The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(50)

Thursday 17 January


‘Surely no one does speed dating any more?’ I say. It’s Tupperware central on the lunch table in front of us; I’m still using my old pink box because I find it comforting, despite the fact that Julia bought me a new clear one for Christmas so she didn’t have to look at this pink for a day longer. It’s a relief to be back at work, away from the confusion and sadness in my other world. Seeing Elle so broken sits heavy on my heart; I’ve found myself checking up on her even more here, reassuring myself that she and the baby are fine.

‘Yeah, but it’s not just any old speed dating,’ Ryan grins, peeling the lid off his yogurt and licking it.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Dawn says. ‘Naked speed dating?’

We all laugh, and I really hope she’s wrong. Ryan rolls his eyes.

‘As if,’ he says. ‘I can’t unveil these guns in public, there’d be a riot.’ He kisses his bicep and winks, making us groan.

‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘What’s so special about it?’

‘It’s silent.’

Dawn frowns, opening a packet of Oreos. Now that her wedding is behind her, she’s allowed herself back on the biscuits. ‘So how do you know if you like them or not?’

‘I fell in love with Bruce’s voice before his face,’ Julia says. We don’t laugh, because it’s Julia, and equally we don’t question it, because it’s Julia.

‘You don’t have to, like, touch them instead of speaking, do you?’ I ask, worried what he’s getting himself into.

‘When I was younger, they called that an orgy,’ Phil says, unwrapping a huge sandwich. He always has the best-looking lunch.

Ryan pulls a face that suggests we’re all just so out of touch. ‘Come on, people. What do you take me for? You sort of stare at each other for a few minutes and then move on to the next table and look at them instead.’

Dawn isn’t taken with the idea. ‘So you can’t ask them anything at all?’

‘You’re allowed to make hand gestures.’

‘Because that’s not open to misinterpretation,’ Julia says, sarcastic.

Phil mimes slugging a pint. ‘I’d be fine.’

‘I hope no one does any Elvis-style thrusting.’ Dawn starts to laugh.

We lapse into sandwich silence for a little while, thinking it over. I’m probably the least enthusiastic about my lunch. In an effort to be economical I’ve made tuna and I must have over-mayo’d because it’s definitely on the wrong side of soggy.

‘Where is this dating thing then?’ Phil asks.

We all shoot him a look because we adore Susan.

‘Bloody miles away,’ Ryan said. ‘And it’s my turn to drive, so I can’t even have a drink.’

‘It doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs,’ I say. ‘No talking, no drinking …’

He groans and I pat him on his slumped shoulder.

‘Sounds like the kind of event we could hold in the hall here,’ Phil says, and I realize with relief that his interest was professional, not personal. And then I realize he’s looking at me for my opinion as I’m in charge of our events programme. Ideas have been a little thin on the ground lately, so I give it genuine thought, and I don’t tell him that I’d rather arrange a conference on fungal toenails than spend my days thinking about dating and romance.

‘Maybe,’ I say, non-committal. ‘I’ll look into it.’

‘You could come with us if you like, get a better idea of what happens?’ Ryan says, grimacing before he even ends the sentence because he realizes it probably wasn’t appropriate to offer to take me to a dating event.

Dawn looks away, Phil looks uncomfortable and Julia sighs and makes the universal gesture for wanker with her right hand. It’s so uncharacteristic and out of place on her that we all laugh.

Ryan slowly slides the Babybel his mum always packs in his lunchbox over the table to me. It’s his favourite thing. I pat his hand and push the cheese back towards him with a small smile. He’ll be fine tonight. He’s got this non-verbal communication thing down pat.





Wednesday 13 March


It’s my birthday tomorrow.

Freddie died one year ago tomorrow.

Over the last few days I’ve grown progressively more restless; in some ways it’s almost no different to usual, because I miss him every day, but I’ve started obsessively looking at the clock and thinking back over what I might have been doing this time last year, or working out how many hours of my old life I had left. God, my heart aches for the girl I was and what she was about to go through. What I wouldn’t give to go back and insist Freddie come straight home rather than detour for Jonah.

Mum and Elle want to take me out to dinner tomorrow, but I really can’t do it. I don’t want to mark the day in any way, not as my birthday, in any case. I’m dully aware that my birthday will for ever be marred, not ever really appropriate for celebration. Freddie would be furious with himself if he knew, he always made a big fuss of it – he even sent my mum a ‘thank you’ card on my birthday once for giving birth to me, the silly sod. Mum reminded me of it the other day when we were talking about what to do. I think she was trying to make me feel obliged to get out of the house for Freddie’s sake, a spot of well-intended emotional blackmail to stop me from moping around. It’s okay, I promised her, I’m not going to mope.