The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(46)

‘Must be midnight,’ Jonah breathes, getting unsteadily to his feet, pulling me up with him.

We stand there shoulder to shoulder on my front step and watch the night sky burst into life, colour and light, while the poignant strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ strike up through the open window at the house party across the street.

Should old acquaintance be forgot. I listen to the familiar words, tears sliding down my cheeks. And never brought to mind. Freddie is never far from my mind, I think, feeling myself start to crumble. This is exactly the reason I didn’t want to go out tonight. I didn’t want to hear this song. I didn’t want to feel these feelings. And now I am and it’s every bit as wretched as I knew it would be.

Jonah and I lean against each other, tearful, holding our silence until the mournful song ends and Happy New Year cheers ring in 2019.

‘I can’t say it, Lyds,’ Jonah says, forlorn. I hear the tremor in his voice and my heart breaks afresh for the first time this year.

I bite my wobbling lip. I can’t bring myself to say those hopeful words either.

‘I’m going to make coffee,’ I say. ‘Come inside?’

‘I shouldn’t have come.’ He dashes his hands over his eyes and shakes his head. ‘It’s not helping either of us, Lyds.’

It cuts me. Our friendship is a small wooden boat that’s been tossed around on towering storm waves since the accident, smashed into time and time again by anger and grief and relentless frustration. Sometimes we’ve crested the wave, clutching each other’s hands for dear life, other times we’ve been hurled to the depths and wondered if the only way to survive is to throw the other overboard to lighten the load. It feels tonight as if Jonah has finally made his choice: this boat isn’t going to make it safely home with both of us aboard.

‘Sorry,’ he says. I guess he knows it was hard to hear.

‘You’re probably right,’ I sigh, pulling my dressing gown tight around my cold, cold body. Across the street people spill out of the party on to the pavement, a blur of lights and singing and raucous laughter, and the cat takes his chance to shoot out of the house for his preferred choice a few doors down.

‘I need to get out of here,’ Jonah whispers, hollow-eyed. He looks ill, as if he might throw up. And then he’s gone, jogging and then running, putting as much distance between us and our sorrow as quickly as he can.

I move back into the shadows of the house, into my silent, lonely hallway, and sit on the bottom step of the staircase, my head resting against the wall. It’s nine months now since Freddie died. In nine months I could have grown a whole new human. I didn’t though; I lost my favourite human in the world instead, and now, inevitably, I’ve gone and lost one of my oldest friends too.





2019




* * *





Thursday 3 January


I’ve holed myself up at home and lied to my family that I’ve got a rotten case of sickness and diarrhoea to stop them from coming to visit me. It wouldn’t usually keep them at bay, but Elle’s being careful because of the baby and Mum and Auntie June have gone for their customary kick-off-the-new-year-in-style spa weekend. They tried to cajole me into going, hence the fictitious bug I don’t want to pass around like a belated Christmas prezzie.

I’ve missed Freddie intensely these last few days. The times I get to see him are magical, but I’ve missed him keenly here in my long waking hours. I look at my watch. I’ve been up for a couple of hours but it’s still only eight thirty in the morning, barely light. I’m going to force myself into basic self-care in a while: take a shower, heat up some soup, watch the last remnants of holiday TV. I’ve been wallowing since New Year, unable or unwilling to scoop myself up. I’m kind enough to myself to acknowledge that perhaps I needed to go low, an inevitable reaction to the high emotion of the holiday season, but it can’t go on. I have to show up for work, and for life, on Monday, so I need to clean myself up, eat, maybe even put a wash on and drag the hoover around. I tried to call Elle just now. She didn’t answer; morning sickness has kicked in over the last couple of days, so she’s probably sleeping.

I sit in the corner of the sofa and pull my knees into my chest. I daren’t call Jonah, not after the way we left things on New Year’s Eve. He was right, I know – it doesn’t help either of us to be around each other any more. I honestly don’t know if that will ever change, a thought that makes me rest my chin on my knees, weary. There’s no getting away from it. I’m deeply lonely. My eyes settle on the pill bottle on the mantelpiece and my resolve to spend the day doing productive things evaporates, because there’s a place I can go where I won’t feel so alone.





Thursday 3 January


This isn’t our bed. This isn’t our bedroom. I lie perfectly still in the shaded grey morning light, my eyes sliding over the ornate plaster roses on the high ceiling above us and the full-length silk curtains drawn across the windows. Freddie is sprawled out on the pillows beside me, one arm flung over his face as it so often is when he sleeps. I take a moment to study him in this half-light; he’s fast out, his mouth slightly open, his eyes flickering beneath his eyelids as if he’s dreaming.

Where are we? I’ve never seen this elegant room before. It’s far too grand to be the spare room of anyone we know; there’s no Ikea furniture in here, for starters. It’s a hotel, I’m sure of it.