Page 6 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘You went to the doctor? You never said.’

‘You told me I should go, so I made an appointment. I didn’t want to worry you.’ He lifted his glass to his lips, sipped and winced, then poured more whisky into it. ‘Then last night I vomited. And again this morning, although I hadn’t eaten. So we – I thought I should get checked out. And you know what it’s like trying to get an appointment at the local surgery.’

We? Who was the other half of that we?

‘So you went to the hospital? In Liverpool?’

Gray’s shoulders lifted in a shrug, then dropped again. ‘I wasn’t in Liverpool.’

My mouth suddenly felt as dry as paper. I took another gulp of my drink then added more gin to the glass, not bothering with tonic.

‘You weren’t in Liverpool,’ I echoed. ‘Where were you?’

‘Gloucestershire.’ He didn’t meet my eyes, and he didn’t sound as if he’d practised saying that. ‘At a hotel in the country.’

‘Then why did you tell me you were somewhere else?’ I asked, although I was certain I knew what the answer would be.

Don’t lie to me, Gray. Don’t make this harder than it already is.

‘Because… Because of who I was with.’ The words sounded jagged, like they were physically hurting him.

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. All I could hear was the screaming in my mind.

My husband has cancer. My husband is having an affair.

The silence stretched between us, taut enough that it felt dangerous to break it.

Tentatively, I whispered, ‘Tell me what they said at the hospital.’

I heard him breathe out – a long exhale, like he was relieved to be talking about this again, rather than the other thing.

‘They took a look at me. Peered at my eyes, poked my stomach. Took some blood. That kind of thing.’

‘Right.’ I found myself peering at his eyes too. They looked normal to me – the familiar deep, rich brown, unusual for someone with blond hair, although his had gradually been silvering for some years. Just Gray’s eyes. Just Gray’s face.

‘They said I’m jaundiced,’ he went on. ‘And they could feel something in my abdomen. So they sent me for a CT scan, and they said it looks like there’s something there. Some kind of mass.’

‘Some kind of mass?’ My words came out high and incredulous. ‘What does that even mean? Where?’

‘On my pancreas.’

‘Pancreas. Okay.’

I thought, What the hell even is that? If it had been my husband’s liver, or obviously his kidney, I’d have had a clearer idea of what was going on. But a pancreas? It was just a word, just a thing that was there, somewhere in the jumble of meat that made up the inside of all of us.

‘So they’ve referred me to gastroenterology. Or rather, they’ve written to our GP to tell them to. It’s complicated because – well, because of the area thing. It’s a different NHS trust.’

The area thing. Not East London, where we lived. Not Liverpool, either. Somewhere in Gloucestershire.

‘They said I might have to chase them up,’ Gray was saying.

‘So what are we meant to do in the meantime?’ My voice was rising, thin and panicky.

‘Dunno. I guess we wait. That’s why it’s called a two-week wait, right? Clue’s in the name.’

‘And what if… What if it does turn out to be cancer?’ My throat felt raw, as if I’d been screaming. ‘I mean, it’s probably something else, right? Gallstones or something.’

‘They don’t think it’s gallstones,’ Gray replied quietly.