The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(49)

‘Time to go,’ he says, his arm around my shoulder. I take one long, last look at the candles over my shoulder as we reach the doorway. Two tall white cenotaphs. One for a much-missed father, one for his beloved son.

‘This place?’

We pause outside a tiny corner cafe, its emerald-and-gold-striped awnings bowed heavy with snow. It’s busy inside, but the outside tables are sheltered from the weather, so I nod and home in on a spot near the glow of a space heater. Freddie orders moules-frites, but for me it has to be hot chocolate and a cinnamon pastry. I know, croissants for breakfast and pastries for lunch, but I’m in Paris, after all. For a few minutes we sit and thaw out, watching the city slide by, drinking it all in. The traffic crawls slowly thanks to the inclement weather, and the people who pass us by are hunkered down into their jackets and scarves against the swirling snow.

I look away from the scene to Freddie’s appreciative smile as the waiter places his lunch down. His eyes light up at the sight of his food, the rich scent of wine and garlic on the air. How I wish I could preserve us just as we are right now inside a snow globe, two miniature for-ever lovers having lunch beneath the striped awning of a Parisian cafe. It’s one of those press-pause moments, the kind of unexpected perfect you only get a handful of, and because no one knows to appreciate those moments more than me, I do. I press pause in my head and commit it all to memory, every last detail. The exact pattern of the metal lattice chairs, the particular shade of blue of Freddie’s scarf, the tiny ceramic floral motif on the heavy silver cutlery, the bronze sugar crust on my pastry. And then, as if to remind me there’s no such thing as perfect, my mobile rattles on the tabletop and a message flashes in from David.

Sorry to bother you on holiday, Lydia, but I thought you’d want to know this straight away. Elle lost the baby. She’s okay – well, as well as she can be, she’s sleeping now. Call me when you can. X





Thursday 3 January


I jolt upright on the sofa, my heart racing far too fast to be healthy, as out of breath as if I’ve run to catch the last train. I grab for my mobile and scan it quickly, but there are no missed calls or messages. I brave Facebook and see the green online dot next to Elle’s name, so I fire off a quick message to check she’s okay in as vague a way as possible. She replies almost straight away: she knows it’s early days but do I fancy pushchair shopping next weekend?

The relief. I slump back against the cushions. Up to now the sleeping visits have been my saving grace, my way back, my sanity and my sanctuary. But this … Elle. I somehow hadn’t imagined that bad stuff, really bad stuff, might happen there too.





Sunday 6 January


‘How is she?’ I ask, making David a coffee because he looks knackered. Elle’s in the shower so I take the opportunity to find out how she really is before she tells me that she’s fine.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table and rubs his fingers over his eyes. ‘Not too bad, mostly,’ he says. ‘She was upset this morning, but she ate some of the soup your mum brought round.’

I know I resolved to take the pills less frequently, but I couldn’t stay away when I know what my sister is going through. I spoke to Mum briefly on the way here and she’s worrying herself sick about them both. Their faces on Christmas Day, their joy, and now this. It’s so cruel.

‘And you?’ I say, wrapping my arms around David’s shoulders.

‘I wanted to call him Jack, after my dad,’ he says. ‘If it was a boy.’

He leans his head into the crook of my arm and, to my distress, he cries. We stay like that for a couple of minutes, and then he reaches for the tea towel and swipes it over his eyes.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t expect that to happen.’

I squeeze his shoulder. ‘Don’t feel like you always have to be the strong one,’ I say, because I know he’ll have been holding it together for Elle.

We turn at the sound of my sister coming downstairs. She’s wearing plain navy cotton PJs, and her wet hair is brushed back from her colourless face. She looks about fourteen years old.

‘Hiya,’ she smiles. ‘You didn’t need to come, I told you not to worry. Mum’s been here, and David’s mum this morning too.’

‘I know,’ I say. I want to hug her or something but she’s flitting from job to job, straightening cups, replenishing the kitchen-roll holder, emptying the dishwasher. I don’t push the issue because I’ve been where she is – heartbroke brittle, not wanting people to touch me in case I lose it. ‘I won’t stay too long.’

‘Why don’t you two go through and watch a bit of telly?’ David says. ‘I’ll bring you a cuppa.’ He looks to me for back-up.

I nod. ‘Sounds good.’

Elle follows me into their living room. She went through a nautical phase when she decorated it, all cream and blue washed-out stripes with muted orange accents. She’s quite like Mum in her decorating tastes, I’m definitely the loose bohemian cannon. I sit in the corner of the sofa and for a second she stands on the rug in the middle of the room, one bare foot behind her ankle, unsure what to do. I open my arms and instantly her face crumples and she curls into the side of me on the sofa, crying her harrowed heart out. Hot tears burn the backs of my eyes as I hold her tight, wishing she felt less fragile as she heaves and shudders because the bottom has fallen out of her world. There isn’t a damn thing I can say that will help her right now, so I don’t try to find any words. I just clutch my lovely sister to me as she sobs.