The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(44)

‘I took it off the jumper this morning.’ He bites his lip. ‘Wanted it to be in the box.’

I fold my fingers around it and a sob rises sharply up my windpipe, urgent and unwilling to stay down, and I find I can’t put a brave face on it.

‘Oh, love,’ Mum says, moving to stand behind me with her arms wrapped around my shoulders. She bends to kiss my cheek. ‘We didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I know.’ The words catch on my gulping breath.

‘Did we do the wrong thing?’

‘No,’ I say, because even if they did it was with the best of intentions. ‘Yes, maybe. Oh, I don’t even know.’ I cry because I can’t not and no one says anything. Elle holds my hand, tears rolling silently down her cheeks too. She’s a fixer; I know it kills her that she can’t fix this for me.

David puts the things back in the box and closes the lid.

‘Another day, maybe,’ he says. I nod, but I don’t reply because all I can think is that sometimes we don’t get that luxury, and I burn with an inner rage that has no way to extinguish itself. It’s always with me these days, to a greater or lesser degree. Right now, it’s consuming me, so I make my excuses as soon as possible and leave.

It’s eleven in the evening now and I’ve drunk the best part of a bottle of wine and watched a so-so movie on TV and successfully managed to avoid all the jangly, streamer-ridden NYE live specials. Even Turpin has chosen to spend time with me tonight; since his arrival here a few months back I could count the number of nights he’s stayed under my roof on the fingers of my hands. He appears sometimes for food when I get in from work, but by all accounts he’s taken a shine to Agnes, my neighbour a few doors down. I know for a fact she feeds him, I saw her buying cat food in the corner shop and she doesn’t have a cat. I’ve spotted him sleeping on her front windowsill too – on the inside. I’m not offended. He didn’t make me any promises at the shelter, in fact he gave me fair warning. But tonight it’s like he knows I need a friend. Even if it is a mangy and mostly disinterested one.

All in all, I’m pretty proud of how I’ve handled myself today. I woke this morning with a knot of sickly dread in my stomach, but I’m ending the night in a mellow, reflective mood. I’m not taking a pink pill tonight. I’ve gone back and forth in my head on this endlessly over the last couple of weeks, and much as a big part of me would like to, I just don’t think I’m emotionally up to it – it’s too big an ask of my fragile heart and I’m reluctantly aware of the need to take care of my mental health. Besides, NYE is only ever what you make it: the momentous passing from an old year into a new one, or just another day. I wrap my dressing gown tighter around me as I turn out the lamps and head for the stairs. It’s just another day.

I’ve only been in bed for ten minutes when someone knocks on my front door. I’ve not taken a sleeping pill, but the wine has relaxed me enough to make me momentarily wonder if I’ve somehow slipped from world to world anyway. I flick on the lamp and everything is exactly as it was when I closed my eyes. The room has none of Freddie’s clutter, it’s still this side of midnight and someone is absolutely, definitely banging on my front door. Panic twists through my gut. Elle? Has something happened with the baby? Mum? I’m gasping, running for the door, dreading opening it even as I shout out to whoever’s on the other side to hang on, I’m coming. Please not the baby. Please not my sister. I barely register that I’m speaking the words out loud. Please not my mum. I can’t lose anyone else. I throw the bolt with fumbling fingers and fling the door open.

‘Jonah?’

Jonah Jones is leaning against the doorframe clutching a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the doorframe is holding him up.

‘What is it? Is it Elle?’ I garble, staring at him, clutching the lapels of my dressing gown.

Jonah looks confused, almost in pain as he tries to decipher my words. And then he understands and his expression shifts towards self-loathing.

‘Shit, Lyds,’ he says, scrubbing his hands over his face. ‘No. No, it’s nothing like that. Elle and David are fine, everyone’s fine, I saw them at the pub just now. God, I’m sorry. What a thoughtless twat banging your door like that, tonight of all nights.’

He cuts a defeated figure on my doorstep, and now my heart rate has steadied again I’m able to speak without gasping.

‘What are you doing here, Jonah?’

He turns his back against the wall and looks at the sky.

‘I’ve got no fucking idea,’ he says, and a single tear slides down his cheek.

‘Come inside,’ I say, but he shakes his head and stays rooted to the spot.

‘Can’t,’ he says, his screwed-up face a study of torment. ‘There’s too much Freddie in there for me tonight. I came here because of him, and now I’m too much of a pissing coward to come inside because he’s everywhere in there.’ He circles the bottle towards the door.

‘Jonah, you’ve been here enough times over the months since the accident.’ I keep my voice low and steady because I can see how distressed he is. ‘It’s okay. Come in, let me make you some coffee.’

‘But it’s New Year’s Eve.’ One side of his mouth lifts in the saddest of smiles. ‘You can’t drink coffee on New Year’s Eve, Lydia, it’s against the rules.’ He’s slurring a little, drunk enough to not be able to keep the words in, but not so drunk as to not know what he’s saying. ‘I can’t sit in his house, on his sofa, with his girlfriend. Not tonight. Not me.’