Page 52 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘Oh, Anna. This is difficult. Before he left here, Gray asked me to do something for him. A favour. And I… I’m afraid that was just before the ambulance arrived to take him and there wasn’t time that day. I fear I let him down. I wanted to talk to you about it.’

‘What did he want?’ I asked. ‘Whatever it was, I’m sure we can fix it.’

‘It’s…’ She hesitated, and then her words came out in a rush. ‘He wanted me to ring his solicitor. He wanted a last-minute change to his will. I did get hold of her, the next day, and she said she would contact him. But I don’t know if it ever happened.’

His will. I remembered sitting in the café with the children and the prospect crossing my mind that Gray might change it – alter it in favour of Laurel. I hadn’t let that worry take hold at the time, but now it did, as if it had been waiting to pounce, biding its time.

Frantically, I tried to sort through the jumbled memories of those days. If Claudia James had visited the hospice, I’d have known, surely? Someone would have told me, if I hadn’t been there at the time. And besides…

‘I don’t think he could have done,’ I said slowly. ‘He was – by that stage, he was sleeping so much. He was on a high dose of morphine. I doubt any lawyer would have judged him to have capacity to change something like that.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Orla said sadly. ‘I’m so sorry, Anna.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry.’ My hands were gripping my coffee cup so hard I worried it would shatter. ‘Orla – tell me. Was it to do with Laurel? Was it to leave her something in his will?’

‘No!’ If I’d doubted her honesty, the expression of absolute horror on her face would have erased my misgivings. ‘God, no, Anna. Nothing like that. He wanted to make a bequest to a charity.’

‘To a…’ I released my hold on the cup, hearing it rattle on the saucer. ‘Well then there’s nothing to worry about. It’s easily done. I can just make the donation myself. I expect our accountant will have something to say about the most tax-efficient way to do it, but it’ll be quite straightforward. Assuming he told you what charity it was, that is.’

I thought of the donations Gray had made while he was alive. He’d been a sucker for signing up for direct debits when chuggers accosted him on the street or knocked at the door, and each month a steady but substantial trickle of money had left our account. Plus at the end of the tax year he’d made more substantial donations: to Shelter, to Centrepoint, to Cats Protection. When he’d done an Ironman triathlon a couple of years back, he’d raised money for Kidney Research UK.

Any of those were welcome to an additional chunk of cash, so long as it wouldn’t leave me unable to fund the children’s university fees.

‘I…’ Orla began. ‘I’m not sure. I remember what he said. I wrote it down, just in case.’

She reached into the worn leather satchel that hung over the back of her chair and took out her purse, unzipped it and extracted a scrap of paper, glanced at it and handed it to me.

‘YMCA?’ I read. ‘Really?’

Orla shrugged helplessly, raising her palms to the ceiling. ‘That’s what he said. At least, that’s what he ended up saying. He started with the Y and then YC and then YA and then he started singing the song – you know.’

I did. Almost involuntarily, I found myself doing the hand gestures.

Orla smiled. ‘Gray did that too. I wasn’t sure – it seemed unlikely that that was what he meant. But it must have been, mustn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ I agreed. ‘And – thanks, Orla. I’m glad you told me. I’m glad everything’s all right, between – you know. After the other day.’

‘Take care of yourself, Anna. Remember I’m here.’

She hugged me again and I thanked her for the coffee, then went back next door and straight into Gray’s office.

I sat down in the leather chair at his desk and switched on the computer.

TWENTY-NINE

LAUREL

For the first time, I inserted my shiny new key into the shiny new lock and turned it. The door swung obligingly open, and I stepped inside.

I was greeted by the smell of paint and the sight of a billion dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunlight that flooded through the windows. In a few minutes, the man with a van I’d hired to bring my boxes of stuff over from Mel’s place would arrive; later this afternoon, after a trip to Ikea, he’d bring yet more boxes, this time of flat-pack furniture for me to assemble.

For now, though, the flat was empty – a bland shell waiting to be turned into a home. It felt airy and spacious, although I knew that once the furniture was in place it would feel a lot smaller. There was a living room and kitchen in one, a bedroom overlooking what would eventually become a communal garden, and a bathroom, the walls tiled in the jade green I’d chosen on a whim.

I’d buy plants, I decided. I’d put up a rack on the wall for my bike to live on. I’d choose new bedding – pink, maybe, in a floral design with leaves to match the green of the plants.

I’d have a housewarming party, inviting friends over to admire my new home.

It would be home. It would have to be.