The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(42)

‘Good job I’m not marrying you for your cooking,’ he says.

‘Or my ironing,’ I say. Very little ironing goes on in our house, and the scant amount that does happen is usually done by Freddie.

‘I’m an enlightened man,’ he says.

‘And you give great gifts,’ I say.

‘Jesus, you’re lucky,’ he says, sliding the empty plate on to the table.

I lie back, my head in his lap.

‘Yes.’ I’m smiling as I close my eyes. ‘Yes, I am.’

I’m dozing, in that blissed-out state you only reach at the end of special days with special people. Freddie’s idly playing with my hair, twisting long strands of it around his fingers like a cat’s cradle.

‘Just so you know, Lyds, the answer is yes,’ he whispers. ‘One day, we will have babies. Lots of them. A whole brood, some of them smart like you, some with my big mouth who we’ll be forever defending when they’re in trouble at school.’

For a few precious seconds I can almost see them, almost hear their footsteps on the stairs. Jesus, Freddie Hunter, I think, more asleep than awake. My heart beats for you.





Monday 31 December


Even on the happiest of years, there is always something terrible about New Year’s Eve, isn’t there? All of that forced bonhomie, the hugs and the back-slapping, followed by the inevitable alcohol-induced tears. I’ve resisted all attempts to get me out of the house tonight – I am resolute in my decision to do my very best to forget about the fact that it is New Year’s Eve at all. I won’t be watching Jools Holland bash out ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on the piano with his celebrity friends, and I won’t be listening to Big Ben chime midnight, heralded by fireworks and TV crews, and Freddie won’t be the first person I kiss to bring in the brand-new year. My family are very unhappy with my insistence on being alone at midnight, so much so that I’ve agreed to spend midday with them instead, hence the reason I’m now dragging my feet as I approach my mother’s cheerful red front door. I don’t want to accept that it’s New Year at all, because much as this year has been an endurance test, come tomorrow I’ll have to say Freddie died last year. It distances him from me in a way that is wholly and thoroughly unacceptable and makes me full of rage and tears. Since our Christmas together, I’ve been feeling lower than I have for a while. My waking life just cannot compete.

‘Love,’ my mum says, opening the door before I can raise my hand to knock. ‘Glad you’re here.’

There’s frost on the pavements outside, but it’s comfortingly warm when I step inside Mum’s hallway.

‘Mind the carpet,’ she says, eyeing my winter boots in a way I know means take them off right now before you set even a toe further into this house. I quite like that she still feels the need to remind me, even though it’s as ingrained in me as the days of the week. It’s one of the things I can still rely on. She smiles at my cheery Christmas Robin socks as I line my boots up neatly beside hers on the low wooden bench provided for exactly that purpose. I put the socks on this morning especially for her; she puts stock by small things like that, watches me for signs that I’m doing more than just going through the motions. I am just going through the motions, of course, but for her sake I try to fake it till I make it. Though what happens if you never make it? Do you just keep faking it for ever, until you’re a completely fake person?

Elle and David are already sitting at the kitchen table when I go through.

‘I made you some hot chocolate,’ Elle says, nodding towards the tall snowman cup on the table. It’s piled high with cream and marshmallows and chocolate shavings, the kind of thing you’d pay through the nose for in a cafe on the high street.

‘Is this what we do now you can’t drink?’ I try out a joke.

She pulls a face. ‘Don’t remind me. I’d kill the lot of you for a gin and tonic.’

‘It’s cold out,’ I say, rubbing my hands together. ‘This is perfect.’

‘You can put brandy in it if you want,’ she says, begrudging.

I take a sip. It’s sweet and hot, fine as it is. Besides, I know myself well enough to know I’ll have a couple of glasses of wine before bed tonight. If I start drinking this early, I might not stop until next year and end up a tearful, raddled mess, rocking on my bathroom floor.

‘Has Mum cooked?’ I say, taking advantage of the fact that she hasn’t followed me into the kitchen to try to gauge how long this gathering is likely to take. I’m not being a bitch; I just want to be at home on my own today.

Elle shakes her head. ‘Just sandwiches, I think.’

That’s something.

‘Are you sure you won’t come with us tonight?’ David says, his hands cupped around his mug. ‘We’ve still got a spare ticket, just in case.’

‘We’re not planning on staying too late ourselves,’ Elle adds. ‘You could come back and stay over at ours.’

They’re both looking at me warily, hopeful that I might have a last-minute change of heart and join them at The Prince. We’ve spent New Year’s Eve there for the last few years and it’s always the same. Packed to the rafters, everyone overdressed for a backstreet pub, a haze of familiar faces and dubious drinks pressed into your hands, an undercurrent of barely contained anticipation sweeping everyone towards midnight on a sea of champagne corks and party poppers. I can’t think of anywhere I want to be less tonight.