The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(12)

‘But you’re doing okay?’ he asks. Unspoken words sit between us as his fingers make sure his scar is covered by his slightly too-long hair.

I shrug. ‘Okay. Not falling apart at the seams in public anyway, which – trust me – is an improvement.’ I hear the subtle my-grief-is-bigger-than-yours edge to my voice; it isn’t fair and I know it. He looks down and rubs his hands along the length of his thighs, restless, and when he lifts his dark, troubled gaze to mine again I get the feeling he’s gearing up to say something, so I jump in first.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, fiddling with the stem of my glass. ‘I seem to have lost the ability to make small talk. Ignore me.’

He sighs and shakes his head. ‘No worries,’ he says.

Oh, this feels awful, awkward. Jonah taps the edge of a beer mat against the table, a nervous beat. He’s musical down to his bones, a self-taught pianist and a dabbler in who knows how many other instruments besides. It was always his thing when we were kids. Freddie wasn’t musical at all, except for one brief summer when he decided he was going to be a rock star. It faded as quickly as it began, but every now and then he’d come across his old Fender in the loft and for a few minutes he’d think he was Brian May.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Jonah says, suddenly decisive, his hand a brief squeeze on my shoulder as he gets to his feet. I almost reach out to stop him because it’s on my mind that I should attempt to hold out some kind of olive branch; I told Freddie I’d try not an hour ago. I open my mouth to say something, anything, and then we all look up, distracted, as Deckers approaches our table. He was one of the troublesome kids when we were all at school, small and scrappy, probably the bane of the staffroom. I haven’t really spoken to him very much in recent years, and he’s awkward now as he puts a glass down in front of me. I look at him, noticing the twin spots of embarrassed colour on his cheeks, at odds with his usual cocksure attitude. Then I look at the drink he’s placed down: a spirit of some sort, I’d say, vodka or gin over ice. No mixer. I don’t know if that’s because he feels I need something strong or because he can’t imagine why anyone would willingly dilute alcohol.

He doesn’t say anything and for a horrible moment he looks like he might cry.

‘Thank you,’ I all but whisper, and he nods, once and sharp, then saunters back towards the fruit machine, rolling his shoulders.

‘Another free drink,’ Elle says, making light. ‘You can come with us again.’

I raise a shaky smile and Jonah takes the opportunity to leave us and head for the bar.

I pick up the tumbler and sniff it. ‘Vodka, I think.’

Deckers looks our way from the safety of the fruit machine, so I do the polite thing and throw half down my throat. Jesus, it’s strong, my eyes are smarting.

Placing the glass down, I look at Elle. ‘My teeth have gone numb,’ I say.

She half laughs, half huffs. ‘Won’t do you any harm.’

‘It’s barely midday and I’m drinking neat vodka,’ I murmur.

At that moment, Boner appears beside our table, lanky and rail thin. A very similar tableau plays out: an unidentified drink for me, a nod of the head.

‘Thank you, er, Boner,’ I say, sounding like someone’s prim aunt.

David picks up his beer and I see him try to hide his smirk in it. Boner breathes a sigh of relief and beats a hasty retreat.

‘What’s funny?’ I mutter.

‘It just sounded odd, you calling him Boner.’

‘What else was I supposed to call him?’

‘Pete? It’s what most people call him these days.’

Shit. ‘Freddie always called him Boner, I’m sure of it,’ I say, hot-faced.

‘It is his nickname. It’s just … I don’t know. A lads’ thing. He couldn’t control himself around girls when he was a kid, always used to get –’ David breaks off as if he’s trying to decide how to phrase it delicately.

‘I get the picture,’ I butt in, and we both stare down at our drinks. Elle is rummaging in her bag for something to do and David is far too nice to laugh at my embarrassment.

‘I can’t drink these,’ I say, changing the subject, and then I groan under my breath as yet another of Freddie’s friends brings me a short. Duffy, the tight accountant. The fact that he’s so tight makes the gesture somehow even more significant.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says, funeral-director formal. It’s a phrase I’d happily petition to have struck from the English language, but I know he means well.

‘Thank you, that’s kind,’ I say, and he melts away, his duty done.

I get it. They’re paying their respects. These were the guys who cheered beside Freddie at the football and who formed an unofficial guard of honour outside the church at his funeral. These drinks are for Freddie Hunter rather than me.

I line the drinks up, wondering in desperation whether it would be a terrible plan to put them all in one glass and down it in one go. When I look up, I catch Jonah’s eye across the pub and he holds my gaze for a few seconds, whether in amusement or sympathy, I can’t tell.

Thankfully, the free-drinks parade seems to have ended; the fruit-machine crew have probably realized that a girl has her limits, or perhaps they’re worried I might get overemotional and make a scene.