Page 61 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘And why did he – I mean, he always said he hated classical music. When I tried to learn the violin in primary school he’d leave the house if I was practising.’

It was true. I remembered Gray’s expression – almost agonised – when Lulu had brought a borrowed violin home from school. Can she not? he’d demanded.

‘It did sound a bit like a cat being tortured, to be fair,’ I teased.

Lulu giggled. ‘I know, right? But Dad – he passed all those exams. He must’ve been seriously good at the piano.’

‘Maybe he lost interest,’ I said. ‘People do, like you not being into ballet any more.’

But my daughter’s face told me she was unconvinced – and she wasn’t the only one.

This wasn’t about some certificates packed away in a box and forgotten. It wasn’t about a name changed in early adulthood. It was about the erasure of a whole childhood – a whole past. Whoever Nigel Graham had been, he didn’t seem like he was anything to do with Gray – the man I’d fallen in love with and married. The father of my children. The husband I’d lost so recently.

What else was there about him that I didn’t know?

THIRTY-FIVE

LAUREL

We all called him Dr Swinging-Dick. Of course, being a surgeon, he was Mr Swinging-Dick, but that didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Harry and I had had a conversation in the pub a couple of years back about what he would have been christened, if he’d had the choice or had known the lofty destiny that was in store for him.

‘Rupert Ponsonby-Goldfinger,’ I suggested.

‘Billy Big-Bollocks,’ said Harry.

‘That’s too similar to Swinging-Dick,’ I objected. ‘Blaize Lifesaver.’

‘Swift Scalpel-Nurse.’ Harry giggled.

‘Or Jesus Nexttogod. But he’d have had to be Spanish for that.’

‘Not John Smith, anyway.’

Laughing and rolling our eyes, we’d moved the conversation on to the next snippet of hospital gossip.

Lots of surgeons have big egos – it’s a thing. Not all of them, of course – Mel and I sometimes played bingo over the Nursing Times when we read interviews with surgeons, seeing how many times clichés like ‘modest demeanour’ and ‘humble beginnings’ would get trotted out. Mel had even dated a surgeon a few years back, and he was a totally normal guy, apart from (she told me after they broke up) liking being tied up in bed and being told he’d been a very naughty boy.

No one who valued their career would ever call John Smith a very naughty boy. Or even John, come to that – he was Mr Smith even to people who’d been working with him for decades. Now in his early sixties, he was tall, silver-haired and distinguished. He played experimental jazz during surgery, treated the patient like they were his guest at a posh dinner party, and had once called a junior doctor a ‘hapless fucking wankbadger’ in front of the entire team.

Because he worked in the transplant department, our paths rarely crossed, for which I was thankful. But I needed insight into organ transplants, and perhaps even a clue as to how I might go about tracing Joel.

After finishing my shift, I changed out of my work clothes and into my cycling-home ones, and headed up to the third floor, where the directory had told me Dr Swinging-Dick’s office was located.

There was a chance he would be there, but it was also possible that he’d be in theatre, or in a meeting, or even off on annual leave at his second home in Provence. The ward was relatively quiet that evening. The inpatients had been given their evening meal and settled for the night; the late shift had taken over from the day one. A ward sister was standing by the desk scrolling through notes on her computer screen.

‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

She looked at me enquiringly, immediately identifying me as staff rather than a lost visitor, or a day patient who’d found herself on the wrong floor.

‘Evening. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m Laurel Norton. I work downstairs in A&E. I was hoping to have a chat with John Smith.’

‘Dr Sw— Mr Smith? You’re in luck. He’s in his office.’

‘Great! Where do I find that?’