Page 4 of The Lie
Her son was silent for a moment. Then: ‘It’s good you’re sounding happier, Mum. You’ve got to go for things in life, you know.’
She lay back against the pillows after they’d said goodbye. That last phrase ran through her mind, like a banner fluttering behind a plane.Go for it, she thought. And before she’d had a chance to change her mind, she texted Finch.
I’ll cook you supper one night, if you like. R
3
Later that day she was in the kitchen, flicking through some paint charts on her iPad, when Michael rang. ‘Hello?’ Romy knew she sounded unintentionally wary. Until recently – when her growing optimism about life had opened up a welcome space between them – she’d still felt so tightly bound to Michael, even though they no longer lived together. And meeting Finch felt like another small degree of space.
So now, speaking to Michael, she noticed herself becoming tense, convinced he would make some demand and impinge on her hatching independence. He tended to ring every few days, usually on some pretext, such as the boiler playing up or the windows needing cleaning, which he had to share with her because, he kept reminding her, she still owned half of the Chelsea flat.
Or it might be to relay some gossip about one of their friends, a chat he’d had with Leo or Rex. It was almost, Romy thought, as if he hadn’t quite grasped that she’d left him, despite his spending the past year in the arms of the lovely Anezka, the Czech maître d’ at a restaurant off Fleet Street where many of the legal profession gathered.
‘Just checking in,’ Michael said. ‘Haven’t heard from you in a while.’
‘I’m fine. Nothing to report,’ she said, not choosing to point out that four days wasn’t exactly ‘a while’, butmaking it clear she was not in the mood for a gossip. She wondered, ridiculously, if her husband had somehow got wind of the text she’d sent Finch earlier, or yesterday’s walk. Michael always seemed to nose things out before anyone else – a useful knack in his line of work.
‘It must be lovely down there,’ Michael went on.
‘It is. Michael, I’m just about to go out. Is there something you want?’
‘Well …’ He seemed unusually hesitant. ‘I was hoping we could get together, have a talk.’
‘About what?’
‘Perhaps it’s time to consider our position, Romy.’
Heart fluttering anxiously, she asked, ‘What do you mean, “ our position ”?’
Michael was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘I was thinking about maybe getting on with a divorce.’
Romy was taken aback. It was fourteen months now since she’d left and even then there had been no official statement that they were separating. She had just moved out of the flat and not come back. More to the point, Michael had been brought up a Catholic – altar boy, First Communion – and, although lapsed since his twenties, he was, in principle, against divorce. Romy couldn’t imagine wanting to marry again, so it wasn’t a priority. And she had her sons to think of. But the word gave her a jolt, nonetheless.
‘Are you thinking of marrying Anezka?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Michael exclaimed, with convincing horror. Then he gave a short laugh. ‘Sorry, that sounded rude.’ He paused. ‘I suppose I just want to be clear aboutwhat’s going on between us.’ His voice was soft, uncharacteristically tentative.
Now Romy felt the full weight of what seemed like a lifetime with Michael fall on her, like a heavy cloak. Their two boys, all the experiences they’d shared: the fun they’d had, the problems they’d weathered, the powerful love she had undoubtedly felt for her husband. No part of her wanted to go back, but she couldn’t help feeling the burden of the unfinished business between them. Unfinished business that – although Michael claimed to want clarity – continued to sit like a box stuffed in the attic. Ignored, but a constant presence above their heads.
‘If you want to go ahead, I’m fine with it,’ she said, her voice restrained.
Michael did not immediately reply and she wondered if he’d heard. When he did speak, she thought he sounded distinctly disappointed. ‘Oh, right … Well, we can talk about it when we meet. I’ll send some dates.’
After they’d said goodbye, Romy was slightly shaken.Was he testing me?she wondered.Trying to stun me with the reality of divorce – see if I still care for him?If he was happy in his relationship with Anezka – which her sons seemed to imply he was – then he should have sounded pleased, rather than disappointed. Whatever he’d meant, Michael, she realized, still had the power to unsettle her. She took a shaky breath as she silently mouthed those ink-black words:Even now, I sometimes have flashbacks that make me tremble and sweat.
4
‘That was superb.’ Finch sat back in his chair and gave her a grin of satisfaction.
‘It’s all you’re getting, I’m afraid,’ she said, smiling at his compliment – it had only been a modest pasta: spinach and mascarpone fusilli. ‘There’s Brighton Blue and grapes. I don’t do puddings.’
It was liberating not to feel the need to wade through complicated recipes for Finch and just do something she could cook with her eyes closed. Not because he wasn’t worth it. The evening had been so comfortable – really lovely, in fact – and Finch so appreciative of her efforts. But she remembered all those formal dinner parties she’d thrown for Michael, how they’d taken her all day to organize and cook and left her exhausted, with little appetite for being sparkling and witty with his clever colleagues from the judiciary.
Finch’s eyes widened in horror. ‘What? No chocolate and hazelnut roulade? No tarte Tatin? What will the village say when I spread the word?’
Romy started to laugh. ‘Probably confirm their worst suspicions that Michael left me because there weren’t three puddings on the table every night.’ Her face fell, his name casting a shadow. ‘Although it was me who left him,’ she added softly.
‘Cheese is perfect,’ Finch said diplomatically, as she reached across to clear his bowl. ‘Is it all right to ask why?’ he said after a minute, his tone cautious.
