Page 48 of All the Things We Never Knew

I took a sip, the alcohol hitting me like a brick concealed inside a pillow.

‘Are you okay, love?’ My sister moved round the kitchen island so she could see my face. ‘I mean, of course you’re not okay, but… Is this…?’

‘I’ve been hitting the booze too hard,’ I admitted. ‘It’s not forever. Just until today. It’s not a thing. Don’t worry.’

She looked at me, concern written on her face as blatantly as a graffiti tag. Then she reached out and squeezed my shoulder before hurrying upstairs to check that the kids were up.

I finished my drink and went upstairs to get ready. On the floor above, I could hear Sarah speaking gently to Barney and the shower running. I showered myself, put on some slapdash make-up and dressed in the floral silk wrap frock Gray had always liked. I’d lost weight since I wore it last, and I had to secure the neckline with a safety pin.

‘Mustn’t get your tits out at your husband’s funeral,’ I muttered to myself. Not that it mattered. Not that anything really mattered, except putting one foot in front of the other for the next few hours, until it was tomorrow and I could start afresh, scrape my life together and carry on.

‘Standing room only,’ I said, stepping through the chapel doors half an hour later. The interior was dark after the brilliant sunshine outside, but I could see rows and rows of people, squeezed shoulder to shoulder on to the padded seats. More were standing outside, where a PA system would broadcast the service, and still more would be joining via a Zoom link.

It had all been arranged. Probably some of it by me – I couldn’t remember. It must have been me who’d issued the instruction not to wear black, because Gray had always liked bright colours – so it was my fault that entering the chapel felt like stepping into a kaleidoscope.

Richard held my arm and steered me to the front row of seats, and I took my place between Lulu and Barney. I could smell flowers, but not see any – we’d asked for donations to the hospice instead. It must be my perfume, the Anaïs Anaïs I’d worn on our wedding day and never used any more.

I closed my eyes and kept them closed while the celebrant went into her welcoming patter. I opened them when Carl came up to the front to read ‘Dirge Without Music’. He must have responded to my email asking him to do a reading and suggested that, but I couldn’t remember agreeing or ever having read the words until I saw them printed on the service sheet I was holding.

‘More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world,’ he read.

I wondered if Gray had felt that way about Laurel. I wondered if he’d ever bought her roses. I hadn’t seen her in the chapel when we came in – but then it was so dark I hadn’t seen anyone distinctly.

I found myself hoping she was there. Gray would have wanted her to be there.

At last it was over. Lulu had started to cry about halfway through and was gripping my hand, a soggy tissue pressed against my palm. Barney’s face was blank, as if he’d never be able to feel anything ever again.

I needed a wee and another drink, equally badly.

I stood up, relieved to find that I could walk quite steadily back through the rows of faces, some contorted with weeping, some grave and still, some wearing careful, supportive smiles. I was okay until I got outside, and then the sunshine hit me, my eyes went funny and I felt my legs disappear from underneath me.

TWENTY-SEVEN

LAUREL

There was no room inside the chapel, so I listened to Gray’s funeral from outside, gathered around a screen with the other people who couldn’t fit inside. Not that it made much difference – from the moment the celebrant kicked off the proceedings by saying, ‘Friends and family, we are gathered here today not just to mourn a death, but to celebrate a life,’ I started to cry and didn’t stop.

Even when she said, ‘The life of Nigel Graham, husband, father, friend, colleague and neighbour,’ my tears only intensified: I hadn’t known his first name, although I’d always half-assumed it must be something other than Gray. I had been so peripheral to his life, even that most fundamental fact about him was news to me. I was shut out, and not just literally.

I had known, during that last hour I had spent sitting with his body before Anna arrived, that this would be the end – the last time I could be alone with him. Precious had known it too, embracing me and saying softly, ‘I’ll let you know when it’s time.’

We both knew what she meant: time for Anna to arrive, time for my wishes and Gray’s to take a back seat, because he was dead and I would have to relinquish him, permanently now, to the people he truly belonged to, to the life that I had only been an illicit, secret part of, to the death that I couldn’t change.

Anna must have spent the past two weeks planning all of this. The rainbow colours the invited mourners were wearing; the poem I could hear being read by a man introduced as Carl, Gray’s business partner; the venue for the drinks afterwards. Planning it all must have been awful for her – but was it worse than not being able to be part of it? I couldn’t and never would know.

Still, I was envious. She had the status of being his wife. She could elicit sympathy without being ashamed. She’d be sent cards and flowers, and people would share their memories of Gray with her to make her feel less alone, to show her they had loved him too.

All I had were the memories of the time I’d had with him. How many hours, I wondered, had we actually spent together in those months? Not that many. In total, they probably added up to less than ten days. But every moment had been filled with joy – it was when I wasn’t with him that the bad stuff had happened: the guilt, the loneliness, the pain of missing him.

Now the good part had ended and only the bad remained.

I heard Carl’s voice reading or reciting the last line of the poem he or Anna had chosen: ‘I do not approve. And I am not resigned.’

I didn’t and I wasn’t. But there was nothing I could do about it. Gray was dead. I would never see him again. That was that.

At last the ceremony ended. Someone announced that there’d be food and drink at the Crooked Billet and everyone was most welcome, but I sensed that probably didn’t apply to me. I decided to leave – slip quietly away, perhaps go for a long bike ride and lose myself in the pain of pushing my body to its limits.

I’d get out of the black suit I’d bought for the occasion, not realising that everyone else would be in bright summer clothes more suited to a wedding than a funeral.