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The Lie Page 3
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He was trying to banter with me, not threatening me as such, but physically pinning me to the sofa with his arm so I couldn’t move. Then he started kissing me really hard, pushing his tongue into my mouth, squeezing my breasts, forcing me back against the end of the sofa so I was pinned under him.
I started to struggle, but he was so strong and determined. I didn’t scream, I didn’t dare … I couldn’t really believe what was happening. I know I was telling him to stop, but I don’t think he even heard me, he was so intent on his own pleasure – if it could be called ‘pleasure’, forcing someone like that, against their will.
Then the phone rang on his desk – maybe it was you? It caught him off guard. He pulled back just long enough for me to push him away and run.
I didn’t have a coat, because it was so hot. My dress was torn at the shoulder, so I borrowed the beige cardigan Wendy, the office manager, had left on the back of her chair. My mother and I lived in Sussex at the time, and I was staying the week with a school friend. She was out with her boyfriend, and her parents were at the theatre, so I was able to sneak in and never tell a living soul – not my friend, not her parents, not my mother – what had happened. In the morning, I rang Micky, the senior clerk, who’d taken me under his wing, and said I was ill and couldn’t come in.
I have spent so many hours thinking about that night in the thirteen years since it happened. I’ve wondered if I did lead Michael on, if I was giving him mixed messages. I blame myself, of course I do. I shouldn’t have stayed in the first place, shouldn’t have accepted the wine. Was my dress too short? Why didn’t I scream? Why didn’t I get up and leave as soon as he put his hand on my thigh? I still don’t know. I suppose I never believed he would do that to me.
That night still regularly haunts my dreams. Even now, I sometimes have flashbacks that make me tremble and sweat. I probably drink too much and suffer bouts of anxiety. But it didn’t kill me. I cope; no one would ever guess.
I’m not intending to go to the police or the media or anything. There was no way I could have told someone at the time and it’s too late now. I don’t have the courage, anyway. And I won’t sign this letter – it’s much too small a world. I saw red, though, the other night, watching Michael Claire, QC, crowing so smugly about getting a man off who everyone says is as guilty as sin. I just thought you should know who you’re married to, Mrs Claire – assuming you don’t already.
Romy read it from beginning to end – although she pretty much knew the nightmare words by heart, so often had she studied the letter, both in fact and in her mind. For a moment, as she sat on the edge of her bed, she had a strong desire to tear it up, burn it – as Michael had begged her to back then. But even with the future beckoning with such promise, she could not quite bring herself to destroy what she still considered unfinished business. By doing so, she felt she would be abdicating all responsibility – finally and for ever – for the unnamed girl.
5
Finch walked the seven minutes home from Romy’s in a daze. It was pitch dark, and breezy, but he was unaware of anything except the frisson he’d felt just now, in Romy’s hall, her face almost touching his.
Arriving home, he slung his house keys onto the hall table and went through to the kitchen, turning the lights on as he went. All around him on the walls were photographs of Nell, some with her daughter, Grace, some with just himself, some of the three of them together. One photograph, in particular, framed in pale wood next to the oven, was his favourite. It was a headshot of Nell, taken on the beach at Climping on a glorious, shimmering-blue summer day. Her head was back, her short blonde hair ruffled by the breeze, her wide grey eyes squinting against the sun as she smiled exuberantly into the camera. It was the image Finch talked to – every day, after he’d first lost her – when he wanted to tell Nell something.
Finch had met Nell – a professional dancer who taught at a Brighton dance centre – on a train. She had lost her ticket and the whole carriage, especially Finch, became involved in the drama. By the time a volatile and dramatic Nell had dug it out of the zippered pocket of her bag – where she’d already looked for it a thousand times – Finch was completely hooked.
Now he went straight over to the photograph and stood, hands planted on the work surface, and stared at his wife.
‘OK.’ He took a deep breath. ‘This is serious, Nell.’ As he spoke, he could suddenly feel her all around him, hear her crazy laugh, her lively teasing, see her fluid dancer’s walk. ‘I very nearly kissed someone tonight,’ he said, almost as if he thought the woman – frozen for ever in time on the wall in front of him – might actually reply.
Hesitating, not comfortable with what he was saying, he added, ‘Her name’s Romy. You might have seen her around the village, but we didn’t know her to speak to. Tall, sort of wiry and energetic, wild dark curls … She used to be married to a barrister, but I can’t put a face to him now. They were weekenders back then.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping to see her again … I really like her.’
It was four years since Nell, fading in front of his eyes to a frightening echo of herself, had clasped his hand weakly as he sat beside her hospice bed. She had reached that point where she’d become almost ethereal, already not of this world, and was no longer fearful of what lay ahead.
She’d smiled at him. ‘Don’t be miserable for too long, Robert,’ she’d said, through struggling breaths, her eyes shining with tears. ‘Find happiness. Help Gracie, too …’
The thought of another woman – unimaginable at the time, of course – had never even crossed his mind until Romy.
But on that draughty, damp corner of the 10K course, with Terry in pieces between them, he had sensed a connection with her, which excited and confused him in equal measure. It was why he had held off calling her. But he had amazed himself tonight. He’d truly wanted to kiss her.
The following morning Finch had a meeting in the garden-centre café with Jenny Tully – the woman in charge of fundraising for the hospice where Nell had died – to discuss his next marathon. He had worked for them tirelessly since his wife’s death, helping to raise hundreds of thousands, either from his own marathons or from coaxing companies and wealthy individuals to donate. His thirty-two-year military career, including postings to most of the world’s hot spots, such as Iraq and Afghanistan, was a major asset, both of them agreed.
‘I’ll get these,’ Finch said now, as he and Jenny queued for their coffee.
‘You’re our number-one fundraiser, Finch. I can at least buy you the odd coffee.’ Jenny nudged his hand from his wallet. She had a lively, pretty face set off by a feathery grey pixie cut and the most beautiful grey-blue eyes – marred by a wary sadness lurking in their depths.
They talked for a while about his next run, which Finch had decided to do along the west coast of Ireland in the early autumn. But he was finding it hard to concentrate. He hadn’t slept last night, his whole being churned up about Romy. He yawned.
Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘Late night?’
To his horror, Finch felt heat flooding across his cheeks.
Jenny had scooped him up after Nell died, as if he were a lost child. She was endlessly on the phone, on his doorstep, asking him if he was all right and if there was anything she could do to help. Her kindness had seemed almost excessive at times, and he worried that he would never be able to repay it.
‘I’m not saying a word, Jenny. It’ll be all around the county before lunchtime if I do.’
She chuckled mischievously. ‘Ah, so there is something to tell.’
Finch didn’t want to talk about Romy to anyone yet. It felt too new, too delicate for gossip. For so long the only name on his lips had been Nell’s. But Jenny’s stare was insistent and he gave in, surprising himself with the flutter of pleasure he felt as he said her name.
When he’d finished, Jenny was frowning. ‘“ Claire ” … I know that name.’
‘They used to be weekenders, but she lives here full-time now,’ he sai
d. ‘She’s separated, used to be married to a barrister.’
‘Well, you must introduce me,’ Jenny said brightly, but Finch sensed a distinct lack of enthusiasm, which he thought stemmed from her general cynicism about relationships, her own having gone south around the time Nell died; her husband had announced he had a two-year-old child with a much younger work colleague.
‘Way too soon to think it might go anywhere.’
Jenny seemed to pull herself together. ‘It’s been a long time since Nell, Finch. You shouldn’t be alone.’
‘It’s the hardest thing, letting her go. I’ve been sort of OK, living with her spirit … but Romy has a good spirit too.’ He stopped, embarrassed at his ramblings in front of his friend. It would have been simpler if he didn’t feel so much for Romy. Then he could have walked away and stayed in the safe zone – however lonely – of his past with Nell.
But Jenny didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Got it! I knew the name Claire rang a bell. Michael shares chambers with my old friend James Bregman who used to weekend here. It was the Claires he sold his cottage on the harbour to, about fifteen years ago, I think.’ She stopped. ‘James was a close friend of Nell’s, as I’m sure you know.’ Her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
Finch was puzzled. No, he didn’t. Nell had always told him everything, but he’d never heard of James Bregman.
‘Hope I haven’t spoken out of turn?’ Jenny said, a concerned frown on her face, which didn’t seem entirely genuine to Finch.
6
October 2015
Romy glanced quickly at the post, which held nothing of any interest except one handwritten letter, addressed to ‘Mrs Claire’. The envelope was cream and good quality, her name and address handwritten in italics and black ink, a script she did not recognize. It was addressed to Michael’s chambers, ‘Private. Please Forward’ in the top left-hand corner, Wendy’s neat redirection sticker sitting beside the crossed-out black ink.
Intrigued, but with no time to waste – she was due in Barnes, at the London Wetlands Centre, where she volunteered one day a week, taking groups of school children around the park – she stuffed the letter into her handbag, dumped the rest of the mail on the ledge above the hall radiator, then hurried down the stairs and out into the gusty autumn day, pulling the hood of her parka over her head to prevent the drizzle playing havoc with her already chaotic curls.
It wasn’t until Romy was seated on the Tube, trundling along the District Line to Hammersmith, that she remembered the letter and took it out of her bag. At first she couldn’t understand what she was reading. She stared at the words, but they made no sense. She glanced furtively at the man sitting next to her – the contents seemed to be shouting at her, and she worried he could somehow hear too. But he was deep in the yellowing pages of a John Updike novel.
The carefully scripted words swam before her eyes as she read and reread the text. The woman – as she would be now – said it was ‘too small a world’ to identify herself, whatever that meant. Is she implying she knows us? she wondered. Stations came and went, passengers ebbing and flowing around her. The sun pierced the grimy window in a blinding shaft as the train came overground and Romy shook her head in shock, quickly followed by bewilderment. There must be some mistake, she thought. She can’t be talking about Michael. Romy’s husband.
But it was clear that she was. She had seen him on the television, named him specifically. Romy’s thoughts were a jumble as she tried to work out what it meant, who this woman might be. She was so explicit. The sofa in Michael’s office; Wendy’s beige cardigan. Her stomach twisted. For one horrible split second she couldn’t prevent the thought that the letter might be telling the truth: that her husband might actually have done such an appalling thing.
Then she pictured Michael – her intense, charismatic, workaholic star of a husband. His dark eyes were always sharp with intelligence, but also vulnerable and fiercely honest.
There’s no way on this planet Michael would attack anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl, for heaven’s sake, Romy told herself sternly. I would have known. He wouldn’t have been able to hide such a terrible thing from me. She tried to pinpoint the date in the letter, to recall what was happening at that time, but her mind was spinning.
As the minutes passed, Romy’s heart still pounding in disbelief, she felt a flare of anger. How dare she write such vile things about Michael? And, what’s more, imply that she, Romy, knew what he’d done. Imply she was somehow complicit … ‘assuming you don’t already [know].’ How bloody dare she? Michael was not perfect, not by a long chalk, but he was certainly no sexual predator.
Who is this woman? Romy wondered. She had been around the justice system long enough as Michael’s wife to know that there were people out there with a skewed version of reality, which they nonetheless clung to wholeheartedly … although the contents of the letter seemed perfectly rational. And so detailed.
The train drew into Hammersmith station, the doors opening, life going on for all the other people in the carriage. This was her stop, but Romy was paralysed. She sat with her bag clutched to her body, the letter singeing a hole in the tan leather, like a hot coal, as the train trundled on to Ravenscourt Park, where she managed to lurch from her seat and step out onto the platform.
‘Gemma, it’s me.’ She called her friend, who organized the school trips around the Wetlands Centre. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m on the Tube, but I’m not feeling well. I think I’d better go home.’
Gemma was sympathetic – although Romy barely registered what she said. She quickly crossed to the eastbound platform. As she waited for the train, she wanted desperately to call Michael, then and there, to have him instantly confirm the absurdity of the whole thing. But it felt too exposing to read the letter over the phone in a public place.
The journey home seemed to take an age, each rattle of the train and brush of a passenger almost painful in her state of suspense. Because she knew she wouldn’t get any clarity until she could speak to her husband face to face.
Michael was late home that night. He looked exhausted, dropping his briefcase in the hall with a thud and slinging his dark overcoat – glistening wet from the day-long drizzle – onto the hall chair. Romy stood and watched him from the entrance to the kitchen. She wanted to look hard into his face and find proof of innocence there. Reassure herself that he was the man she thought him to be, the man she had trusted for nearly three decades, before the waters were potentially muddied with denials and justifications, accusations and rage.
He sniffed the air. ‘Mmm … Smells good,’ he said, with a tired smile.
‘Pork belly,’ she said. ‘Do you want a drink? There’s the remains of the Bordeaux from last night.’
‘Love some,’ Michael said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back earlier.’
She nodded. After so many years as his wife, she didn’t need yet another explanation about the pressures of being a top silk. She turned away. ‘I’ll bring it through.’ The letter was in her bag. She had read it on and off throughout the afternoon. But she’d put it away before Michael got home – like her own dirty secret.
As she poured red wine into the long-stemmed glasses, she realized she was almost shaking with nerves. The letter had taken on gargantuan proportions, acquiring a physical presence way beyond the single sheet of paper on which it was written.
Their sitting room was an elegant space, high-ceilinged and wide. Long windows gave onto a balcony that fronted the red-brick block of flats, the view looking down the length of the street opposite. Romy had kept the décor simple: a long sofa, lined with cushions, in pale tweed; two tapestry-chintz armchairs either side of the gas log fire; a heavy black lacquer coffee table on which stood a vase of yellow tulips; books on the wall by the door and ochre and blue curtains. Michael had seated himself in his chair to the right of the fireplace, head resting back on the cushion, eyes shut.
Romy placed his glass on the coffee table, keeping her own in her hands. Should I wait ti
ll after supper? she asked herself. But she knew she was just being cowardly. She turned abruptly and went to retrieve the letter. Arm outstretched, she handed the sheet of paper – no longer in its envelope – to her husband. ‘This came in the post today.’
Michael raised his eyebrows as he grasped the letter and began to read. It seemed to take him a very long time, longer by far than the short text allowed for. His expression did not change, remaining almost mask-like in its stillness, but she thought his olive skin paled.
Then he waved the sheet of paper in the air, shaking his head in apparent bewilderment. ‘This is ludicrous. I don’t understand. Who is this woman?’
‘I thought you’d know.’ Romy saw him blink rapidly, then his eyes returned to the page.
He looked up at her. ‘We have hundreds of kids doing work experience in chambers. How am I supposed to know which one this is?’ His tone was aggrieved.
‘Well, she gives the date.’
‘The date is irrelevant, Romy, because this is all complete nonsense. I’d never attack anyone.’ Michael flapped the letter angrily. ‘Thirteen years ago? I can’t remember that far back, for God’s sake, with all the people who trail through the place every day.’
Romy thought this was probably true. An insignificant teenager about chambers … Although she knew her husband had a razor-sharp memory, almost photographic in its recall. But why should he remember someone who wasn’t important to him? she asked herself.
Her husband reached for his wine and took a long gulp. Romy didn’t know what to say. But obviously she couldn’t leave it there.