Page 73 of The Lie
‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Fincham.’ Haley, from lettings, with her strong Sussex accent, sounded eager. ‘We’re always on the lookout for properties in your location. If you’re in such a hurry, maybe I could pop by later today and take some photos, get some details on the system.’
Finch had taken the bull by the horns first thing the next morning. Hearing Grace’s shriek of excitement when he’d phoned her on her way to work and tentatively outlined his plan had been enough.
For the rest of the day, he was pinned to his screen, clicking forward and back, scrolling through wide-anglephotos of sitting rooms, kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms – some of them probably no bigger than a cupboard – checking maps and transport links and noting broadband speed. It was a tiring business, but he didn’t mind: he was on a roll and probably as excited as his stepdaughter. Now he had begun the process, he felt desperate to get going.
By the middle of the week the To Let sign had been stapled to the brick stanchion supporting the front gate and Finch was packing a spare shirt, boxers and socks in his canvas holdall, ahead of leaving for a few days with Grace and Sam in Manchester – and a slew of viewing appointments in the nearby Peak District.
54
The floodgates were open. As soon as Romy got home after Lucy’s birthday lunch, she threw on her scruffiest jeans and a threadbare jumper and began to rampage around the cottage. She dragged out anything that reminded her of Michael: photographs with his coolly smiling, saturnine face; the pepper mill he’d given her for her birthday; his dressing gown, still hanging hidden behind the spare-room door; his stupid, shiny, designer wellies; his equally redundant Barbour flat cap on the shelf in the coat cupboard; his favourite white Wedgwood cup from which he’d liked to drink Earl Grey, the saucer broken long ago; and Simon Sebag Montefiore’sStalin, which he’d read to death one summer. She hurled the lot into a black bin bag to take to the charity shop.
As the last item fell into the crammed plastic sack, she collapsed onto the sofa, clutching a cushion to her chest, and listened to her tattered breathing. She was amazed to discover she didn’t feel like crying any more – she was so sick of letting Michael Claire ruin her life.
Sitting there, she remembered her mother: arthritic and emphysemic – from all the cigarettes she and her father had consumed their entire life. Peggy had been dealing with recent memories of waking to find her husband dead beside her from a heart attack, struggling breathlessly to maintain her beloved vegetable garden andexisting on a scant government pension. Bony, sweaty and blue-tinged, sitting in her chair with the oxygen mask clamped to her face, her mum still managed to smile. ‘I’m a right old wreck,’ she’d say cheerfully, between gasps. ‘Knackered me in the end, all those fags. But I enjoyed every sodding one. I’d light up right now if this perishing oxygen tank wouldn’t blow us both to smithereens.’
Romy compared Peggy’s stalwart, unflinching attitude to Michael’s … to her own. But both of them had been rendered weak and useless by the legacy of her husband’s lies, while her mother was fulfilled, at peace with herself. And though Michael might choose not to be, Romy fully intended to grab her life by its collar and find her own version of fulfilment.
Tonight, she told herself,I will open a bottle of wine and drink to me, Romy Margaret Turnbull. Her maiden name sounded strange on her tongue after so long, but also comforting. It summoned up her parents’ love, their strengths, their passionate commitment to a better planet and the values they’d instilled so solidly in her and Blake – all of which Michael had cruelly disparaged.
‘To Romy Turnbull and a new start,’ she said later, raising her glass of red in the air and smiling to the universe. Michael had bought the wine, but her anger was spent now, and she drew the line at giving away a very good Rioja, double standards or not.
There was so much to enjoy that didn’t have to involve men. Finch had been someone who understood the life she wanted, who might have been a real soul-mate. But she tried not to think of him. She was sure she would findlike-minded friends once she opened herself up to the possibility … once she knew more where she was going and who she was.
I’ll continue up at Ebernoe. I’ll chase a conservation job. I’ll make an effort with people in the village. I’ll try yoga. I’ll paint the walls bright colours and make yoghurt like Mum used to in that jug in the airing cupboard. I’ll take a trip somewhere interesting with Bettina. I might even get a cat. This last thought interrupted her manifesto and made her smile. Cats caused Michael’s eyes to itch and swell up.
On Tuesday morning, Romy met up with Maureen at the harbour café. She wanted to pick her brains.
They sat for an hour or so, drinking tea and looking out across the water while they discussed progress at the common and various possibilities for a job for Romy. Maureen was enthusiastic. She knew everybody in the local conservation world and thought there might be something going in the Arun Wetlands Centre.
Later, as they stood by the till, waiting to pay for their drinks, Maureen commented casually, ‘So sad about your army chap. We’ll miss him.’
Romy started, her heart bouncing out of rhythm as she asked, ‘Is he staying in Argentina, then?’
Maureen gave a surprised frown. ‘No, no. Didn’t you hear? He’s not long back, but now he’s off again, up to the Peak District to live with his stepdaughter, so Jenny tells me. She’s terribly upset, of course, losing her loyal fundraiser.’
Romy made a sort of chokedhmmnoise that might have been agreement, might have been just her clearingher throat – she was incapable of forming a reply. And Maureen, having shared the latest gossip, said a brisk goodbye and took off on her rusty bike, which she’d propped carelessly against the glass of the café window.
Romy stood alone in the lane, blinking in the bright autumn sunlight.That’s it, then, she told herself.Finch has gone.
55
In the weeks that followed, Romy found the miasma of the last few months gradually beginning to lift. Since leaving the flat, she’d seldom talked to Michael. And he never called her. At first she had checked in regularly with Theresa, who assured her he seemed to be managing, in a chaotic sort of way. Romy didn’t know what that meant in terms of his mental health, but she felt it was no longer her business. The gaps between her calls to Theresa grew longer as she turned her focus to her own life.
This morning she got up early and dressed in her running gear, pulling on her woolly hat and gloves and walking out into the chilly, pre-dawn light. Sunrise was not long away, the sky to the east already softly luminous: it was going to be a beautiful day. The tide was as far out as possible, the autumn air so still across the undulating brown mud that Romy could hear her heart thudding in her ears as she ran.
She stopped to take in the scenery. She made herself do this every morning now. Instead of just running for exercise – making it all about effort and physicality – she tried to give the hour a meditative element, to appreciate the beauty around her and let nature expand her mind. She was determined to develop mental strategies, until eventually they would be habitual and she’d become stronglike her mother, calm, and look to the future with enthusiasm.
As she stood and watched a large oystercatcher pecking at the seaweed with its orange-red bill, a figure coming off the back lane onto the harbour road caught her eye, jogging steadily towards her. She blinked hard, narrowed her eyes.Could it be?
He was still a long way off, but she knew his outline so well – that long, easy stride, the set of his head. She heard her breath catch as she froze, unable to do anything but watch, anticipation flaring painfully in her chest.
If he recognized her, he did not show it, his lope remaining regular and consistent as he drew closer. The sun tipped the horizon, blinding rays suddenly throwing the man into bright focus, like a theatrical spotlight. She could see his brown hair floating in the breeze, the triangle of sweat darkening the front of his grey T-shirt, bare arms jackknifing up and down as he ran. She pulled her beanie from her head and immediately regretted it – her hair was a terrible mess, as usual.
She watched as he finally noticed her standing there. He started. He stared. He slowed. Then he was in front of her, breathing hard, his face a mixture of surprise and acute embarrassment.
‘Romy,’ he gasped.
‘I was told you’d left the village.’
