Page 89 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘You weren’t the one cheating though,’ Mel pointed out. ‘He was. If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve…’

She stopped herself, so I finished for her. ‘Been someone else. Probably.’

Harry said, ‘I don’t want to lower the tone, but if you don’t get that broccoli drained, it’ll be like my nan’s Christmas sprouts.’

‘What? Right. Thanks.’ I upended the pan into the colander and added, ‘I think we’re ready to eat.’

After we’d finished the food, the wine and Mel’s chocolates, we slumped on the sofa and soon all began to yawn, and then Mel and Harry said they’d better get moving if they weren’t going to miss the last train. It was only after they’d left that I allowed my thoughts to return to Gray – although not entirely to Gray.

I took out my phone and looked at the series of text messages I’d been exchanging over the past few days. They were friendly – nothing more. But reading them again made me smile, especially the last one I’d received, which had been signed off with a kiss.

My reply had been typed several hours before, but not sent. I read it again. It was only a few words – inconsequential words, but they might change everything for me.

So tell me more about cycling on the Taff Trail?

I pressed Send.

Then I lifted the framed photograph up off its place by my bed and stared at it for a long time. That familiar, smiling face – the face I’d seen sparkling with laughter, contorted with sexual pleasure and, ultimately, still in death.

‘I loved you, Gray,’ I told him.

Then I opened the bedside table drawer, slid the frame inside and closed it again.

FIFTY-ONE

ANNA

The little bus laboured up the hill. So far on the fifteen-minute journey it had made several ascents, but this was the steepest yet. I turned to look out of the window, hoping to see green valleys falling away beneath me, but everything was blanketed in grey mist, visibility reduced to just a few feet so all I could see was the edge of the road and a bit of stone wall with a few blurry shapes beyond it that might or might not have been sheep.

But my phone told me I was nearing my destination and, sure enough, after a final effort the bus jolted to a stop and the driver’s voice crackled over the tannoy, ‘Merthyr Adwen.’

I’d arrived at my destination – the place where Gray grew up. I wondered how its name might have sounded in his voice – whether the Welsh accent he’d almost totally erased would have re-emerged, and he’d have sounded like the bus driver.

Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, and not forgetting my umbrella, I got out. Wind immediately whipped rain against my face, flattening my jeans against my legs and making me realise that the umbrella would be worse than useless. My hands already turning numb from the cold, I huddled under the bus shelter and checked the map on my phone.

If Gray had been with me, we wouldn’t have needed a map. He would have known the route from memory, perhaps taking my hand and leading me onwards, our arms swinging in unison. He’d have said, ‘Come on, slow coach – let’s get out of this pissing rain.’

How I wished he was there with me. I felt an almost physical yearning for him: his vitality, his laughter, the warmth of his hand in mine. But if he was alive, I wouldn’t be here. It was only his death that had led me to this place, and now I must do what I had to do alone.

Over the sound of the rain hammering on the roof of the bus shelter, I could almost hear his voice. Not the Welsh-accented one I’d speculated about, but his usual, familiar tone: the voice I’d heard almost every day of my life for more than twenty years.

It’s okay, Anna. You’ve got this.

Without hesitating any longer, I stepped out into the rain.

It was only a five-minute walk, but my waterproof jacket was already streaming with moisture by the time I reached the row of modest red-brick houses. There were about a dozen of them, with small, bare gardens in front of them. I could see Christmas lights sparkling in a few of the windows; the curtains were drawn over others, although it had only just begun to get dark. I could hear the yapping of a small dog, a baby crying – and music.

The music surprised me, in this humble, rather forlorn place. It was the notes of a flute, drifting clearly into the thick twilight like a promise of brightness and hope. I followed the sound, and it led me to one of the doors – number seven. I raised a cold hand and pressed the doorbell.

The music stopped immediately, and a few moments later the door opened.

A woman stood there, smiling tentatively. She was about twenty-five years older than me, dressed in leggings and a knitted jumper with a reindeer’s face on the front. Her grey hair hung in a plait over one shoulder. Her eyes were the rich brown of espresso coffee.

‘Louisa.’ I said the name that was also my daughter’s.

‘Anna.’ The smile remained cautious. ‘Please, come in.’

The door opened directly into the front room, a small space, but tidy and warm. There was a sofa, a dining table with two chairs, a television and a music stand, the silver flute lying on top of it, incongruously beautiful.