The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(55)

‘Balls,’ Kate murmurs, coming to stand beside me.

I eye the empty seat, and the guy sitting alone at the table, fidgeting. It’s embarrassing enough to be stood up in public, a double slap at an organized dating event you’ve actually paid to attend.

‘Jump in, would you?’ Kate says, matter of fact.

I laugh, and then I realize she means it.

‘I … I really can’t, Kate,’ I say.

‘It’d be a big help,’ she says. ‘I can’t get things started with an odd number.’ Her tone is businesslike; she’s not asking me to be romantic, just to help keep the event I’ve booked and she’s running on track. I look at the empty chair, feeling a bit desperate. All I have to do is make my way around the room and sit in silence; I guess I can manage that. I spend a fair amount of time alone, God knows I’m well practised. Then inspiration strikes: if we pull Ryan out it’ll balance up the numbers. I scan the tables and spot him across the room. He’s facing towards me, but he isn’t looking at me – his gaze is already fixed on the girl opposite him. My heart sinks. I can’t do it; he’s radiating sunshine-hope so bright I can feel the heat of it from here. Kate must sense I’m wavering, because she places a hand low on my back.

‘It’s just silence,’ she whispers. ‘Tune out and think about your inbox.’

She doesn’t actually push me forward, but her hand on my back is a very definite ‘help me out here’ nudge all the same. I sigh, and she takes it as reluctant acceptance.

‘You’re a trooper,’ she says.

How the bloody hell did this happen, I wonder grouchily, even as my feet carry me across the room. I don’t want to do this. I really don’t want to do this. I can’t imagine anything worse than throwing myself into the dating scene this way, silent or not. It’s been fourteen months now since the accident, and I haven’t so much as thought of another man in that way. I can’t.

As I pull the chair out, I don’t look guy number one in the eye. Even as I ease my bum on to the chair, I still can’t do it. He’s paid to look into the shiny eyes of hope and romance, and he’s getting two reluctant minutes of cynicism and despair instead. Up at the front of the room, Kate tells us our wait is over: the time has arrived to look into the eyes of the potential love of our lives. But I know she’s wrong. However long or short my life turns out to be, I’ll never love anyone more than I loved Freddie Hunter.

Okay. I can do this. I sit on my trembling hands as I look up. I digested enough of Kate’s spiel to know we’re able to do whatever feels right as long as we don’t break the silence rule. Hand gestures (not lewd) are permitted, smiling is good; we can even hold hands if the mood takes us. It won’t. The guy opposite looks at me in a disinterested way that suggests I’m not really his type. That’s fine, he wouldn’t be mine either. If I had to guess his age, I’d go for twenty-one at most; he looks fresh out of uni and as if he hasn’t quite learned the grown-up ropes yet. I’m not offended by his none-too-polite boredom, nor by the way he bites his already chewed-to-the-quick fingernails to pass some time. Okay, I am a little bit offended by that. As the minute stretches into two I throw a tight, apologetic, I-could-be-your-mother smile across the table, and he throws me a shrug back. It’s safe to say number one won’t be ticking the box to get my details afterwards.

Number two is closer to my age, and as soon as I sit down I sense he’s competitive. He sits bone still and eyeballs me as if we’re in a staring contest; it’s more adversarial than romantic. He reminds me of someone who might take part in one of those extreme survival shows, a buzz cut and camo T-shirt. I can’t look away. I’m unreasonably irritated by him, and if we were able to speak I’d advise him to lighten up a little if he wants any matches tonight, because he’s coming off a little bit Norman Bates. I don’t get even the smallest hint of who he is from his hard stare, but then I don’t think he has the measure of me either. It’s a long two minutes.

Three, four and five all fall into the same here-for-the-beer category. They’re clearly mates – they keep checking out who each other is with and I’m almost sure they’re scoring people out of five under the table on their fingers. They’re back-seat-of-the-bus boys, taking their life cues from reruns of The Inbetweeners.

I want to take number six home to my mum so she can feed him up: he looks lonely and in need of a decent meal. I could see his nipples through his too-thin polyester shirt; it’s not a great look. Who buys mint-green shirts? And, worse, pairs them with a Back to the Future novelty tie? This guy. Halfway in, he fishes in his pockets and pulls out a packet of kids’ sweets, Chewits, I think. I politely decline and watch him make a slow show of unwrapping one, then he chews it just as slowly and stares at me through his gold-rimmed glasses. It’s like being in a nature documentary. I can almost hear David Attenborough’s hushed voiceover as he explains the bizarre mastication mating call of humans.

This isn’t so hard, really. I guess it’s because I’m not romantically invested in the evening, but it feels almost farcical as I nod farewell to Chewit-man and take a seat at the next table.

I can tell number seven is tall even though he’s seated, and there is a capable ranginess to his shoulders. He’s Viking dirty-blond and his pale-grey eyes telegraph gentle amusement, as if he somehow took a wrong turn at the bar and found himself here by mistake. I don’t belong here either, I think, sitting up a little straighter when he leans ever so slightly inwards. I don’t know why number seven feels different to the others. He’s less easy to dismiss; there’s something in his gaze that resonates with me. He isn’t a back-of-the-bus kid, and I doubt he’s eaten Chewits for at least a decade. He’s a man, no hint of boyishness left. I’d say he’s got a few years on me, five or so, and I can’t help glancing at his hand to check for a wedding band or signs of a recently removed one. He catches me looking and shakes his head slightly in answer to my question, then glances at my left hand in return. It’s bare. These days I keep Freddie’s engagement ring on a chain around my neck, always close even if it’s not on my finger. After a couple of seconds holding the Viking’s gaze, I wordlessly shake my head to confirm that no, there’s no one waiting for me at home. He’s perceptive enough to read my complicated expression and he frowns a little, and then he breaks one of Kate’s cardinal rules and almost inaudibly asks if I’m okay. His unexpected kindness triggers something in the deepest, darkest recesses of my soul; it feels like the spluttering rumble of a rusty engine being turned over. It takes a few moments for me to recognize it for what it is: sparks. Terrifying, completely unexpected sparks.