Page 62 of The Lie
‘I hope you don’t mind, but something’s come up with Michael and I wondered if … I gather you knew Nell Fleetwood.’
James’s face went still for a split second, then his cheeks coloured as only very fair-skinned people’s do: the dull brick red that looks as if it will never fade.
‘Michael told you that?’
She nodded.
‘It was a long time ago. And Honor –’
Ignoring the fact of his marriage to the charming Honor – she wasn’t here to judge ? Romy said, ‘It’s just Nell’s daughter, Grace …’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Christ,’ he said, the word thudding like lead into the silent kitchen. ‘He told you that, too?’
Romy nodded.
‘So what’s your question?’
What is it?She felt flustered. Hadn’t Michael already told her what happened? She went on with her task, but her hands were shaking slightly as she said, ‘What did he tell you about that night, James?’
The silence made her turn. James was looking at her warily. ‘You said you knew.’
She gave a small shrug. ‘He told me his version … I’d like to hear yours.’
James hesitated, pulling nervously at his right ear lobe. ‘I’m sure they’re the same but, OK, yes, he came round that night, in a bit of a state. He was worried, because of her age. Obviously it wouldn’t look good, if it came out – a schoolgirl and a senior barrister.’
Romy was aware of a small alarm bell going off in her head, triggered by James’s split second of hesitation. ‘But just a consensual kiss?’ she said, as nonchalantly as possible, knowing there was more and wanting to flush James out – hoping the tremor in her voice did not betray her. ‘Even given how young she was …’
James dropped his head. ‘If you could call it that.’ His voice was low and angry. ‘He shouldn’t have done it.’ When he finally looked up, he’d got his features under control and said, with his usual bland delivery, ‘I thoughtGrace might run to her mother. So I put the feelers out, told her I thought Michael and Grace had had a silly moment. But Nell had no idea what I was on about. And I suppose I did make light of it then, because I was nervous of the repercussions for Michael if Grace spoke up.’
‘Nell must have talked to her daughter, though, if you suggested there’d been some impropriety.’ It was unthinkable she wouldn’t. Yet Grace had told Finch her mother didn’t know. Maybe Nell sounded her out and Grace denied it.
James shrugged. ‘We stopped seeing each other soon after that, so I’ve really no idea. The whole thing put the wind up me, to be honest, Romy. My wife …’ He didn’t finish, just stood there in the doorway, looking – even at his age – like a guilty schoolboy.
Finch was so angry with me for protecting Michael, Romy thought bitterly.But it seems everyone – Grace, Nell, James, even me – we were all bending over backwards to keep his nasty secret for him.
‘Long time ago,’ James repeated. ‘What brought it up?’
She could see his question wasn’t as casual as he was trying to make it seem.
‘Michael and I were just talking. Life-threatening illness can sometimes change a person’s perspective.’ She also spoke lightly, leaving James to assume she’d always known and wasn’t fazed by it. But he appeared alarmed, crossing the kitchen to lean in to Romy, his voice lowered.
‘Best he doesn’t spread it about, my dear. Don’t you think? Anymea culpastuff, even in his condition, even after all this time, in the current climate, it wouldn’t godown too well.’ James checked her face to see if she understood. ‘I’ll maybe have a word with him.’
‘Can I help in here?’ Wendy’s voice trilled in the doorway. She put the empty sandwich plate on the table. ‘Oh, doesn’t that look gorgeous!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as she peered at the cake. ‘You’re so clever, Romy.’
Romy glanced across at James, who seemed miles away, his fair face twisting almost as if he were having a bad dream. She heard again the anger in his voice when he’d said, ‘If you could call it that’, and wondered what he’d really meant, and what he was remembering now.
44
Of the three latest people who’d come for interview, there was only one, Janice – a middle-aged, lifelong carer-housekeeper whose last employer had just died – whom Romy considered even remotely suitable. She irritated Michael on sight, however, with her saccharine sweetness and mindless chatter. In her heart of hearts, Romy knew Michael would always find something wrong with every candidate. The whole thing infuriated her, but Leo had been investigating other agencies and she was determined that one would soon bear fruit, allowing her to leave and get her life back on track.
Despite these frustrations, Romy couldn’t help feeling a creeping sense of hope. Michael was definitely improving. She could see it. He seemed happier, more energetic, apparently spurred on to get his body and mind back in working order. The probable reason for this change – getting the lies about Grace off his chest – almost offended her. But she was happy to see that he no longer lounged in bed with the television on and was up with the lark, washed, dressed and making breakfast for them both, becoming increasingly adept at a one-handed operation, his weak one now able to act as a pretty reliable anchor.
Some mornings she would find oats scattering the floor, milk spilt on the worktop, blueberries rollingabout the kitchen table, but she didn’t comment. He was trying so hard and her heart went out to him, despite herself. But when she caught him watching her sometimes, a brooding look on his face, she resolutely ignored it.
In the evenings, Michael insisted on Scrabble. ‘I’ve got to chivvy my non-existent brain cells somehow,’ he kept telling her.
‘Bloody things,’ he exploded one night, as he accidentally knocked the rack containing his letter tiles and sent the small plastic squares tumbling across the kitchen table, many face up. She and Michael employed very different tactics: Romy liked to hoard, wait till she could get something truly spectacular, using as many letters as possible – once she’d managed ‘coquette’ and scored nearly seventy points. Michael played to win – small, strategically placed, one-syllable words with ridiculous scores. He was much quicker than she to spot the opportunities. But since the stroke, he got muddled and sometimes flustered, tired easily. ‘How the hell am I going to get on if I can’t even play a stupid board game without fucking up?’ He glared accusingly at Romy, as if she were to blame.
