Page 63 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘That would be amazing,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Smith. I really appreciate it. Could I email you, maybe? I don’t want to make you late for your show.’

He shot his cuff, glancing at his heavy gold watch. ‘Indeed. I must be off. But do give me your number, Laurel. We can discuss this more – perhaps over a drink and dinner.’

Then he winked at me.

The wink told me everything I needed to know. Whether or not he was actually willing to help, there would be strings attached – strings in which I wasn’t willing to become entangled.

‘I… Perhaps I could email you?’ I gabbled. ‘I’d rather keep this professional. If you know what I mean.’

His face turned cold as stone and I realised I had messed up. I’d acknowledged his desire to overstep boundaries but also – far worse – I’d bruised his ego.

‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘I think you’ll find that your initial request to me was far from professional. You know where to find me should you change your mind.’

I gazed at him, unable to find any words. But I didn’t need to – he was already shouldering me aside, heading off with long strides down the corridor.

THIRTY-SIX

LAUREL

To say my encounter with Dr Swinging-Dick left me bruised would be like saying a patient was bruised after a collision on the motorway at eighty miles per hour. It wasn’t like I’d really been expecting him to be able or willing to give me a definitive answer. It wasn’t like I’d hoped he would say, ‘Nigel Graham? I remember carrying out that surgery like it was yesterday!’ or anything like that. But I’d hoped for something – any sort of clue that would give me another avenue to explore.

And I’d left with nothing. Worse than nothing.

His suggestion that we talk over dinner hadn’t been threatening or even particularly offensive – I’d dealt with far worse before. But my reaction to it had startled me – the idea that he, a senior colleague, could exercise some sort of droit du seigneur over me was bad enough, but what had really disgusted me was the sight of that gold wedding ring gleaming on his finger.

Gray had worn a wedding ring too. I’d seen it the very first moment we met, when he extended his hand to help me up from the pavement outside his house. The fact of him having a wife and a family had always been just that – a fact. Something about him I’d found out at the beginning and simply accepted. It had meant that we couldn’t see each other as much as we’d have liked to. It had meant that the future of our relationship had been uncertain at best. It had meant a weight of guilt that I’d internalised and become accustomed to so quickly I ceased to notice it.

It was my guilt, my shame, my problem to deal with. But what about Gray’s? I’d heard Mel’s warning – He’s not a good man – but I hadn’t really listened. I’d been too invested to care what my friend thought of him – and besides, she’d never met him; she didn’t know him like I did.

But if Dr Swinging-Dick was sleazy and a cheater, had Gray really been any better? For all I knew, I wasn’t the first woman he’d had an affair with. There could have been other women, younger women, colleagues, women he was in a position of power over, who he’d slept with and betrayed his wife with.

I didn’t want to see him that way. I’d always managed not to see him that way, because he was Gray – he was different and special and he loved me. But was it – was he – really so very different after all?

If I looked at the bald facts, it was extremely hard to see how.

Stopping at a traffic light, a crowd of my fellow hi-vis-clad commuters surrounding me, and a wall of buses, cars and lorries behind me, I made an abrupt decision. Instead of carrying on straight as I’d intended, I edged through the forest of bikes to the left-hand side of the junction, wobbling and apologising. I turned off the main road, rode round three sides of a square and rejoined it at the junction I’d previously passed, this time heading south and then east, instead of north.

Navigating easily from memory, I rode back past the hospital, on through Islington and the City, until I reached Damask Square.

It was a warm September evening, and still light even though it was gone eight o’clock. As I chained my bike to the railings surrounding the garden square, I noticed roses still blooming in the beds inside. The surrounding houses and flats had their lights on, but many of the curtains and blinds were not yet drawn – although those in number eight were, I saw with relief.

I noticed a glow coming from inside number five, as if a light had been switched on at the back of the house while the front room remained in darkness.

You’re welcome to come and knock on my door, Orla had told me, when I’d said goodbye to her after settling Anna in bed. That had been the day of Gray’s funeral – almost three months ago. I hadn’t taken her up on her offer, but now here I was – drawn back to the square.

My legs feeling wobbly with fatigue, I approached the door and knocked. A few seconds later, I heard the quick tap of approaching footsteps. A brighter light illuminated the fanlight above the door, which opened after a moment.

Orla stood there, a look of polite enquiry on her face, wearing yoga trousers and a crop top, a cashmere jumper slung over her shoulders. I caught myself wondering how old she was – surely in her sixties, yet she dressed and moved like a much younger woman.

A smile broke out on her face when she saw me, the lines it revealed confirming my guess at her age.

‘Laurel. I hoped you’d come, and here you are. Come in.’

Suddenly conscious of my dishevelled appearance and the sweat I could feel trickling down my back under my luminous pink cycling jacket, I said, ‘If you’re sure it’s not a bad time?’

‘Of course not. The cats and I were making dinner, and I was going to open a bottle of wine. Would you like to join me?’

I realised then how hungry I was. ‘That sounds lovely. If you’re sure?’