Page 66 of The Lie
‘Honestly, Mum, the kitchen looked like the police had got a search warrant and popped by for a dawn raid. There was mess everywhere,’ Leo said, when he phoned her on her journey back to London. ‘Lucy wanted to clear it up, but I stopped her because you said not to do stuff for him this weekend.’
Romy had groaned silently. ‘How did your father seem?’
‘Oh, he was cheerful enough. He looked a wreck – hadn’t shaved and had food down his T-shirt – but he seemed perfectly happy on his own.’
By the time Romy arrived at the flat, though – steeling herself to deal with the chaos – the place was relatively tidy. Michael had shaved and dressed in clean clothes. A ready-meal supper of fish pie for them both stood poised for nuking.
‘It’s great you feel you can manage,’ she said now, watching as Michael balanced on the crutch and slung the pie confidently into the microwave, adjusting his reading glasses to peer down at the settings.
Romy was oddly discombobulated as she sat down at the table. The trial had worked.I really can leave, she thought. It was what she’d longed for, but she felt almost dithery, now the moment had finally come and she was no longer needed.
The following day Michael was subdued as he watched her gather her things together. Romy felt the wrench of leaving him, too. But there were people coming in: Theresa, Imogen, Leo on alert – Wendy, for Sunday tea.He will be fine, she told herself. She found she couldn’t think about her own plans yet, as she wheeled her case down the corridor towards the front door. They were hovering on the horizon, just out of reach, like good weather after a storm. She would enjoy the sunshine later.
They stood together in the hall.He looks so drawn and tired, Romy thought, watching Michael manoeuvre himself until he was leaning against the wall.Stop worrying, she told herself firmly as she pulled on her jacket. But this felt like a huge moment, almost more significant than the first time she’d left him. Then, she had slunk off, not knowing what lay ahead, not even sure she was doing the right thing. But now she knew. Now she was quite sure.
‘I’m really going to miss you,’ he said, giving her a tender smile. His parting kiss lingered on her cheek for just asecond longer than usual. She heard the nervousness in his voice as he added, ‘You will keep in touch?’
‘Of course I will,’ Romy said, giving him a quick hug. But as she opened the front door her feelings were powerfully uncomplicated: she was free.
When she arrived back at the cottage, though, just as the sun was going down in a spectacular light show of pinks, purples and gold over the estuary, instead of celebrating her freedom she found herself giving in to the strong desire to cry – which had hovered like an itch she dared not scratch over the tedious journey in the hot, packed train carriage.
Romy had anticipated this moment for months – the moment when she no longer had to worry about Michael, or his prevarications, his frailty, the pressure of his unrequited feelings for her. She had thought she would be relieved, liberated to follow her own path. But there was no sense of freedom as she made her way up to bed that night, after too many shots of vodka from the bottle in the freezer. All she felt was drunk and exhausted … and overwhelmingly lonely.
Romy spent her first days at home mooching about, trying to summon the energy to begin again. But now, early on Saturday evening, she was hurrying along the lane to the village car park to meet the man who was going to fit a new windscreen in the Audi: she’d found a ten-pence-sized chip, sitting spider-like in the centre of the glass when she went to the car that lunchtime.
She no longer looked out for Finch, these days, knowing he was on the other side of the world, but the place felt empty and monochrome without him.
A white Transit, sporting the windscreen-repair-company logo, appeared at the edge of the car park and she waved him over.
‘How long will it take?’ she asked.
Darren, in overalls, examined the damage closely, narrowing his eyes. ‘Forty-five for the screen. Can’t drive it for another twenty or so, not till the sealant’s gone off.’ He pinged one of the wipers. ‘These look a bit knackered. You want to replace them?’
Romy handed him her keys. ‘OK, yes. Text me when you’ve finished.’
It was a warm, beautiful evening. Reluctant to go home, Romy decided to sit on the wall outside the waterside café and watch the world go by. As she rounded the bend from the car park, turning left down the slope that led to the harbour, she noticed a woman standing alone, to the left of the yellow ice-cream van – still plying its trade, although it was gone six thirty.
She had her back to Romy and was gazing out towards the sea, dressed in a white T-shirt and denim shorts, her blonde waves clamped under a navy cap, bare legs strong and tanned. But even from the back, even with the cap on, Romy recognized her instantly.
She stopped, almost not daring to breathe. She could turn and flee, hurry down the lane opposite and hide in her house until Darren texted her. Or she could finally speak to Grace, meet the woman who had, with that fateful letter, turned Romy’s world inside out.
She hesitated, watching as Grace glanced around, then began to walk slowly along the shore, scuffing her flip-flops through the puddles left in the pitted tarmac by the outgoing tide, like a kid.
The sea was far out, the estuary a landscape of sandy-brown mud and vivid green seaweed, rivulets and pools catching the light of the descending sun, the boats – moored further out – stationary in the glassy channel of seawater. But as Grace disappeared behind the stone wall of the corner house, Romy found herself galvanized. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip away – although she had no idea what she would actually say when she came face to face with the woman.
Quickening her pace, she caught up with the retreating figure, drew level, drew ahead and turned. Grace raised her head as she approached, but her glance was casual: she didn’t know Romy.
‘Grace?’ Romy said, hearing the quiver in her voice. Her heart was thumping so hard she wanted to clamp her hands over her chest to prevent it bursting free.
Grace frowned, nodded.
Romy held her hand out. ‘Romy. Romy Claire.’
The woman’s face went still, then visibly paled, her beautiful grey eyes filling with apprehension. She ignored Romy’s hand, crossing her arms firmly across her body and glancing around the harbour, as if in need of rescue. She seemed lost for words.
‘I recognized you,’ Romy went on, her voice wavering. ‘Finch showed me your photograph. I thought … I wondered if we might talk for a minute. I don’t mean any trouble.’
Grace stared at her, arms still pulled in tight, shoulders raised defensively. But she didn’t speak and Romy begged, ‘Please,’ then held her breath.
