The Lie, page 18
‘Goodbye, Finch,’ she muttered, and didn’t wait for his reply.
Now, she gave Dr Beech a tight smile. Six weeks … the words closed round her, like a fist.
‘Thanks, Guy.’ Romy moved towards the front door, folding the prescription absentmindedly in her hand.
‘He shouldn’t be left alone. These panic attacks are very debilitating.’ Dr Beech rocked back and forth in his polished brogues. ‘But Michael’s tough. The arm’s not good, but getting his negative feelings under control will help … Another three or four months and he’ll be a new man.’ He patted her arm encouragingly as he added, ‘Lucky he’s got you.’
34
Jenny was already outside the pub when Finch pulled in on his bike. He regretted agreeing to meet up, but he’d bumped into his friend in the Co-op earlier in the week and she’d immediately put her head on one side, frowning at his appearance. ‘Goodness me, you do look miserable.’ When he hadn’t offered any explanation, she’d gone on, ‘Listen, there’s the village art trail on Friday. Let’s meet for a nice lunch and have a potter round. That’ll cheer you up.’
Finch had been too slow to think up a good excuse. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in local art – collecting stuff of any kind was not his thing – but he’d been slowly going crazy alone in the house in the three days since he’d told Romy about Grace and Michael. Running had helped – to a degree – in managing severe bouts of despair at losing Nell, but this thing with Romy was different. It wasn’t clear-cut, like a death, but tormenting and infuriatingly complex. Finch felt only anger towards the man who had attacked Grace – but he couldn’t avoid a reluctant sympathy for the man currently so disabled by a stroke. He was furious with Romy for siding so stubbornly with Michael – but he could partially understand why she did so in the context of her marriage. Every day he ran and ran, but all these contradictory emotions ran doggedly alongside him.
Jenny kissed his cheek and took his arm as they turned towards the pub door. ‘There’s a pensioners’ lunch going on in there, I hope they don’t think we’re candidates.’
Finch laughed. ‘Better sit outside, then.’
‘Now,’ said Jenny, as soon as they were settled at a wooden picnic table, with cider and a ploughman’s each. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ She gave him a knowing smile. ‘Although maybe I can guess.’
‘You can?’
‘Romy’s gone back to her husband?’ She checked his face to see if she was right and obviously concluded she was, because she went on almost smugly, ‘I was worried she might.’
Finch, embarrassed, said nothing. There was no chance he could open his heart up to Jenny about the real cause of his distress, no way he would betray Grace’s confidence.
She took a hearty bite out of her bread and cheese while she waited for him to reply.
‘It’s complicated,’ was the best he could come up with.
Jenny gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘When are relationships ever not? I mean, look at Euan.’
Finch just nodded. He didn’t want to ‘look at Euan’, not again. It was like plugging in a CD, the exact same bile flowing in a monotonous loop. What he really wanted was to ask Jenny something that had been niggling him, but which he had pushed aside in the face of Grace’s anguish. Grace had mentioned – like Jenny previously – that her mum was a friend of James Bregman. But it was Jenny’s sly expression when she herself had done so that came back to him now.
‘So this James Bregman – Michael’s partner,’ he began. ‘You say he’s an old friend of yours?’
Jenny looked a bit sheepish. ‘Well, we used to chat around the village sometimes, when he had a place here. I wouldn’t call him exactly a friend.’
‘But Nell was?’
Jenny hesitated, then gave a bright grin. ‘Oh, you know Nell, Finch. She made friends with everyone.’
He smiled his agreement. ‘I could never keep up.’
‘Your wife had a very big heart,’ Jenny added, her smile sentimental this time.
But there was something behind the smile that Finch found unsettling. He shook himself. He badly needed to get away from Jenny.
‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, rising too quickly and barking his shins painfully on the wooden bench attached to the table, ‘but I think I’ll give the art trail a miss. I know Nell used to love them, but it’s not really my thing.’
As Finch made his excuses to a clearly disappointed Jenny and rode off through the warm summer afternoon towards his house, he came to a decision: I’ve got to get away. Romy would be back in the village soon, maybe even for the weekend, then the next weekend, and the one after. He couldn’t risk running into her. He didn’t know if he could control himself if he saw her again. He might be tempted to forget Grace’s problems ever existed.
No, he would search out an adventure, maybe travel thousands of miles and do something wild that would totally absorb his attention – the Amazon, New Guinea, Alaska, perhaps. He was used to being on the move, good at being set down in foreign parts and adjusting.
Opening his laptop and settling to email some of his contacts scattered around the world, he started with his friend Paz – short for Pascal. Finch had met him in Bosnia, where Paz, employed by La France Diplomatie, had been involved in the United Nations Peacekeeping Force. It had been an instant friendship, the Frenchman’s irreverence a breath of fresh air in such a grim environment. He’ll come up with something, Finch thought.
For a while, he was buoyed up by action and the drama of his broken heart. But as the evening wore on and he trawled the endless multitude of travel options online, his head began to spin, his eyes to burn and the wine he’d drunk turn to acid in his empty stomach. Finch no longer felt intrepid, just bewildered and alone.
That night he woke with a start. It was a familiar flashback. At one time, back in the nineties, he’d experienced it on a regular basis. But now it seemed only to trouble him when he was under stress and vulnerable – like when Nell was dying.
The incident had occurred in Bosnia. Finch and his team were behind the lines. It was high summer and roasting hot. A black jeep pulled up in a cloud of choking dust and three fighters jumped out. All carried guns, the leader – dressed in black, his eyes cold and dead from too much anger, too much violence – brandished a vintage Winchester rifle, which Finch immediately identified. Finch and his men were there to negotiate – ‘with the minimum use of force’, went the orders. But the dead-eyed Bosnian Serb had other ideas.
None of these details are in the flashback. It is just a brief flare of dusty hotness, the man’s haunted eyes and the pain of the cold, hard barrel of the Winchester being pressed into Finch’s cheek. He knows he is going to die and the moment is freeze-framed for what seems like eternity … Then he wakes with a thudding heart, drenched with the sweat of relief.
When he occasionally told the story to people who had not been in similar situations, they would gasp and say how terrifying it must have been. But he did not recall fear, only his brain splitting in two. While the front half frantically sought a solution – which eventually resulted in the man being disarmed – the back half remained eerily calm. His thoughts were focused solely on the people he loved and how much they meant to him.
He saw the moment – however horrific at the time – as a valued part of his life experience, but he had no control over his dreams.
Finch turned over in bed. It was just past the summer solstice and the sky was already paler in the east – although it was not yet four o’clock. He got the odd feeling sometimes that the flashback was the universe’s way of nudging him, reminding him that the only really important things in life were love and family. But tonight he felt aggrieved by the reminder. I love Romy Claire, he whispered silently, to the pale sky outside the open window. But I love Gracie too.
35
Daniel left. He cried as Romy embraced his slim figure and she found her heart breaking for him and his family – what a nightmare they all faced back in Switzerland. His quiet presence had been such a comfort to her in the last weeks. She didn’t know how she would have coped without him. Didn’t know how she would cope now.
Obviously she would find another carer. But whoever it was would need overseeing at first, to make sure they were settling in, that they were a good fit with Michael. And it would take a while for her to be able to trust them as she had Daniel. Nor could she rely on Michael not to be rude to them – intentionally or otherwise – even dismiss them out of hand.
As she poured the oats for Michael’s porridge into a pan on Saturday morning – measuring the milk and stirring it in, turning the heat low – Romy was aware of a dull, throbbing resentment. She still hadn’t confronted her husband about Grace. The whole week had been taken up with the doctor, with Michael’s distressing anxiety, made worse by the fact of Daniel’s departure.
Later, Michael sat opposite her at the table, his porridge bowl empty, his good hand clutched around his coffee mug. Now Daniel was gone, Romy insisted he eat all his meals at the table. He’d got used to being brought food in the bedroom or having it on his knee in the sitting room, when he was perfectly capable of walking – albeit painfully slowly – through to the kitchen. Daniel had too kind a heart.
‘I talked to Blake earlier,’ Romy said. ‘He sent his best.’ Her brother always rang, like Rex, around seven in the morning.
‘How is he?’
‘Same old, same old.’ She smiled. ‘I think he likes having Rex around, but he seems to think our son isn’t exactly a grafter.’
Michael grinned back. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’ His face clouded slightly. ‘Rex … I feel since the stroke … so disconnected from him, from everybody, Romy. I used to think I was such a player. But life seems to be going on out there quite happily without me.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to trot out the usual platitudes: it’ll be fine, this won’t last, you’ll be on your feet in no time. But she realized that, to a degree, she was feeling the same.
The flat seemed to be closing in on them both, cutting them off from the outside world. Daniel was gone. Leo phoned every couple of days and visited at weekends, but was always busy. Blake and Rex were too far away to help. The visitors who had dropped by at first with gifts and encouragement obviously thought they’d done their bit, because they had not reappeared – except faithful Wendy, who still arrived dutifully at four most Sunday afternoons with something delicious for tea.
‘I know what you mean.’ She spoke with feeling and saw Michael’s eyes soften, his gaze empty and sad. And despite her resentment, for a split second she felt an overwhelming sympathy for him. ‘You’ll miss Daniel.’
‘I will … I do already.’
‘I’ve been on to the agency. Hopefully, I’ll find someone else quickly.’ She stopped, not wanting her desperation to get back to her own life to show, with Michael in his current depressive state.
He nodded, but looked at her intently. ‘So I suppose you’re off with Action Man again this weekend?’
Romy felt her cheeks burn. She wished he wouldn’t refer to Finch in that derogatory way. She swallowed hard. ‘No, that’s over. I’m going to Bettina’s as soon as Leo gets here.’
Michael looked surprised. ‘But …’ He stopped, perhaps catching the warning in her eye.
She affected a shrug. Was this the moment to talk about Grace? But although it had smouldered in her mind for nearly a week now, the right words clogged in her throat. Who am I protecting? she asked herself. Him or me? Am I just scared of what he might tell me?
36
‘You know how much I love riding,’ Finch said, in response to Pascal’s suggestion, when his friend rang. ‘But a gaucho? I hadn’t thought of that.’
Paz chuckled. ‘It’s tough. Believe me, I know. Cami made me do all that riding-across-the-pampas bollocks when we first went to meet her relatives. I was in love, so I didn’t complain, but my butt’s never recovered.’
‘I really need to get away,’ Finch said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. ‘Argentina should be far enough.’
‘Being chased by the taxman, is it? Or have you gone and made some gangster’s moll pregnant?’ Pascal was never serious about anything.
‘Something like that,’ Finch replied.
He heard Paz sucking his teeth. ‘Hmm … in which case, might it not be wiser to choose somewhere the UK doesn’t have an extradition treaty with – like Pakistan, for instance? Worked for our friend Osama for years. Or you could join the Foreign Legion! I’ve got contacts.’
Finch couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’ve had enough of being shot at, thanks. I just want a break – foreign parts, different scenery.’
‘How’s your Spanish, these days?’
‘Bit rusty, I suppose, but I’ll get by.’
‘OK, then. If you’re absolutely set on grinding your rump to ribbons, I’m your man. I’ll talk to Cami and see which of her zillions of rich cousins can come up with an invitation.’
‘I don’t want to be pampered like a guest, Paz. If I’m going to do this, I want to be out there chasing cattle and wild horses, riding the range.’
‘Being macho.’
‘Getting so tired I can’t bloody think any more.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Paz said, ‘And her name is …?’
Finch was glad Paz couldn’t see him cringe. ‘It doesn’t matter what she’s called any more.’
‘I see. Well, you know how much Cami loves you, Roberto, and Paris is only a train ride away. My area of special interest is currently Azerbaijan, but I’m sure I could mug up on broken-hearted soldiers, if required.’
Finch laughed and thanked him. When he came off the phone he still had a smile on his face: Paz always lifted his spirits. In fact, he was feeling better for the first time since Grace’s visit. I’ll feel better still, he thought, when I can put some distance between Romy and me.
When Grace called later that evening, Finch told her of Paz’s suggestion.
‘Right.’ Grace’s one-word response – after a very long pause – fell damply on Finch’s enthusiasm. ‘This is about Romy, isn’t it?’ she went on. ‘I knew I should never have told you.’ He heard an exasperated sigh. ‘You see? This is what happens when people speak up about stuff like that. It ruins things for everyone. And you want me to tell Sam?’ Her tone was scathing. ‘There are quite enough bodies under that particular bus as it is.’
Finch was silent. He’d been down the route of begging her to get the professional help she needed so often that it seemed pointless to reiterate it again now. He’d always tried to be honest with Grace. When her mother became ill the first time, Nell had wanted to keep the cancer secret, saying that Grace didn’t need to know unless it was serious. But Finch had insisted she be told and they were both glad that he had. Grace had been such a comfort to them, especially at the end. She’d moved back into the Sussex house and helped Finch nurse her mother before the final hospice days. The girl’s energy, her humour, her refusal to be maudlin about the future had kept them all afloat, for which Finch would always be grateful. But he knew he couldn’t be honest about Romy now.
‘You don’t mind me going, Gracie?’ he asked. ‘It’ll only be for a month or so, I think. But I won’t if you don’t want me to.’ He found himself tempering his estimate, genuinely unsure how long he’d be gone and not wanting it to sound as if he were abandoning her for ever.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Grace’s pitch had risen. ‘Of course I don’t mind. We don’t see each other for months on end. I won’t even notice you’re gone.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in a soft voice. ‘I’m sorry I ruined things for you.’
‘You didn’t ruin anything, sweetheart,’ Finch replied, with all honesty. None of this was Grace’s fault. Michael was to blame for it all … and maybe himself, too, for being so aggressive towards Romy and pushing her into a corner with her contemptible husband.
Because he still wanted to believe in her. He still waited for the phone call that would be Romy telling him she’d been utterly wrong to side with Michael Claire. But in the end it wouldn’t make any difference, he knew. Grace would always come between them.
37
Leo found his father sitting at the kitchen table when he arrived, his weak hand covered with a large, bright blue mitt – like a wicket-keeper’s glove – with Velcro straps round the wrist, and a pile of coloured ping-pong balls in a box. Michael was slowly picking up the balls from the box and transferring them into an empty one a foot away. Leo watched in silence, his father barely glancing up at him, his concentration so focused on the task.
‘Is that bionic?’ Leo asked, when a ball skittered out of his father’s grasp and went bouncing across the table, then the kitchen tiles. Leo bent to pick it up and return it to the box.
His father’s face cleared and he smiled at Leo. ‘Sodding thing.’ He glared at his hand, as if it offended him, as if it wasn’t part of him at all, just an irritating intrusion into his life.
‘You couldn’t have done that a few weeks ago,’ Leo observed.
‘That’s because I didn’t have what Imogen likes to call an “ assisted device ”. She says it’s the first stage. Apparently it’s opening my hand and forcing it to do normal movements.’ His dad started to laugh. ‘Christ, Leo, what am I like? Sitting here like a big kid, shifting balls from one box to another. You were better at it when you were two!’
Leo couldn’t help laughing with him: there was a comical side. ‘Keep that up and you’ll be playing for the county in no time,’ he said, which was a poor joke, but it seemed to make his dad laugh even harder.
