Page 17 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘I’ll stay for as long as you want,’ I told my daughter.

But she said, ‘I think I want to be on my own, Mum.’

So I kissed her and left her and went downstairs, my mind already veering to the email I was going to have to compose to their school, the meeting I’d have to arrange to talk through it all with them and discuss how best to support the children.

I poured a glass of wine, took two deep gulps without closing the fridge door, then filled my glass again and sat down. It was done. We’d done our best – but had we got it right? Our children would never forget this night, and nor would I. I replayed everything we had said, everything they had asked.

One moment stuck in my mind.

Barney had asked about his grandmother. Not my mum, who the kids saw a few times a year, who faithfully sent birthday cards and gifts, whose flapjack recipe they considered the best thing in the world, ever.

Gray’s mother, who we never spoke of.

She died in a road traffic accident when I was at university.

It was another truth I’d always known about him, always accepted, internalised like I had his missing kidney.

But tonight, when he’d said it, there had been something different in his face and voice. Something unfamiliar.

It was how I’d imagined he’d look when I confronted him about the earrings, except I never got the chance because he’d confessed to me first.

It was guilt.

TEN

LAUREL

It was a Wednesday and my day off work. All week, the sun had been taunting me through the hospital windows as I hurried through the overheated wards and corridors; when I arrived in the mornings, it was still cold enough for my hands to feel frozen on to the handlebars of my bike, and when I left in the evenings it was already dark.

Now, though, it was almost midday and gloriously spring-like. Daffodils were showing their faces in the grass like a host of miniature suns, the sky was a clear, radiant blue and there was barely a breath of wind. I chained my bike to a stand, squeezing it in between a crowd of others and hoping it would still be there when I returned, and hefted my bulging backpack higher on my shoulders.

I found a spot in the park near the lake, half under a tree and half in sunshine, and spread out the blanket I’d brought, unpacking my posh food haul on to it, one eye on my phone.

There in 5, Gray texted. Got held up in a meeting.

I smiled. It had been over two weeks since we’d seen each other in the coffee shop. That, by necessity, had been rushed and uncomfortable; this would be special.

It needed to be special.

When I saw him coming towards me along the path in the sunshine, I raised my hand and smiled, then jumped to my feet to greet him. I tried not to let my face betray my feelings – or at least not all of them, only the surge of happiness I felt when I took him in my arms.

He’d got thinner. Even thinner than I’d expected. His cheeks were hollow. There was a scab on his jaw where he must have cut himself shaving, his razor encountering a bone that had been cushioned before. Even the way he walked was different, his usual athletic stride slower, not quite a shuffle but not far off.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said.

I kissed him. ‘So do you. Hungry?’

‘I’m trying to be.’ He sat down. ‘Looks like you raided Fortnum’s.’

‘Only the best for you. There’s bread, pâté, cheese, fruit, chocolates – the lot.’

‘But no booze.’ He shook his head in mock disapproval.

‘You’re working, remember?’

‘For now. Until the end of the week. But I can’t really stomach it now, if I’m honest.’

‘So have some sparkling water. It’s kiwi flavoured – for all I know it’ll taste like wee.’