The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(37)

I’ve had one too many drinks. We all have. The measures in this place are huge, and it seems you can take the boy out of the foam party but you can’t take the foam party out of the boy: Ryan’s had us all sinking J?gerbombs, a first for Julia and Bruce, and I suspect for Phil and Susan too. I’ve never been a great fan and it’s not Jonah’s bag either, but given the fact that Ryan appeared with a tray of eight shot glasses and the glint of challenge in Olivia’s eye, we all knocked them back in one eye-watering salut.

In truth, I’ve enjoyed myself far more than I expected to tonight, so much so that I feel almost guilty about it. God, I’ve laughed. Jonah has too, both of us euphoric on the alcohol, giddy on the company, carried along by the music. There is a lightness to my mood that I want to cling to like a raft on a dark ocean, a reminder of the carefree and unencumbered girl I was before. Is it horribly disloyal of me to say that I feel as if I’ve taken the night off from my own life? I don’t think it is; in fact, I think it’s probably necessary to find a release valve every now and then or risk blowing a gasket.

‘Dance with me!’ Ryan grabs my hand. The DJ’s playing ‘Come on Eileen’, doing all he can to keep the dreaded wedding DJ cliché alive and well. I shake my head, laughing.

‘Not a chance,’ I say, anchoring myself to the chair with both hands. ‘I might fall over.’

Ryan moves on to coercing Susan instead, and Jonah looks at me, smiling.

‘You love dancing,’ he says. ‘You should dance.’

He’s right. I do love dancing. I always have. Elle and I both get it from Mum, who’s always first on any dance floor. I shrug, non-committal, as we watch Ryan and Susan messing around with their arms high in the air. We sit alongside each other, facing the dance floor, his arm warm across the back of my chair.

‘We look like a TV judging panel,’ he says.

I consider the crowd on the dance floor. ‘Who’s your winner?’

The DJ turns down the music and calls Dawn and her husband to the floor, slowing the music right down to their wedding song of choice. Like millions of other couples around the world this year they’ve chosen Ed Sheeran to welcome them into wedded bliss, and as the opening bars play the DJ asks everyone to join the happy couple. It’s not long before Jonah and I are pretty much the only people still sitting down; even Ryan and Olivia are up there. He’s probably going to regret this in the morning, but for now he seems to have thrown caution to the wind because she has her tongue far enough down his throat to know whether he’s had his tonsils removed.

Phil ruffles my hair as Susan pulls him past us to join the dancers, a simple fatherly gesture that says more than words could. I watch them for a moment, and the affection I hold for them brings a lump to my throat.

Jonah looks at me, and I’m sure he can see the battle going on in my head. I don’t know what’s worse – the idea of dancing or being the only people in the room not dancing.

‘Come on,’ he says eventually, helping me up.

He holds me lightly, linking his fingers through mine, his other hand on my back.

‘It’s only dancing,’ he whispers, the ghost of a smile on his lips. We don’t speak as we move slowly amongst the other dancers. I see Dawn and her proud new husband, oblivious to everyone around them, their sleeping son on his father’s hip. I have to look away, it’s too hard.

‘Hey,’ Jonah says when I swallow a shudder of tears, his mouth close to my ear as he gathers me against him. ‘I know, Lyds. I know.’

I’m trying not to cry, but I’m not making the best job of it. It’s just so bloody unfair.

‘God, Jonah,’ I gulp, pressing my face into his shirt. He’s so physically different to Freddie; taller, lithe. My head fits easily beneath his chin even in my heels, and the familiar, understated amber-warm spice of his cologne reassures me.

‘I miss Freddie, and I miss dancing, and I miss love.’

He doesn’t answer me, because there aren’t really any appropriate words. We barely even pretend to dance any more. We stand still and hold each other in the moment as everyone moves around us. He shushes me, quiet, unintelligible words as he strokes my hair, and I try to offer him similar comfort because I remember how he looks in my other life: joyful, free of guilt, the bruises beneath his eyes nowhere in evidence. Here in my waking life he’s as damp-cheeked and heartsore as I am, as lost and in need of a shoulder. I hold him to me and hope we can help each other find the way home.





Saturday 17 November


‘And this is the barn,’ Victoria says, opening a huge pair of wooden doors with a flourish. Victoria is the wedding organizer at the place we’ve chosen to hold our wedding, a rustic country inn with a converted barn. We’re standing on the threshold of that very barn right now. Pale winter sunlight streams in through the high windows, illuminating tiny dust motes in the air. My romantic heart sees glitter.

‘It’s dressed ready for a wedding tomorrow,’ Victoria says, referring to the thick red and gold garlands around the faded old rafters. ‘Winter theme, obviously. Next month it’ll be wall-to-wall Christmas weddings, but it’s best of all in the summer. We fill it with wild-flower arrangements and hundreds of white fairy lights, a real midsummer night’s dream.’

‘I love it,’ I breathe. I must have been here before in this life – I expect we’ll have looked at various venues before deciding on this as the perfect place for our wedding. I silently congratulate myself. I can’t imagine anywhere more us. ‘It honestly couldn’t be more perfect.’