Page 21 of All the Things We Never Knew

I flinched, feeling blood rush to my face as if he’d slapped me.

‘I’m sorry. That was daft of me. Can I get you a glass of water?’

‘You can fuck off and leave me alone.’

I stepped out of the room and closed the door, clinging on to the handle for a moment as if I might fall. In twenty years, he’d never said that to me and I’d never said it to him. Even during our worst rows, there had always been underlying affection and respect, not that cold, dismissive rage.

I got the glass of water anyway and left it by his side of the bed, along with the box of tablets I retrieved from his jeans pocket. There was a fresh indent in the leather of his belt where he’d had to tighten it to a new notch, I noticed, unthreading it and dropping his clothes in the laundry hamper.

I didn’t say anything more to him. I knew that if I tried to speak I’d burst into tears, or the hurt and anger that were never far from the surface would erupt, breaking through my sadness and leaving me feeling worse than ever.

Don’t talk to me like that, ever again, I imagined myself scolding. But if I said it, I’d have to acknowledge that there’d be a point, not long in the future, when he’d never talk to me at all, ever again.

Then I went to bed in the spare room, dragging mismatched covers on to the duvet and pillows, leaving the door open a crack and listening with dread for further sounds from him. I was trembling with fury and hurt, a pressure cooker of feelings that I couldn’t let out. Was that how he felt about me – that cold contempt? Had he felt that way for a long time? Would he feel that way forever, now?

I was relieved to be away from him, on my own in the other room. But I knew that it wouldn’t be long until he was no longer there at all, and I hated myself for my relief.

After a while, I heard the toilet flush, water running in the sink and the buzz of his toothbrush, followed by the tread of his feet on the landing. I heard him hesitate when he stepped into our bedroom, but he didn’t come and find me, although he must have known where I was.

He got into bed, alone, and that was where he stayed for most of the weekend, emerging only to go to the bathroom. I offered him breakfast on Saturday morning, but he said he wasn’t hungry. Desperate to maintain some sort of normality for the children, I took Lulu to meet her friends in the park, where they’d all taken to wobbling around the basketball courts on roller skates. I took Barney to football. I went to the supermarket and bought the ingredients for a lasagne.

While I was there, Gray texted me, just four words.

Can you get jelly?

Jelly? What the hell?

I hurried to the unfamiliar aisle where the instant puddings lived, which I hadn’t visited since long-ago preschool birthday parties, and stared blankly at the packs of Angel Delight, Dream Topping and custard powder before picking up half-a-dozen packs of jelly crystals in all the available flavours.

When the lemon jelly had eventually set, I took the bowl up to the bedroom with a spoon.

Gray was asleep, Augustus curled up in the crook of his knees. I stood over him, not knowing what to do. He’d asked for jelly, and I’d provided jelly. But maybe he needed sleep more.

I didn’t know, I realised. I didn’t have the faintest clue how to do any of this.

I reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘Gray?’

He mumbled, then turned over and opened his eyes.

‘I brought you jelly,’ I said. ‘Shall I open the curtains?’

He struggled upright, sending the cat jumping to the floor with an affronted yowl.

‘Yes, please,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Anna.’

I pulled back the curtains, looking out at the sunny square. Vivid green buds were appearing on the chestnut trees and before long the cherries would be flowering. The sun glinted off the black-painted iron railings and I could hear a blackbird singing.

I longed to go outside and sit there, or out in our own garden. But instead I opened a window so Gray could get some fresh air.

The sunlight coming through the window made the surface of the jelly sparkle, turning it gold. I remembered all the times I’d made it before – painstakingly filling scooped-out oranges with it for kids’ parties, layering it in trifles at Christmas, never giving it a thought because it was just jelly.

I wondered whether Gray’s mother had made it for him when he was a child when he was poorly, and whether that was why he wanted it now.

He took a spoonful, grimaced and put the spoon back in the bowl.

‘Is that okay?’ I asked. ‘I made some of the raspberry flavour as well.’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t taste like I remembered it.’