there’ssomuch improvement. But I can’t see it.’ His eyes gleamed with tears. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.’
Romy’s heart contracted. ‘Youaregetting stronger, Michael. I can see it, even if you can’t. And, yes, I know it’s slow, but your walking is way better, and even your shoulder has got some strength back. It’s only been a few weeks, remember.’
He nodded, wiping his eyes.
‘I’ll be back on Sunday evening,’ she said, not wanting to emphasize, when he was so upset, that her stay in the flat was coming to an end. She would talk to him properly about it on Monday. ‘Phone if you need me,’ she added, hoping he wouldn’t, because her mind was already off and away, back in her home by the sea, sitting in the sunny garden, pruning the climbing rose, seeing Finch … maybe even meeting his stepdaughter in the harbour-side pub for a chilled glass of something.
Romy was getting a takeaway coffee at Victoria station when Finch’s text came in:Hi. We’ll have to postpone today. Sorry. Grace a bit wobbly. Talk soon.
She stood amid the crowd around the departures board and reread his message. ‘Wobbly’? It seemed an odd word to use. She found she was disproportionately disappointed. And there was something about his text … Was it a bit peremptory? Finch was not a gusher, but this one felt different, somehow, as if he were subtly trying to pull away from her.
The worry haunted her all afternoon.Is Grace having a problem with her stepfather moving on?Or was Romy being paranoid and Grace was maybe just not well? ‘Wobbly’ could be taken in a number of ways, she realized. But if her suspicions were right, what did this mean for her and Finch?
She didn’t go out, nervous that she might bump into them round the village. There was enough to keep her busy at home, anyway. The place needed cleaning and the garden was positively jungly, requiring serious attention, despite the two hours a fortnight she paid Susan, the gardener.
There was no word from Finch all day, even though she’d texted, asking him to ring when he had a chance. Romy could not help feeling rejected, however childish she knew that to be. She had been so looking forward to seeing him. But later that evening, as she sat with a bowl of tomato soup and her second glass of red wine – still nothing from Finch – she couldn’t shake the feeling that something really wasn’t right. By the third glass, she was reaching for her mobile to call him and find out. It went to voicemail and she didn’t leave a message.
It was early afternoon on Sunday – Romy having all but given up hope of hearing from him – when her mobile pinged with a terse text:Can I come over?
30
The expression on Finch’s face when she opened the cottage door was fixed like stone. Romy was taken aback. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week, the circles beneath his eyes slate-grey and pronounced in his tanned face. But worse than that, his normally kind brown eyes regarded her warily.
