The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(102)

‘You’re just too British for your own good, Jonah Jones.’ I roll my eyes, laughing.

He shows me his Heinz Ketchup and grins. I put my pen down and reach for my wine glass.

‘Any new news? Tell me something good.’

He pushes his hair back from his face and my eyes flicker to the scar across his eyebrow, bleached silver by LA sunshine. In one of our conversations recently he told me that he unscrewed his bathroom mirror from the wall not long after the accident because he couldn’t stand seeing the constant reminder every morning; it’s a relief to know that he’s doing better now. I listen as he shares snippets of his LA week, eating his lunch as he goes.

‘Oh – and guess what?’ he says suddenly. ‘I ditched the car and hired a motorbike instead, fancied the thrill of the open road.’

I smile, biting back my desire to tell him to be careful, because he always is. I wonder if he ever got around to buying that classic bike off Gripper Grimes, the one he talked about with Freddie in our other life.

‘Vintage?’ I say, casual.

He frowns and shakes his head. ‘Brand new, why?’

‘No reason.’ I shrug his question off. ‘Just trying to picture it.’

We do this all the time, use technology to make it feel as if we’re in the same room rather than on opposite sides of the world. My brain makes a hop, skip and jump, and wonders if there might come a time when similar technology exists to casually place a call across universes rather than continents. I’d quite like to be able to offer myself some advice – I think I’ve been through enough tough stuff to gather some pearls of wisdom.

‘You look knackered,’ Jonah says.

I sigh as I swallow some wine. ‘Yeah, I am a bit.’

‘Still not sleeping?’

I run my hand over my forehead. ‘Not great, no.’

Sleep is becoming an issue for me, in all honesty. I washed those pills down the sink and with them my ability to sleep at night. I don’t know why, but I do know I won’t be going back to see the doctor about it anytime soon.

‘Want me to sing to you?’ Jonah laughs. ‘I do a good line in lullabies. Or death metal. Whichever you find more soothing.’

I pick my phone up and relocate to the sofa.

‘Go on then,’ I say, settling down. I pull the throw over me and drag a pillow under my head, and then I look at Jonah. ‘I’m ready.’

‘You actually want me to sing to you?’

‘Don’t tell me you were kidding,’ I say, even though I know he was. ‘It’s been a long time since I heard you sing.’

He stares at me, seeing me more clearly than most people do even though he’s on the other side of the world. I see him clearly too; his eyes tell me that he still doesn’t sing very much these days, and he’s trying to decide if he can do it right now for me.

‘Close your eyes,’ he says.

I prop my phone where he can see me and burrow into the pillow, the blanket pulled up, more comfortable than I’ve been in a while.

‘Any requests?’

‘Surprise me,’ I whisper.

He falls quiet and for a while all I can hear is his breathing, which is kind of soothing in itself. And then he begins, low and soulful, and my grateful bones sink into the cushions. I’ve heard Jonah work his way through the Beatles’ back catalogue countless times in the pub after hours. In The Prince he usually goes for crowd-pleasers, but tonight he strips it back and sings ‘The Long and Winding Road’ just for me.





Wednesday 18 December


‘I wouldn’t wear this beard for anyone else,’ Phil says, pulling the frothy white wool down over his mouth. ‘I’ve swallowed at least half of it.’

‘Don’t hock up a hairball,’ Ryan says, every inch Santa’s helper in his elf outfit.

My upstairs buddies have all been roped in to do their bit for my Christmas library party this morning. It’s nothing big or grand in the scale of things, just an open day with activities and games, a chance to get parents in to see the improvements I’ve made to our pre-school corner. I used the lure of seeing Santa to pull in the pre-school crowd, and it’s been more effective than I anticipated. The place is heaving with harassed-looking parents, too warm in their outside jackets and holding on to tissues, changing bags and half-eaten snacks.

Dawn is in charge of the colouring table, her Christmas jumper stretched over her beachball bump, and Julia is handing out punch to grateful mums and dads. I can’t guarantee she hasn’t laced it with vodka. She hasn’t gone near a Christmas outfit, of course, but her bright-red lipstick is a good match with Phil’s Santa suit. And then there’s Flo and Mary, my library ladies. They’ve come in dressed as a pair of Christmas baubles, which would be fine except for the fact that they can barely fit between the aisles in the library. Ryan laughed until tears ran down his cheeks when Flo got wedged in the history section earlier and needed him to give her a good shove from behind.

‘Someone wanted to see Santa.’

I turn and find Elle behind me, Mum beside her with Charlotte in her arms. There’s something magical about that child; I only have to see her and a light switches on inside me. It’s a mutual appreciation society, thankfully – she laughs like a drain at my really bad jokes and it’s an indisputable fact that I’m her favourite. Well, indisputable to me, at least.