Page 61 of The Lie
‘Look, I’ve let you down. I accept that. But I’ve apologized. I don’t know what else I can do.’ He picked up his cup and took a gulp of coffee, which, she thought, must be stone cold by now. ‘Can we put all this behind us, do you think?’ He let out a tired breath. ‘It was a stupid, inappropriate fumble. One I will always regret. But certainly not a sexual assault. The whole thing’s been blown up to ridiculous proportions by that letter. I didnotattack Grace Fleetwood.’
Romy didn’t move, didn’t speak. His request paralysed her. His explanation was almost plausible, his contrition almost solid. Almost …
He wasn’t pleading with her, thank goodness, when he said, his voice quietly firm, ‘I’ve had the worst wake-up call anyone could imagine, Romy. I’ve lain in that bed all these weeks, confronting who I am and what I’ve done. And it’s not a pretty sight. Yes, I’ve had a successful career – now over, I fear – but when you strip that away, what’s left?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Except the boys, not a lot.’ He swallowed. ‘But can’t you and I find a way to move on from this, somehow?’
He smiled at her. It was a charmingly self-deprecating smile and Romy felt something give inside her. She suddenly had an image of the two of them waking up in that shabby London bedsit, which smelt of damp and something more sinister, the innocence of them both, the childish thrill of being in love, their optimism for the future stretching ahead of them, like the mythical Yellow Brick Road.
She noted the cautious relief that flooded Michael’s face as she gave him a half-smile in return. But later, when she was alone, Romy realized she felt trapped by Michael’s apology. He seemed to think that that was an end to it – case closed. The pressure was on her now, to get over her anger, to forgive him. ‘Come on,’ his smile was saying, ‘youknowyou’re on my side.’
All the love she’d ever had for her husband, though, was now muddled and muddied by the Grace issue, by Michael’s lies and also by his confusing vulnerability – his change of character, post-stroke. Confused by Finch,too. The man who had gazed at her so ardently from the other side of the kitchen table represented only disorder, and an ill-defined barrier to her aching desire for independence.
But today it was down to her to make the birthday cake and prepare the sandwiches, get Michael into reasonable shape to receive visitors, then make nice to the guests they’d invited to the flat to celebrate. At any other time, this would be a pleasure – Romy always found baking therapeutic – but she felt so at sea that she doubted she could force herself into the jolly-hostess mode she would need in order to get through the afternoon.
She girded her loins, nonetheless, baked a coffee and walnut cake, and made cucumber sandwiches – the Claire family’s favourite birthday tea. Michael seemed to understand that he couldn’t push her. He’d been quiet and undemanding in the run-up to the party, thanking her for every little thing she did for him until she begged him to stop.
By four o’clock, he was sitting in his chair by the fireplace, clean and respectable, clad in normal trousers for the first time and a new white cotton shirt instead of the usual T, which Romy had had to button for him. He’d also managed to shave his own head, with only one nick at the back, where nobody would notice. She noted a new determination in the man – almost a spring in his step – and worried that he felt released by his assumption that they’d finally sucked the poison out of the secret that had been holding them back for so long.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Leo kissed her briefly, turning quickly to introduce the pretty, rounded blonde who stood hesitantly in his wake. ‘This is Lucy … Lucy, this is Mum.’
Leo had asked if he could bring a ‘friend’ with him to the birthday tea and Romy had agreed, of course. Despite Leo rising thirty, Romy had never been introduced to any girlfriend before. She shook Lucy’s hand and smiled warmly.
‘Delighted to meet you, Lucy. Please, come in.’
Leo clutched at her sleeve as Romy ushered them towards the sitting-room door. ‘Mum, wait a sec,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me how Dad is.’ He seemed a bit on edge.
‘Much the same, I suppose.’
Leo nodded. ‘It’s just … I wanted to introduce Lucy to you both but I don’t want Dad … You know what he can be like orcouldbe like.’ He ground to a halt, started again. ‘I thought maybe a thing where there were other people …’
Romy smiled, touched by her son’s concern for Lucy. She was clearly not just a friend. ‘He’ll be fine, Leo, go and say hello.’
James followed Romy into the kitchen. He’d been late arriving, the tea party already well under way. Michael was more animated than Romy had seen him for a long time, including making an effort with Lucy. Leo, Romy could see, was beginning to relax. Romy had poured the tea, Wendy passing round the sandwiches that Micky, the chambers’s long-serving senior clerk – dressed, as always, in a neat grey suit and matching waistcoat – grabbed two at a time and swallowed virtually whole.
‘Great to see you lookingsooowell, Michael,’ James had gushed, as he greeted his old friend. ‘You’ll be back driving those judges to drink in no time, you old rogue.’
Romy had winced at the false bonhomie. Now she busied herself putting on the kettle for more tea and opening the packet of birthday candles, while James hovered silently in the doorway. She knew he had something to tell her and waited for him to speak.
‘Romy, dear,’ he began, ‘I’m aware this is a little delicate, especially on the poor chap’s birthday, but I thought maybe it’s time for you and me to have a bit of a chat.’ He hurried on: ‘Now’s not the time, of course, but I wondered if you might be free for lunch next week.’
Romy kept on twisting the multicoloured candles into the white plastic holders, then sticking them into the coffee butter icing in a circle around Michael’s initial, which she’d doodled in wobbly chocolate script across the cake surface earlier. There were only twelve, but sixty-three seemed a step too far. She knew exactly what James wanted to talk about: Michael’s ability to work again. She didn’t blame him: the chambers were short of a famous silk, James the only senior barrister working alongside two junior colleagues, and things must be fraught. But she was still mildly offended on her husband’s behalf.
‘Shouldn’t it be Michael you talk to, James?’ she asked, glancing up from her task.
‘Well …’ James drew out the word ‘… thing is, I’m not sure how realistic he’ll be about his condition. He’s always been a cocky bastard.’ He grinned, to take the sting out of his words. Then his expression became serious again. ‘I thought perhaps you’d have the inside track on what youthink him capable of, brain-wise.’ His mouth twisted awkwardly in his round, fair face.
At least he has the grace to seem embarrassed, Romy thought. ‘It’s still early days. The doctor said another three months, minimum, and that was only a few weeks ago.’
James nodded slowly. ‘I suppose I’m really asking if you think he’ll be fit enough, down the line. Not physically, so much, but his brain.’
Romy couldn’t help but picture Michael’s dithering and insecurity about even the slightest task. The thought of him in court in an adversarial situation was unthinkable right now.
‘I can’t call it, James,’ she replied. ‘Stroke victims can make astonishing recoveries.’
‘Of course they can! And I’m quite sure he will, my dear.’ The man had clearly decided he was getting nowhere, and his demeanour changed back to one of forced jollity. ‘Let’s keep in touch,’ he added, as if she were trying to sell him something he didn’t want.
He turned to go, but Romy stopped him. ‘James, I wanted to ask you something too, which is also rather delicate.’
James’s eyebrows rose as he waited for her to go on.
