The Lie Read online

  Hilary Boyd

  * * *

  The Lie

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Questions

  About the Author

  Hilary Boyd was a nurse, marriage counsellor and ran a small cancer charity before becoming an author. She has written eight books, including Thursdays in the Park, her debut novel, which sold over half a million copies and was an international bestseller.

  To my sister, Judie, with love

  Just as ripples spread out when a single pebble is dropped into water, the actions of individuals can have far-reaching effects.

  Dalai Lama

  1

  Romy stood and eyed the large cardboard box lying on the patio. It was a new garden table, the old one so rotten she could almost push her finger through the wood. Summer was only a few months away and – just possibly – she might feel like having someone over for a meal by then, if the weather was good enough. But she made no move to open the box, just closed her eyes for a moment, slowly breathing in the soft air of early spring, and felt a delicious peace wash over her.

  This was new, the sensation of letting go, and she realized she’d been strung so tight in the little over a year since she’d left Michael – strung tight and closed down – her feelings swirling in a tepid soup beneath the surface. As if she had been hibernating.

  It was only in the past couple of months that she’d sensed a lightening around her heart, the dreary plod through each day replaced by a small, burgeoning enjoyment in even the most mundane of tasks, as if she were coming to life, like the tight pink buds blossoming on the cherry tree in her neighbour’s garden.

  As she stood there, contemplating the morning ahead, she heard a knock at the front door. She was still in her pyjamas and froze, then reminded herself she wasn’t in the London flat now – where she would no more have opened the door in her nightclothes than flown to the moon – but in the garden of her small fisherman’s cottage, overlooking the Sussex harbour.

  ‘Hi, Maureen.’ Romy greeted her new friend with pleasure. ‘Sorry, caught me on the hop.’

  The old lady gave a throaty chuckle, her worn, weatherbeaten face lighting up with amusement. She was Romy’s height – and Romy was tall – ramrod-straight, with thick white hair cut like a man’s and fierce blue eyes that missed nothing. She waved away Romy’s apology as she entered the house, bending surprisingly nimbly for someone of her age to pick up the post from the mat. She handed it to Romy. ‘I forget the rest of the world doesn’t get up at five.’

  Romy had met Maureen a few weeks ago, when they’d got chatting in the village deli. Keith, who owned the shop with his wife, had given them both some goat’s cheese from a nearby farm to taste. And when Romy professed an interest in local organic produce, Maureen had suggested Romy come with her to the farmers’ market the following Saturday.

  Even a couple of months ago, Romy would not have got involved in chatting to anyone – in fact, she chose the anonymous supermarket by the big roundabout into town over the deli for that very reason. Nor would she have agreed so readily to Maureen’s plan. But the old lady was straightforward and funny – and didn’t ask prying questions. Romy found herself looking forward to seeing her again, after months of avoiding the world.

  ‘Coffee?’ Romy asked now.

  ‘If you’re making it. I won’t stay long. I just have a proposition to put to you.’

  Intrigued, Romy went over to her new pod machine. Michael came unwillingly to mind as she waited for the cup to fill. He had refused to have one, saying they were a waste of space, that the coffee was lukewarm and there wasn’t enough of it. But she was thrilled with her purchase – as she was with so much else in her new life.

  Now, taking the milk from the fridge, she caught sight of the letters Maureen had handed her, which she’d slung onto the counter. The top one was handwritten – unusual, these days. She knew it came from Uncle Geoff, an old friend of her parents, now in his nineties. But the cream envelope and black ink reminded her of another, much more significant one. Immediately she felt a spike of unease, unable to prevent the familiar words from flashing through her mind: This is a difficult letter to write …

  Brushing away the thought, she carried the cups of coffee outside. Nothing was going to spoil her mood of optimism this morning.

  ‘So,’ said Maureen, when they were settled on the rickety wooden bench on the patio, toes brushing the unopened box, ‘I thought from what you said – and now that you’re here full time – you might be interested in doing some conservation work.’

  Romy waited for her to go on.

  ‘It’s voluntary, of course. But there’s a group of us meet up at Ebernoe Common on Mondays – do you know it? North of Petworth, a wildlife reserve. We do coppicing and clearing bracken, monitoring wildlife, that sort of thing. But we also bring picnics and put the world to rights.’ She gave her an appraising look, amusement in her eyes. ‘It’s hard work, but you don’t look like a wimp.’

  Romy grinned. ‘I would absolutely love to join you, Maureen. What a wonderful idea.’

  When her guest had eventually gone, Romy hugged her arms round herself. This was exactly what she wanted to do. Conservation – the environment – was her passion. And there was no Michael to scoff at her now, mock her for wanting a cleaner planet.

  Leaving the flat-pack on the patio – the thought of managing to slot the correct widget into the correct hole the correct way round made her sigh – Romy decided to go for a run, before the changeable March weather turned.

  Out along the harbour road she went, trying to beat the clock on the incoming tide. The sailing boats would start to go back into the water soon, the huge crane on the quay churning away most days as, inch by inch, it lifted the vessels – smallish, mostly, the bigger yachts moored in the larger marina along the coast – then lowered them gently into the sea.

  For a moment she stopped and looked out towards the Norman tower of the church on the far side of the bay. She was sweating in the spring sunshine so she ripped off her hooded running jacket and tied it round her waist, securing her curls in a thick ponytail with a band she kept around her wrist. She had a black vest underneath and the breeze felt delicious on her bare skin.

  But as she started running again, her trainers dancing over the many potholes in the crumbly asphalt, the smooth rhythm of her stride could not prevent the sudden intrusion of another flash: I just thought you should know who you’re married to, Mrs Claire.

  2

  The good weather had been short-lived and rain dripped off the hood of Romy’s anorak, darkening her jea
ns. She was grateful for the race marshal’s hi-vis jacket, which added extra warmth on such a miserable day. But despite the vile conditions – and the hours she had agreed to spend handing out water bottles and directing the runners left, not right, along the lane – she found herself enjoying being involved, being part of something again.

  It was an hour and a whole slew of runners later that a slight, older man with a grey buzz-cut – arms flailing, race number flapping loose on his singlet, his rasping breath leaving vapour trails in the cold air – came struggling up the hill on his third lap. But as he swerved left, ignoring the outstretched water, he suddenly pulled up, letting out a roar of pain as he hopped on his left leg and clutched his right thigh with both hands.

  Romy hurried to his side. Groaning and swearing under his breath, he leant heavily on her shoulder.

  ‘Not again,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth, to himself rather than Romy.

  ‘Sit down while I get help,’ she said, opening the battered wooden camping stool that had belonged to her father but was still perfectly functional.

  He winced, then nodded. She lowered him gingerly onto the damp canvas seat. Crouching beside him as she alerted the medical team, she was aware that a panting figure had drawn up alongside them.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked a breathless male voice.

  She looked up, pushing back her hood and her damp, unruly curls to see who had spoken. The eyes she met were brown and kind and she held his gaze for a second before replying. ‘Thanks, but I think we’re OK. They’re sending someone.’

  ‘Morning, Finch.’ The older runner’s face was set in a pained grimace.

  The man called Finch laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not really the weather for sitting about in your vest, Terry, my friend,’ he said affectionately. ‘What have you gone and done to yourself?’ He looked at Romy again. ‘I can take him down, if you like. Better than waiting in the freezing rain for help to arrive.’

  Romy hesitated. ‘I’d come with you, but I’m not supposed to leave my post.’

  He grinned, his eyes lighting in amusement. ‘Best not, or they’ll all go the wrong way and end up in Hull. He’s not heavy … are you, Terence? I can manage.’

  And Romy thought that he probably could. He was broad-shouldered, muscled and clearly fit. Terry seemed to think so too. He seemed reassured by Finch’s suggestion and grasped the outstretched hand, which dragged him gently to his feet.

  ‘Robert Fincham, by the way – although I prefer Finch,’ the runner said, nodding to her as he practically lifted Terry off the ground, his arm clamped firmly round the older man’s skinny waist.

  ‘Romy,’ she replied, reluctant, for some reason, to tell him her surname.

  ‘See you in the Bell?’ Finch threw out, as he turned down the lane to the village hall.

  He was gone before Romy could reply. She knew who Robert Fincham was by reputation. A few years back the retired soldier – her neighbour had proudly told her this fact as if Finch were her own son – had taken on almost saintly status with the older women in the village as he cared for his wife while she died a painful and untimely death from recurring breast cancer. Since then, Romy had seen him about occasionally, running around the harbour or striding through the village. She had wondered about him; he cut a lonely figure.

  Maybe I will go to the pub after the race, she thought later, as she packed up the drinks station, her feet and hands numb with cold. She felt a tiny flutter of anticipation at the prospect.

  The low-ceilinged pub was rammed and booming with the hyped-up chatter of people coming down from a successful physical challenge. Romy gazed over the heads of the crowd.

  ‘What are you having?’ The chief marshal suddenly had his arm around her shoulders, his deep voice rumbling in her ear above the hubbub.

  ‘Very kind of you, Stuart, but I should get my own,’ Romy said. She barely knew the retired mountaineer.

  ‘Don’t be daft. Least I can do. You rescued the indomitable Terence. Silly old sod would probably have run on regardless, if you and Finch hadn’t been on hand to stop him.’

  Cradling the glass of red wine Stuart insisted on buying her, Romy hovered by the bar. There was no sign of Finch – as everyone seemed to call him. She decided he must have already left and felt a small, ridiculous stab of disappointment.

  But she found she was enjoying being out. The runners were a friendly bunch and seemed to welcome her into their group as they stood dissecting the race. She knew none of them and they wouldn’t be aware of her recent circumstances, for which she was grateful. Being part of a couple for decades and then not being was an ongoing adjustment for Romy.

  It wasn’t till a while later, when the pub had thinned out somewhat, that Romy caught sight of Robert Fincham, sitting in a corner with a much younger man she didn’t recognize. As she watched, he glanced up and caught her eye. She gave a brief smile and looked away quickly. But a moment later he was by her side. ‘Come and join us?’

  Romy peered over at his companion. ‘I don’t want to interrupt.’

  Dropping his voice, Finch said, ‘Oh, please … Jason’s been bending my ear about his exploits in Nepal last summer and there’s only so much I can hear about the queue of blonde Australians he lured to his tent at Base Camp.’

  Romy couldn’t help laughing as she accompanied him to the corner table.

  ‘I’ve just filled Romy in about your adventures,’ Finch said, straight-faced.

  She saw Jason’s eyes widen in alarm. Barely out of his teens, he flushed, looking as if he wished the earth would swallow him. Shifting uncomfortably on his stool, he picked up his phone and studied it intently. ‘Think I’ll be heading home,’ he said, nodding to Romy and giving Finch’s shoulder a reproving cuff in parting.

  When he was safely out of earshot, Romy and Finch laughed. Then a silence fell. Romy searched around for something to say, unused to her sudden awkwardness. She, who had entertained the great and the good – from judges to politicians and media notables – during the thirty years of her marriage and never been short of conversation. And this was despite not really feeling part of the inner circle, as Michael – star that he was – had become.

  ‘I’ve seen you around,’ Romy said, bold now. ‘You have a bit of a reputation in the village.’

  Finch raised his eyebrows. ‘A “ reputation ”? Sounds sinister.’

  ‘Depends … My neighbour calls you saintly.’

  ‘Oh.’ His smile fell away.

  Romy cringed, wishing she could take back her glib remark. ‘I’m sorry, that was so crass …’

  ‘No.’ Finch held up his hand. ‘It’s been four years. I’m fine with it.’

  He didn’t seem particularly fine to Romy, but as she was worrying how to reply without putting her foot in it even more firmly, Finch saved her by asking, ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘I’m not with anyone,’ Romy said quickly, her tone unintentionally fierce. She wasn’t even sure it had been what Finch’s question implied, but he would ask eventually, and she might as well get it out of the way.

  He looked a bit startled. ‘OK …’ he said, and his wry expression made her laugh.

  ‘Sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m separated, not actually divorced yet. Just getting going on a new life down here.’

  Finch was regarding her with his steady brown eyes. She could not decide what he was thinking, but she was aware of relaxing under his gaze, as if she were letting something go – but also, at the same time, stirring something up. The feeling took her completely by surprise. She had not thought herself capable, not after what had happened.

  Finch was a handsome man. Not in a chiselled, classical way, but his regular features were open and appealing, his brown hair and eyes, the healthy glow to his skin, those of a much younger man than someone in their late fifties – another fact dropped into her lap, unsolicited, by her gossipy neighbour.

  ‘I’m off to my bed.’ Stuart was looming over them, pulling on his purple
North Face jacket and fiddling, head bent, with the zip.

  ‘I suppose I ought to go, too,’ Romy said reluctantly.

  Finch yawned. ‘Yeah, I’m knackered.’

  Outside the rain had stopped, but the March night was chilly and damp. Romy shivered after the warmth of the pub as they made their way along the lane towards the village-hall car park. She suddenly realized how tired she was, too, even though she hadn’t run the race.

  Finch hesitated. He wasn’t looking at her as he clicked his key fob towards a silver Toyota parked along the fence, flashing on the orange indicator lights.

  ‘Maybe we could go for a walk or something, when the weather improves?’ He stared down at her in the half-light of the single security lamp high up on the bricks of the hall, his expression uncertain.

  She smiled her agreement, but felt the panic rising. Do I want to see him again? The brief banter with an amusing man had been fun – more than fun – but way out of her recent comfort zone. So far out, indeed, that part of her hoped he wouldn’t get in touch. Because that would be simplest. She wasn’t sure she was ready … or would ever be. Men were not on her to-do list.

  Maureen was as good as her word and regularly took Romy under her wing on the Mondays that followed. There were around twelve volunteers, mostly middle-aged, more men than women, all of them in weathered anoraks and beanies, boots that had seen considerable action. Romy was self-conscious with her brand-new gardening gloves and squeaky boots. But they welcomed her enthusiastically, happy for an extra hand to tackle the bracken and bramble, or coppice the hazels straying onto the path. It was sweaty and exhausting, but Romy loved every minute – she lost herself in the work.

  Later, when they were all perched on a damp log with lukewarm Thermos tea and squares of Maureen’s deliciously sticky gingerbread, the chat was all about the rewilding of Knepp – the estate down the road. For a glorious few hours, Romy felt as if she’d been untethered from her past. It was like a soft spring breeze blowing through her body.