Page 37 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘Does that mean I’ll be off my tits on morphine?’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, basically.’

‘Laurel…’ He hesitated, turning over my hand and tracing a pattern on it, a simple right angle, like the letter L, down and to the right then to the left and up again. ‘Do people… in your experience, when they’re dying and on morphine, do they say things without meaning to?’

‘I guess…’ I spoke slowly, weighing each word, wanting to be as truthful as I could but also not knowing the full truth; wanting to reassure him but also not wanting to lie to him. ‘I guess sometimes they do. But the thing is, by that stage, most people aren’t very lucid. It’s like when you talk in your sleep, or you’ve just woken from a dream and you’re not sure what’s real. It doesn’t always make a lot of sense.’

He sighed. ‘I think I’ve decided. And I’ll have a nap now. Can you…’

‘Give you a hand getting back to bed? Sure. Let me put this out of the way.’

I picked up the tray, put it down on the floor by the door and turned back the covers. I helped Gray to his feet and on to the bed, although he was so light I could have lifted him easily. I plumped his pillows and made sure the pyjama top was smooth under his back.

Then I sat down next to him again, cleaned the orange juice off both our fingers with a wet wipe, and took his hand in mine.

‘Laurel.’ He looked at me, his eyes fathomless with fear. ‘Will you be with me when I die? Will you hold my hand like this?’

I wondered if he knew how badly I wanted to promise him anything, even if I wouldn’t be able to keep my promise.

‘But Anna…’

‘She’s doing so much for me,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell her it’s not enough. I can’t tell her how scared I am. I can’t tell her I know she’s not coping.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ve got you. I love you.’

‘I love you,’ he murmured, his eyes closing.

I waited until he was asleep, then got up, took the tray and left the room, full of dread for the conversation I was about to have with Anna.

As I descended the stairs, I thought, What is it you don’t want anyone to hear you saying, Gray?

TWENTY

ANNA

When Laurel came into my kitchen, carrying the tray I’d specifically asked her to leave upstairs, I was standing in the open doorway to the garden, my vape in my hand. The smell of it mingled with the scent of the honeysuckle that was blooming around the doorway. The robin I’d been watching hop along the fence, watched also by Augustus, took flight when it heard the rattle of the tray on the counter, and my brief moment of peace was over.

‘Anna.’ I heard her tip the half-eaten breakfast into the food-waste caddy and start running hot water over the plates. ‘I wondered if you’ve got a moment? Gray ate a bit; he’s asleep now.’

I tucked the vape into my jeans pocket and pulled the back door shut as I turned around.

‘Yes?’ Offer her a coffee? Don’t offer her a coffee. But I couldn’t help myself. ‘Would you like a drink? A coffee, I mean. It’s a bit early for an actual drink.’

‘Just a glass of water would be lovely, thank you,’ she said guardedly, folding her arms across her chest. ‘I’m on shift at one.’

As if she’d thought I was serious about having an actual drink. Or known I was serious. Or was so virtuous that even the mildly stimulating effects of caffeine were too daring for her to contemplate before work.

I poured two glasses of water from the fridge and handed one to her. There was no homemade shortbread to offer this time, only a single scone left from the batch Orla had brought round the previous day.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, smiling and perching on a stool by the island.

I watched her. Her hands were folded in front of her, the nails short and unpainted, the skin dry. She sipped her water, then wiped away the ring of condensation it had left with her sleeve. Make yourself at home, I thought bitterly. Any friend of Gray’s is a friend of mine. Not.

We looked at each other, both of us silent for a moment. Not for the first time, I allowed myself to wonder, What did he – does he – see in her? If she’d been twenty years younger than me it would have all made more sense. If she’d been some glamour-puss with nail extensions and hair extensions and no doubt a full Hollywood wax, I’d have kind of got it.

But she wasn’t. She was just an average-looking woman, with her layered shoulder-length brown hair and the scattering of freckles across her cheeks. Only her figure was exceptional: the tiny waist, long, muscular legs and round, tight buttocks that girls a few years older than Lulu put in serious gym time to achieve.

Gray had never particularly liked slim women, though. I remembered when I’d been heavily pregnant with Barney, hot and clumsy as a beached whale, him grabbing me from behind, his hands reaching for my breasts, murmuring, ‘Look at you. You’re a goddess,’ before sweeping me off to bed.