Romy – selfishly, she realized – didn’t want to. She wanted to talk to Grace, to cling to this link with Finch for as long as she possibly could. But before she had time to speak, her phone rang.

‘Tried texting you,’ Darren said.

‘I’ll be right there.’

When she looked up, Grace was walking briskly back along the shore. She hadn’t said goodbye and Romy was too choked to call out. She hurried round the corner to the car park, devastated for Grace, of course, but also furious with herself. The honesty in the girl’s face had been painful to witness.

Romy listened with half an ear to Darren drone on earnestly about scuttle panels and primers. But her mind was elsewhere. Michael is guilty. It made her feel sick. All these months and years of wanting to believe him, her passionate defence of her husband in the face of Finch’s testimony, the way she’d pointed the finger at poor Grace. There was only one liar.

48

James was already at the table when she went in, a breadstick in one hand – which he was chewing absentmindedly – his sleek, big-screen iPhone in the other. The exclusive Italian restaurant on Aldwych was one he and Michael frequented. She had been there herself, in happier times, to meet her husband for lunch.

‘Romy, my dear.’ James threw breadstick and phone onto the starched white tablecloth and rose to give her his usual tentative cheek brush in greeting – he was not a man comfortable with hugs. ‘This is a rare pleasure.’

Not when I tell you why I asked you to come, she thought, but smiled at him nonetheless as she returned his kiss and sat down, the maître d’ pushing her chair in for her and shaking out her starched napkin, then laying it across her lap with a flourish.

‘So how’s the old rascal, then?’ James asked cheerily, but he was clearly awkward with her. Not least because he had told Michael now that he was looking to take on a permanent replacement.

He probably thinks I’m here to plead Michael’s cause, Romy thought wryly. ‘I’m back home in Sussex now,’ she said. ‘But I hear he’s doing well. Small improvements.’

James nodded, clicking his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. ‘They have a very serviceable Verdicchio here. You happy with white?’

Romy nodded, desperate for a large glug of alcohol – any would do – to calm her nerves. She was cold, although it was warm and muggy outside and the restaurant had no air-conditioning. They chatted about the summer – James had been to his house in Tuscany, then a wedding in Majorca – until the wine and bottled water arrived. Then Romy took a deep breath. But before she could speak, James held his hand up.