The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(16)

Saturday 12 May


‘Feeling better now?’

I wasn’t going to take another pill. I limped through to eight o’clock and then caved in, washing one down as I climbed into bed for an early night.

And now I’ve woken up on the sofa with my head on Freddie’s lap. He’s absently smoothing my hair while he watches some police drama on TV, and I’ve obviously been snoozing off the remains of my headache.

I flip on to my back. ‘Think so,’ I say, catching hold of his hand.

‘You’ve missed half of this,’ he says. ‘Shall I rewind it?’

I glance at the screen, but I’ve no clue what show it is so I shake my head.

‘You were snoring like a beast, Lyds,’ he says, laughing under his breath. It’s his running joke: he always tells me I snore loudly and I always deny it. I don’t think I snore at all, he just says it to wind me up.

‘I bet Keira Knightley snores,’ I say.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Nah. She probably sighs softly, like a …’

‘Trucker?’ I suggest.

‘Kitten,’ he says.

‘Kittens don’t sigh,’ I say. ‘They bite your toes when you sleep.’

Freddie considers it for a second. ‘I quite like the idea of Keira Knightley biting my toes.’

‘She’d have super-sharp teeth,’ I say. ‘It’d hurt.’

‘Hmm,’ he frowns. ‘You know I’m not good with pain.’

It’s true. For a big, competitive man, Freddie is a real wimp when he’s hurt.

‘Maybe I better stick with you,’ he says. ‘Keira sounds too much like hard work.’

I lift his hand up and place my own against it, palm to palm, noticing how much bigger his is.

‘Even if I snore like a hog?’

He laces his fingers with mine. ‘Even if you snore like a field full of hogs.’

I bring his hand to my face and kiss his fingers. ‘That’s not very romantic, you know,’ I say.

He pauses the show he’s watching and looks down at me, his blue eyes amused.

‘How about if I say you’re a very pretty hog?’

I twist my mouth, thinking, then shake my head. ‘Still not romantic.’

He nods slowly. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Not a hog at all?’

‘Bit better,’ I say, hanging out for more, trying not to smile as I pull myself up to sit in his lap, my legs stretched out on the sofa.

Freddie holds my chin and looks me deep in the eyes. ‘If you’re a hog, I’m a hog.’

I burst out laughing. I’ve clearly made him watch The Notebook too many times for him to bust out that line.

‘You have no idea how much I love you, Freddie Hunter,’ I say, and then I show him how much with my kiss, and I make myself a promise. This place, wherever – whatever – it is, is beautiful, and for however long it lasts, I’m going to make the most of every single moment.





Sunday 20 May


Someone’s ringing my doorbell. My gaze slides to the clock, irritated at being interrupted doing nothing. Yes, it’s turned midday and I’m still in my PJs, but hey, it’s Sunday. Plus, I have actually had a shower. Frankly, I’d like to lie here like a statue until the sofa digests me. That can actually happen, I’ve seen it on morning TV: the chemicals in your sofa eat you alive if you lie on it for long enough. I indulge in a not wholly unpleasant daydream where the sofa opens up like a big fabric Venus flytrap and swallows me whole, but I don’t have the luxury of letting it happen; Elle’s peering at me through the bay window and from the way she’s rummaging in her bag I can tell she’s looking for her keys to let herself in. I didn’t actually give my mother or Elle a key to my house. One of them must’ve appropriated the spare in the raw days following the accident, and evidently they’ve had copies cut so that any number of people can swan in and interrupt my wallowing whenever they feel the need.

I sit up and try to arrange my face into a less morose expression as Elle deposits her bags in the hall and calls out a hello.

‘In here,’ I say, forcing a brightness I don’t feel into my voice.

‘Didn’t you hear the door?’ Elle sticks her head round the doorframe as she takes off her boots. I don’t expect people to take their boots off when they come in, for the record. It’s just a habit that’s been drummed into us both by our mother, ever since she installed a cream carpet in our childhood home. ‘I rang twice.’

‘Dozing,’ I say, giving myself a little pull-it-together shake as I stand up. ‘You caught me.’

Elle’s face falls. ‘You didn’t sleep so well last night?’

‘On and off,’ I say. The truthful answer is barely. I don’t want to take the pills to help me sleep at night because visiting my other life when everyone there is sleeping feels like a waste. I did it the other night, and oh my word yes, it was all kinds of lovely to watch Freddie sleep, but on balance I crave his time and his words and his waking love. I’ve become a nocturnal animal, awake with Freddie when I should be asleep, trying to sleep when I should be awake. I don’t explain any of this to Elle though; if I tell her I’ve found a back door to a universe where Freddie isn’t dead, she’ll think that I’ve been on the Kool-Aid. Or the vodka. Again.