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The Lie

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. The film rights for Thursdays In The Park have been acquired by Charles Dance, who will be directing and starring.

The Lie

hilary boyd

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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

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.

The good weather had been short-lived and rain dripped off the hood of Romy ’s anorak, darkening her jeans. 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 middleaged, 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.

She had left her phone in the car while she worked, not wanting any interruptions. When she checked it again, before driving home, she saw a text. About that walk , it said. Saturday is supposed to be fine, if you ’re still up for it ? Finch

‘ Do you fancy a drink, maybe a bite to eat ? ’ Finch ’s question was tentative as he and Romy rounded the corner and saw the car park up ahead. It was a beautiful day, hot for April, and Romy had struggled to keep up as they strode the two-hour route round the Roman villa, although she was sure he was modifying his pace to suit her own.

She had been nervous the day might be awkward – she barely knew the man and they hadn ’t seen each other since that night in the pub, nearly a month ago now. But her fears melted away as they walked. Conversation was so easy with Finch, as if they were tuned to the same wavelength. She couldn ’t say exactly what they talked about, except neither ventured into very personal territory. But he made her laugh and she forgot, for a while, the thoughts that regularly tormented her. At times Romy sensed the weight of their pasts in the unsaid, but it was so enjoyable to walk with a companion for a change –especially someone as personable as Robert Fincham.

She hesitated before replying to his suggestion. Part of her would have loved to sit with him and a glass of cold white wine, somewhere outdoors on this stunning spring evening, but another part clung to her default position. Before she had given herself time to think, the wariness won out. ‘ That would have been lovely, but I ’ve got someone coming over later,’ she blurted, before she could

change her mind. She was sure her words rang false and she quickly regretted her lie.

But Finch did not look discomposed in the slightest. He merely smiled. ‘ Shame. Another time, perhaps.’

The following morning, Romy woke up disappointed with herself. But the past few years had been so confusing, she wasn ’t sure she could trust her instincts any more. It happened on Thursday, 13 June 2002 . . .

As she lay there, uncomfortably catapulted back into the past, her phone rang. It was barely seven and she knew it would be Rex – it was the best time to talk from Australia.

‘ Hey, Mum. How ’s it going over there ? ’

He sounded upbeat, as always. Her laidback son – now twenty-seven – seldom showed signs of stress, unlike his elder brother, Leo. Rex had deliberately chosen a lifestyle for himself that didn ’t include it : a barista job in a trendy coffee shop in Sydney, blue skies and a nicely waxed surfboard, the stunning beach a stone ’s throw away.

She listened for a while to Rex ’s account of a spectacular wave the previous weekend, and caught up with news of her brother, Blake – who had emigrated with his family to Sydney twenty years ago – before her son stopped mid-flow, his tone suddenly serious : ‘ Tell me how you are, Mum.’

‘ Well, I ’m OK, actually. Better than I ’ve been for a while.’ She went on to tell him about Maureen and the conservation group, Keith in the deli and his wife, Cathy. She didn ’t mention Finch, although she wasn ’t sure why not.

‘ Go for it,’ Rex said, when she stopped talking. ‘ Love it that you ’re into Thermos tea again. Remember those sausage and fruitcake picnics in Scotland ? And that day Dad swam in his Y-fronts across the freezing loch ? ’ She heard Rex chuckle. ‘ I wished I ’d been brave enough to go with him.’

Rex and Leo had rarely spoken of Michael since their parents had split up. Romy didn ’t know how to articulate what had happened between them to her sons, and they clearly didn ’t know how to ask.

But she couldn ’t help laughing as she remembered the Scottish holiday. Those had been the best times. ‘ Your father never does anything by halves.’

Her son was silent for a moment. Then : ‘ It ’s good you ’re sounding happier, Mum. You ’ve got to go for things in life, you know.’

She lay back against the pillows after they ’d said goodbye. That last phrase ran through her mind, like a banner fluttering behind a plane. Go for it, she thought. And before she ’d had a chance to change her mind, she texted Finch.

I ’ll cook you supper one night, if you like. R

Later that day she was in the kitchen, flicking through some paint charts on her iPad, when Michael rang. ‘ Hello ? ’ Romy knew she sounded unintentionally wary. Until recently – when her growing optimism about life had opened up a welcome space between them – she ’d still felt so tightly bound to Michael, even though they no longer lived together. And meeting Finch felt like another small degree of space.

So now, speaking to Michael, she noticed herself becoming tense, convinced he would make some demand and impinge on her hatching independence. He tended to ring every few days, usually on some pretext, such as the boiler playing up or the windows needing cleaning, which he had to share with her because, he kept reminding her, she still owned half of the Chelsea flat.

Or it might be to relay some gossip about one of their friends, a chat he ’d had with Leo or Rex. It was almost, Romy thought, as if he hadn ’t quite grasped that she ’d left him, despite his spending the past year in the arms of the lovely Anezka, the Czech maître d ’ at a restaurant off Fleet Street where many of the legal profession gathered.

‘Just checking in,’ Michael said. ‘ Haven ’t heard from you in a while.’

‘ I ’m fine. Nothing to report,’ she said, not choosing to point out that four days wasn ’t exactly ‘ a while ’, but

making it clear she was not in the mood for a gossip. She wondered, ridiculously, if her husband had somehow got wind of the text she ’d sent Finch earlier, or yesterday ’s walk. Michael always seemed to nose things out before anyone else – a useful knack in his line of work.

‘ It must be lovely down there,’ Michael went on.

‘ It is. Michael, I ’m just about to go out. Is there something you want ? ’

‘ Well . . . ’ He seemed unusually hesitant. ‘ I was hoping we could get together, have a talk.’

‘About what ? ’

‘ Perhaps it ’s time to consider our position, Romy.’

Heart fluttering anxiously, she asked, ‘ What do you mean, “ our position ” ? ’

Michael was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘ I was thinking about maybe getting on with a divorce.’

Romy was taken aback. It was fourteen months now since she ’d left and even then there had been no official statement that they were separating. She had just moved out of the flat and not come back. More to the point, Michael had been brought up a Catholic – altar boy, First Communion – and, although lapsed since his twenties, he was, in principle, against divorce. Romy couldn ’t imagine wanting to marry again, so it wasn ’t a priority. And she had her sons to think of. But the word gave her a jolt, nonetheless.

‘Are you thinking of marrying Anezka ? ’

‘ Heavens, no ! ’ Michael exclaimed, with convincing horror. Then he gave a short laugh. ‘ Sorry, that sounded rude.’ He paused. ‘ I suppose I just want to be clear about

what ’s going on between us.’ His voice was soft, uncharacteristically tentative.

Now Romy felt the full weight of what seemed like a lifetime with Michael fall on her, like a heavy cloak. Their two boys, all the experiences they ’d shared : the fun they ’d had, the problems they ’d weathered, the powerful love she had undoubtedly felt for her husband. No part of her wanted to go back, but she couldn ’t help feeling the burden of the unfinished business between them. Unfinished business that – although Michael claimed to want clarity – continued to sit like a box stuffed in the attic. Ignored, but a constant presence above their heads.

‘ If you want to go ahead, I ’m fine with it,’ she said, her voice restrained.

Michael did not immediately reply and she wondered if he ’d heard. When he did speak, she thought he sounded distinctly disappointed. ‘ Oh, right . . . Well, we can talk about it when we meet. I ’ll send some dates.’

After they ’d said goodbye, Romy was slightly shaken. Was he testing me ? she wondered. Trying to stun me with the reality of divorce – see if I still care for him ? If he was happy in his relationship with Anezka – which her sons seemed to imply he was – then he should have sounded pleased, rather than disappointed. Whatever he ’d meant, Michael, she realized, still had the power to unsettle her. She took a shaky breath as she silently mouthed those ink-black words : Even now, I sometimes have flashbacks that make me tremble and sweat.

‘ That was superb.’ Finch sat back in his chair and gave her a grin of satisfaction.

‘ It ’s all you ’re getting, I ’m afraid,’ she said, smiling at his compliment – it had only been a modest pasta : spinach and mascarpone fusilli. ‘ There ’s Brighton Blue and grapes. I don ’t do puddings.’

It was liberating not to feel the need to wade through complicated recipes for Finch and just do something she could cook with her eyes closed. Not because he wasn ’t worth it. The evening had been so comfortable – really lovely, in fact – and Finch so appreciative of her efforts. But she remembered all those formal dinner parties she ’d thrown for Michael, how they ’d taken her all day to organize and cook and left her exhausted, with little appetite for being sparkling and witty with his clever colleagues from the judiciary.

Finch ’s eyes widened in horror. ‘ What ? No chocolate and hazelnut roulade ? No tarte Tatin ? What will the village say when I spread the word ? ’

Romy started to laugh. ‘ Probably confirm their worst suspicions that Michael left me because there weren ’t three puddings on the table every night.’ Her face fell, his name casting a shadow. ‘Although it was me who left him,’ she added softly.

‘ Cheese is perfect,’ Finch said diplomatically, as she reached across to clear his bowl. ‘ Is it all right to ask why ? ’ he said after a minute, his tone cautious.

Romy didn ’t answer until she had placed the cheese and fruit on the table and sat down again. She knew she had to give him some kind of response, but she found she couldn ’t meet his eye as she eventually spoke. ‘ We were married such a long time. I think we just ran out of steam. Michael is a barrister. His first love has always been his work.’ She didn ’t want to lie to Finch, but her deliberately evasive reply was playing with the truth.

Finch nodded, but she could tell he had noticed her equivocation from the puzzlement she saw flash across his eyes. ‘ Must have been a difficult decision.’

‘ I didn ’t feel I had a choice,’ she said, contradicting her previous statement, but realizing, for the first time, that this was probably true. The actual moment of leaving had been almost an anticlimax, as if she ’d just wandered off to the cottage and could, at any time, wander straight back to Michael. It was certainly how her husband saw it – or, at least, he had, until he ’d requested a divorce the other day. But it was, in truth, more defined than that : she had reached a tipping point, the letter changing everything.

‘ How about you ? It can ’t have been easy since you lost your wife,’ she asked, hoping her question wouldn ’t feel too intrusive. Finch ’s wife had died before Romy was living full-time in the village. She vaguely remembered a pretty, gamine blonde – sort of Mia Farrow-ish, with a wide, slightly crazy smile.

‘ Not easy at all. You ’re right. It ’s quite hard to describe it,’ Finch began, looking away. Romy saw his mouth working. Then he turned to her, the gaze from his expressive brown eyes seeming to hold hers with almost fierce determination. She guessed he didn ’t talk about Nell ’s death to many people and she felt honoured that he should trust her. ‘ Nothing is what you expect. It ’s like you ’re standing on the edge of a deep, dark pit and constantly having to stop yourself falling in. But gradually you get better and better at negotiating the edge.’ He gave her a selfconscious smile. ‘ I ’m sure that makes no sense to you.’

Romy smiled her understanding, because oddly, although it wasn ’t a death for her, Finch ’s analogy rang a powerful bell. She dared not show this too readily, though, for fear he would ask more questions. But it pained her that she couldn ’t be equally open with this sensitive, empathic man.

‘At first I kept judging myself for not recovering quickly enough. A pull-yourself-together type of thing,’ Finch was saying. ‘ Now I just feel what I feel.’ He smiled. ‘ But I ’m getting there. I think I can see ahead in a way that was impossible till recently.’

Like me, Romy thought. But she wondered whether, also like her, Finch was ready for anything more than friendship.

It was almost dark when they went through to the sitting room, where Romy had lit the wood-burner. Finch had to duck to avoid the lintel above the door.

She had tidied up earlier, and the clutter littering the surfaces had been shoved unceremoniously into the

cupboard under the stairs. All that remained were three framed photos of Leo and Rex as children – the one of her and Michael, windswept and laughing on a friend ’s boat, she had moved to the spare room, unwilling, as yet, to hide it away in a drawer.

The room – which had been extended into the garden – contained a faded rose-linen sofa piled with cushions and a small wingback chair in oatmeal tweed, two slim bookcases on either side of the fireplace and a coffee table made from reclaimed barn boards.

Finch had settled on the sofa when Romy came back with coffee and the box of chocolates he ’d brought with the Merlot. She wondered whether she should sit in the armchair across from him, or be bold and choose the sofa, too. After a moment ’s hesitation, she followed her instincts and opted for the latter.

The atmosphere in the room was warm and intimate, the flames from the wood-burner hypnotic. Glancing at the clock Romy realized it was nearly eleven – she and Finch had been talking non-stop for hours. The evening had gone in a flash.

With Michael, Romy had often got the feeling that he was busy forming his next sentence while she was talking – keen to get his views across instead of really listening to what she said – so at first she ’d been almost reticent with Finch. But as the evening had worn on, she ’d felt as if they were old friends who had known each other all their lives – at the same time as being exciting new ones.

Romy was acutely aware of Finch so close, the clean, orangey smell of soap, the strong hands with the long

fingers curled around the stoneware mug, his thigh –clad in charcoal chinos – only inches from her own. It was as if she had been gathered up into a softly vibrating lacuna, where there was no need to go forward or to look back : she could just bask in that single moment. A log cracked loudly against the glass door of the stove and she jumped.

Finch smiled at her. ‘ What a lovely evening,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘ Thanks for the delicious supper.’ After a pause, he added, ‘ I suppose I should get going.’ Although he did not immediately make a move.

Hearing the reluctance in his voice, which so exactly mirrored her own, she smiled. When he did get up, she followed him through to the hall, watched as he shrugged his broad shoulders into his navy peacoat and patted his pockets for his phone and keys.

For a moment they were trapped close in the confined space as she reached past him to open the front door. Their eyes met. Neither moved. She held her breath, aware of the quickening of her heartbeat. For what seemed like a lifetime to Romy, they were anchored, only centimetres apart. Then they both drew back, looking at each other with a degree of embarrassed surprise.

Finch raised his eyebrows at her. ‘ These narrow hallways . . . ’ he said, with a wide grin. She nodded, unable to suppress her own smile of relief that he ’d defused the tension. Finch seemed to shake himself. ‘ Night, Romy,’ he said, leaning down to give her a decorous peck on the cheek. Then he ducked his head to accommodate the low doorway and was gone.

For a moment Romy stood at the door and took deep breaths of the cold night air, feeling the sea breeze caress her hot cheeks. She gave a quiet chuckle of disbelief. I think he nearly kissed me.

But, as she went back inside and double-locked the front door, disbelief quickly turned to panic. Suppose he had ? It had been such a wonderful evening. Finch had taken her out of herself, beyond the confusion and pain of the recent past. But the near kiss had brought it all back.

Like the demand of a jealous lover, she heard the siren call. Unable to resist, Romy found herself slowly climbing the stairs to her bedroom and unlocking the top drawer of her dressing table. The letter she drew from the envelope was creased and thumbed, but the handwritten words were still as clear as the day it had dropped through the letter box of the Claires ’ Chelsea flat two and a half years ago :

12 October 2015

Dear Mrs Claire,

We have never met.

This is a difficult letter to write, and will be difficult for you to read, I ’m sure. But watching the news the other night and seeing the triumph on your husband ’s face on the steps of the Old Bailey –after successfully defending that creepy TV presenter accused of rape – made me feel physically sick. And furious with myself for keeping silent all these years.

Because Michael Claire sexually assaulted me. I was sixteen years old.

It happened on Thursday, 13 June 2002. I ’d just finished my GCSEs and my mother had arranged for me to do a week ’s work experience in your husband ’s chambers.

Michael was working late that night. All the others had gone home. He asked me to stay behind to help him sort out a ton of papers he had to read for court the next morning. It was almost my last day, and I ’d had such a good week. Everyone had been incredibly kind to me.

When I finished sorting the papers, he gave me a glass of red wine and had one himself. He didn ’t have proper wine glasses, I remember, just Duralex tumblers. He was friendly and funny. There was a small button-back leather sofa in the corner of his room and he told me to have a seat. Then a few minutes later he came and sat beside me. I was uncomfortable and really shy ; Michael was seen as a bit of a god in the chambers. I saw him as a bit of a god.

He put his hand on my thigh first. I was wearing a red cotton dress, no tights – it was very hot that week. I froze. I didn ’t know what to do. Then he moved my dress up and began stroking my bare skin, squeezing my thigh. I pushed him off, but he just laughed and took my glass from me, putting it on the desk. He seemed to think I ’d given him some sort of message that this was what I wanted, because he said, ‘ You ’re such a tease.’

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.

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

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