Page 72 of The Lie
Leo nodded as his father leant against the wall, breathing hard as he struggled to close his flies. ‘I thought there was something up between you.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘So what did you do this time, Dad?’ His father appeared grim-faced but Leo couldn’t imagine, in his current condition, that his offence was too serious.Mum’s probably just had enough, he thought, mindful of the long and arduous months she’d put in, caring for him.
His dad didn’t reply as he picked up his stick and began the slow journey out of the cramped toilet and up the stairs.
Leo, right behind, repeated, ‘What did you do, Dad?’
‘Don’t ask. You really don’t want to know,’ came the caustic reply, as they reached the top of the stairs and were greeted by his mum, clearly impatient, and Lucy.
‘We’ll take you back,’ Leo said to his father, assuming his mum would want to get home. Then he and Lucy planned to have a potter round the shops on Duke of York Square, although most of them were way out of their price range.
‘No,’ his mum said, directing a brittle smile at Lucy. ‘I’ll take him. You two go off and have fun.’
His dad shot him a knowing look and he found himself colouring. Leo was dying to get to the bottom of this row between his parents. His mum was clearly on the edge and he was loath to leave her like that. But he didn’t want to spoil Lucy’s day either.I’ll phone her later, he decided,taking Lucy’s hand and giving it a squeeze.Maybe she’ll open up about the problem when Dad’s not around.
‘If you’re sure?’ he asked.
His mother nodded firmly, shooing them away with a smile. Leo grinned at Lucy. ‘Come on then, birthday girl, let’s hit the shops.’
52
Michael was curled up on top of the duvet, still in his smart trousers and shirt, already dozing when Romy entered the bedroom. For a moment she watched his face, sunken in repose, no trace of the deceit that now marred his waking countenance for her and was making her re-evaluate every one of the thirty years of their relationship.
Michael opened his eyes. ‘I’m not asleep.’
She sat down abruptly in the stained orange armchair. ‘We need to talk about the boys.’
He sighed, turned his face away.
Romy tried to calm her ragged breathing. ‘Leo knows something’s up. And I absolutely loathe lying to him. But I want you to know it won’t be me who tells either him or Rex what happened with Grace. That’s up to you.’
Michael’s eyes widened. ‘Christ! Are you joking?’ he said, his voice suddenly high and weak. ‘Tell the boys? They’re all I’ve got – they’d never speak to me again if they knew.’
Romy couldn’t help feeling a stab of sympathy. What a horrible dilemma he faced. ‘Fine, up to you. But if you don’t, Michael, I’m telling you it will haunt you for the rest of your life. Leo loves you … Maybe he’ll come round.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘You didn’t lie to him.’
He looked away.
She got up. ‘As I said, your call.’
Michael remained silent, his face still turned from her.
Romy stood for a moment, looking down at him. ‘You know you can get back up to strength, Michael, if you choose. Face up to what you’ve done and forgive yourself. Be part of the world again.’ The shadow of a cynical smile came and went on his face, but she ploughed on: ‘Your arm might never be the same, but there are thousands of people out there who still contribute, lead a really good life, who aren’t a hundred per cent fit.’
He finally turned to meet her eye, his own dark and unfathomable, his tone infinitely weary. ‘I hear you, Romy. And I will tell Leo. Someday I will tell my sons what a bastard their father is … But not yet. I can’t do it yet.’
53
As soon as Grace had left after breakfast on Sunday, Finch had contacted a psychotherapist he knew – the wife of an old army mate – and asked her if she had any recommendations in the Manchester area. He was waiting to hear back. Grace had assured Finch, when they’d said goodbye, that she was fine and that she would investigate professional help. But he had reservations on both counts. Her demeanour was too bright, too falsely compliant. He knew he would have to keep a pretty close eye on her, but it was so hard to do, when she was all the way up in Manchester. And this was making him think.
On his evening run around the harbour – avoiding the end where Romy’s cottage stood, although he was sure she would be with that degenerate husband of hers on a Sunday night – an idea began to form. It had first crossed his mind on the plane coming home from Argentina, when he had sat, cramped in his seat – the rest of the cabin asleep – thinking how little there was keeping him in the village any more.
His time away had made it clear to him that he didn’t want to go back to his old life of fundraising marathons and Jenny’s coffee mornings – in fact, he hadn’t contacted Jenny since he’d got back. He knew she would want to come round and see him immediately and he wasn’t in the mood to have her clucking at him, to have his life takenover again. And as the dawn shone rosily across the billowing white floor of clouds outside the plane window, Finch had come to the unexpected realization that he wasn’t, in fact, tied to his current lifestyle. He could change things.
Why can’t I move up to Grace’s neck of the woods?he asked himself now, as he jogged steadily past a couple walking their retriever in the brisk September dusk.Find a little place in the Peak District – near her and Sam, but not too near – so I can keep an eye, be more involved in their lives.
The idea really appealed. He wouldn’t be burning his bridges. He could rent out his house, get somewhere for a year and see if it suited them all. His only real tie to this village had been Nell and, for a while, Romy. And both were gone from his life. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his days keeping his eyes peeled every time he left his house, terrified of bumping into Romy and experiencing that thumping heartbreak all over again. By the time he reached home, he was buzzing.
