The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(34)

‘You should probably choose a different chair,’ I say, aware that Freddie would spit his teeth out at the sight of a cat in his favourite spot.

Nothing. No reaction. Just an obstinate bum.

‘Turpin.’ I test out saying his name with quiet authority and he completely ignores me. ‘Hey there, Turpin,’ I say, Disney chipper. Still nothing. I lay a hand on his back and he does something; I don’t know if it’s a purr or a low growl. I want to say the former; I rather fear the latter. I sigh and try not to feel as if I’ve made a mistake. It’s early days.





Sunday 30 September


Oh my bloody God, what are we doing at a gym? This is one area of our lives where Freddie and I were sharply divided, as in he loved it and I’d rather skewer my own eyeballs than try to stay upright on a running machine. It’s just not something we generally did together; he used the gym at work and I used the gym nowhere, and I feel the no-joint-exercise approach has suited us perfectly well. Who in their right mind does this on a Sunday afternoon?

‘Okay?’ Freddie asks, his hand firm on the small of my back.

Maybe I can suggest we do something else.

‘Umm …’

He laughs. ‘You can’t get cold feet now we’re here, Lyds, just stick to the running machine as usual if you like. You’re getting almost good at it.’

A shiver of irritation slides over me at the tone of his voice, together with the realization that I’ve been coming here for a while now. Am I here on a wedding fitness kick? Or do I genuinely enjoy the gym in this world? I find that a stretch to believe. I swallow and glance around, trying to find something unthreatening to use that isn’t the running machine, but I don’t have the confidence to try any of it out. Fine. I’ll get on the bloody running machine and make out like I love it. I breathe a sigh of relief when I manage to set it to a sedate jog, my eyes on Freddie’s back across the other side of the gym as I find my pace.

‘How’s it going today, Lydia?’

A guy who can’t be over twenty pauses beside me. I’m grateful he’s wearing a name tag that singles him out as Martin, fitness instructor.

‘Yeah, good,’ I say. ‘Just putting in some miles.’

What am I saying? Just putting in some miles? I think he stifles a snort as he glances at the metrics on my machine. I’ll be here a while if I want to put in some miles.

‘Warming up a bit first,’ I mutter, hot-cheeked.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Always best.’

He walks away, and after a few negative thoughts I find strange solace in the fact that things can be less than perfect here too. My life with Freddie wasn’t all halcyon days and honeysuckle around the door, so why should everything here be rose-tinted? One thing’s for sure: if this place was a figment of my imagination, we wouldn’t be spending Sunday afternoon at the bloody gym. I grit my teeth and crank up the speed on the running machine, pounding frustration and confusion out through the soles of my feet until I break into a hitherto unheard of exercise-related sweat.

An odd thing happens when we leave the gym. I had the car keys in my pocket, and as I reverse out of the car park Freddie rolls his head against the headrest and looks at me.

‘What have I done wrong, Lyds?’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘You were fine on the way to the gym, and then once we were there you acted as if it was the last place you wanted to be. And now this.’ He gestures at the steering wheel.

‘What?’

He huffs. ‘You. Making a point of driving home.’

I glance across at him in the passenger seat and he looks suddenly all kinds of out of place and confused, and I realize that to him I must have had a bit of a Jekyll-and-Hyde moment this afternoon. Note to self for future visits here: take a second to read the situation more carefully before jumping in with both feet.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘if I was a bit pissy back there. I didn’t mean anything – you know I’m not the biggest gym fan.’ I wince inwardly in case I am a gym bunny here, but Freddie doesn’t react. I’d have been more surprised if he had, to be honest.

‘I’m sorry too. You know I’m not the best passenger.’ He reaches over and flicks my indicator on and I bite back the urge to slap his hand away.

Back at home I’m making us a cuppa, and the simple action of reaching for two mugs again instead of one takes my breath. I’m coming to realize that there’s a price to pay for these moments; I’ll pay for this one the very next time I make a single cup of tea.

‘Bath’s ready, stroppy,’ Freddie says, sliding his arms around me from behind.

I lean back against him, smiling. ‘Tea’s ready, control freak.’

‘I just know what I like.’ He laughs it off, then nuzzles my neck. ‘And I like you.’

‘Lucky me,’ I say, and I mean it.

‘You know it.’

He earns himself an elbow in the ribs for that one.

‘Call me if you need me to wash your back,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to shout loud, though, I might put the game on.’

I turn to face him, going along with it. ‘You mean rugby’s more tempting than me?’

His mouth twists as he thinks about it. ‘It’s Bath, babe.’