Page 23 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘You don’t have to talk to her, Anna,’ Gray went on. ‘I’m not asking you to offer her coffee and cake.’

‘Gray. You can’t ask me to do that. Seriously. What are you thinking? It’s not⁠—’

‘Not fair? None of this is fair, Anna. You think it’s all beer and skittles for me? Or for her?’

Maybe she should have thought of that before she started fucking a married man. As soon as the words formed in my mind, I hated myself for them.

‘I can go out and meet her, for now. But I won’t always be able to. Only until… you know.’ His voice trailed off, and he took a breath before continuing, his tone becoming less harsh and more pleading. ‘I want to see her, and she wants to see me. Please, Anna. I know it’s hard for you. Please do this one thing for me.’

I felt my shoulders slump in defeat. I couldn’t deny his request. Gray was dying and therefore he got to have what he wanted. Whatever he wanted.

I picked up the bowl of jelly from the bedside table.

‘Custard, maybe?’ I said. ‘I can go out and get some.’

He said, ‘I don’t think so. I’m going to sleep.’

‘Okay.’

‘Anna?’

In the doorway, I turned back to him.

‘Thank you. Thank you for everything.’

As I turned again to leave the room, I saw his hand reaching out for his phone.

THIRTEEN

LAUREL

Damask Square. The last time I’d seen it – the only time – I’d expected to just be passing through. It had been a detour, a random decision I took when I got slightly lost cycling through East London to the Docklands, where I was planning on taking the foot tunnel across to Greenwich to do some hill sprint training.

And look how that worked out.

Today I was an official visitor, coming on foot, and that wasn’t all that was different. Then, I’d been enjoying the freedom of a Saturday on my own, the pleasure of pushing my bike and my body to their limits, taking for granted that here was my life, my time, and I was using it in a way that would make me happy.

Now, life, time and happiness all seemed like the most fragile things imaginable.

I turned off the main road at the corner by the newsagent – a shabby relic that must have stood there long before the market got upgraded with designer shops around its perimeter and the Square Mile extended its borders beyond Bishopsgate like an invading army.

I felt a bit like an invader too.

The square was just as I remembered it. The iron railings, the tall, graceful houses, the silence that surrounded me as soon as I left the main road behind. Posh, I’d thought then, and I thought it again now. Perhaps I should have worn something different, to fit in. A taupe trench coat and over-the-knee boots, or something like that. Only I didn’t own anything like that, so I was wearing jeans and trainers.

Gray wouldn’t care, but it wasn’t only Gray I was going to see.

The smell of compost reached me, and inside the railed square I could see a middle-aged woman on her knees, doing something to the beds of rosebushes that were planted in its centre. She lifted her head as I passed and watched as I approached the door of number eight, raising a gloved hand in greeting before returning to her work.

I didn’t wave back. I felt too out of place, too alien, too nervous.

I raised my hand towards the brushed-steel knocker on the door, which was painted an even slate grey. But just as my fingertips reached its cool surface, the door opened.

A woman stood there, looking at me with wariness bordering on hostility. She was tall – statuesque, I suppose you might say if you liked flowery words. Her hair was blonde and shiny, and her eyes were blue. She was wearing jeans too, but hers were perfectly fitting, not baggy at the knees like mine. Her jumper was rose pink and looked like cashmere. Her skin was clear and glowing, the skin of a woman who’d always toned and moisturised and worn SPF 50 even in winter.

Anna. Gray’s wife.

‘Hello,’ I said.