The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(57)

I don’t understand why he’s asking me. For a horrible second I think he’s about to falteringly declare himself in love with me and I panic, even though I know it’s ridiculous.

‘Only there was a guy in there earlier, and he asked if I’d pass this on to you.’

For a moment I feel like a relieved fool, glad I didn’t jump in and say anything stupid. And then I think about what he’s actually just said and what it actually means, and I go suddenly hot-faced as I look at the folded paper in Ryan’s hand. I swipe it from his fingers as if it’s on fire and shove it in my bag, more to put an end to the conversation than because I want to know what it says.

‘I didn’t read it,’ Ryan says, unconvincing. He can’t even look me in the eye.

‘And I won’t either,’ I say. ‘I’m leaving now.’ And because this exchange can’t possibly get more awkward, I climb in the car and slam the door.

I rev my engine by mistake, furious with myself. I should have just said no when Kate asked me to step in tonight.

Once I’m out of sight of work I take a deliberate wrong turn on to a barely finished housing estate and pull up by the side of the road. The uniform red-brick houses are faceless and pristine, yet to be personalized with cute pairs of bay trees by aspirational newlyweds or with net curtains by the resident busybody establishing their lookout post. My eyes settle on the sign informing me I’m on Wisteria Close, and I narrow my eyes at the obvious attempt to add a little gloss to this bleak corner of nowhere. None the less, the show-home sign boasts of just two empty houses left, so hope clearly abounds around here. I catch myself rolling my eyes, full of cynicism in the face of all this optimism. But I’m prevaricating. I can almost feel a pulse radiating from my bag on the passenger seat, as if the note is holding its breath in anticipation of being flicked open so it can set a chain of events in motion. Even as my fingers reach in and find the edges of it, I consider the option of screwing it up without looking at it. I could open my window and be the first person to ever throw litter in Wisteria Close, except I’m not the kind of person who does that. I get infuriated by those who blithely leave flotsam and jetsam behind, buried cigarettes on the beach or discarded sandwich wrappers in the park. So, telling myself it’s because I’m not that person, I pull the note from my bag and smooth it out flat against the steering wheel.

Hey Lydia,

I noticed you didn’t have a tick sheet so I’m going to hazard a guess that you hadn’t intended to take part tonight. For the record, me neither, really. It’s not my usual thing, but that’s kind of the point – I’m trying to do stuff out of my ordinary because doing my usual hasn’t been working out too well for me lately. Anyway. I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime, or tea, or a vegan chai-latte-skinnydip, if that’s your bag. I think I’m ballsing this up and I’m running out of space, so here’s my number. I’d really like to see you again.

Kris



His blue-ink handwriting is neither scruffy nor meticulous, and there are no sign-off smilies or kisses to feel afraid of or scorn at. It’s brief, but as I read it for a second, slower time and hear the words between the lines, I learn several things about Kris. He’s been through a tough time of some kind. I find myself doubting he’s been through as tough a time as I have, and then I instantly feel bad for it. I should know better than to make those kinds of assumptions.

So, I can assume he’s had some sort of hiccup, romantic probably, but going on the fact he turned up alone tonight at a dating event, he’s managed to hang on to his sense of self-assurance, or he’s brave, or a little of both. I don’t add desperate, because actually none of the people at the event tonight seemed particularly desperate. And, lastly, he doesn’t appear to take himself too seriously, if his chai-latte-skinnydip joke is anything to judge him by. It’s all I have to go on, and together with our brief meeting, it’s enough to allow him to slide his bum on to a seat in the waiting room of my life.





Friday 14 June


‘I’m as fat as I’m tall,’ Elle grumbles, flopping on my sofa. ‘I’ll have to stay here until I give birth now. I can’t get up.’

‘You look magnificent,’ I say, ‘all Earth Mother.’ I make mudra signs with my thumbs and index fingers and try to look yogic.

‘Magnificently round,’ she huffs. ‘Are my feet even still there? I haven’t seen them for a month. And it’s too bloody hot in here.’

I turn away to open a window so she can’t see me laughing. Elle isn’t a glowy, content pregnant woman. She’s a grumpy, demanding one. When I saw David at Mum’s last week he confided that he’s increasingly terrified of her; he described her as occasionally Jekyll but mostly Hyde. Every centimetre their daughter adds to Elle’s waistline reduces her patience threshold accordingly. Mum tried to make David feel better by telling him pregnancy had a similarly temporary psychotic effect on her moods too, but then went on to say how she’d fractured two of my father’s fingers when she twisted his hand during a contraction. If she could have the day I was born over again, I think the only change she’d effect would be to break three. Or four. Or go the whole hog, twist his arm clean out of its socket and scupper his chances of ever becoming a half-competent surfer. Anyway, the point is that poor David now has to add fear of injury during the birth to his already too-long list of worries about Elle and the baby. He’s a planner; he really isn’t keen on situations he can’t control with numbers and damage-limitation lists.