The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(6)
A couple of days ago, after I’d forced myself to get dressed and nip round to the off-licence for wine supplies, it occurred to me that I didn’t want to go home. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way about the house since the morning we collected the keys, and another piece of my heart snapped off at the realization that home wasn’t home any more. I could never have conceived of the idea of selling the house, but in that moment I felt cut adrift and I walked in the other direction, two circuits of the children’s play park before I could face going home. And then, curiously, once I was back inside, I didn’t want to leave again. I am a mass of contradictions – it’s no wonder my family are worried to death about me.
It was our house, and now it is mine, though there is little pleasure to be gained from becoming mortgage-free at twenty-eight when I’m Freddie-free too. We both felt as if our financial advisor stitched us up like a pair of kippers on life insurance at the time; the concept of something happening to either of us before the house was paid for seemed ludicrous. How wonderfully lucky we were to feel so secure. I pull myself out of my thoughts, realizing I’m close to tears again. Freddie is looking at me questioningly. ‘Okay now?’ he asks, cupping my jaw, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone.
I nod, turning my face to press my lips into his palm as he kisses the top of my head. ‘That’s my girl,’ he whispers. ‘I love you.’
As undignified as it would be, I want to cling to him, beg him not to leave me again, but I don’t. If this is to be my final memory of us, I want it to seal itself around my heart for all of the best reasons. So I stand up and hold the lapels of his suit jacket and look up into his beautiful, familiar blue eyes.
‘You’re the love of my life, Freddie Hunter,’ I say, forcing the words out clear and true.
He lowers his head and kisses me. ‘I love you more than Keira Knightley.’ He laughs softly as he plays our game.
‘That much, huh?’ I say, rounding my eyes because we usually start low and work our way up – to Keira in his case and Ryan Reynolds in mine.
‘That much,’ he says, blowing me a kiss as he backs out of the bedroom.
Panic rises from my gut, hot and bilious, and I curl my toes into the floorboards to stop myself from running after him. I listen to his footfall on the stairs, the sound of the front door closing, and I run to the bedroom window to watch him half stride, half jog towards the corner. Too late, I open the windows, struggling with the old catches, yelling his name even though I know he won’t hear me. Why did I let him leave? What if I never find him again? I clutch the windowsill, my eyes pinned to his back. I almost expect him to fade away, but he doesn’t. He just rounds the corner, lost to the world, to some corporate coffee client, to the girl on platform 4, to all the places I cannot be.
Friday 11 May
My face is wet and my mouth is caked with what tastes like blood when I wake. I grab my phone and on closer inspection I’ve bitten the inside of my bottom lip quite badly; I can see the indentations my teeth have left and my lip has swollen as if I’ve had bad Botox. It’s not my best look – Freddie would have no doubt found my uncanny resemblance to a pufferfish amusing.
Freddie. I close my eyes, winded by the hyperrealism of my dream, or whatever it was. I can only liken it to when you go into an electrical store and see the latest, flashiest TV, the kind that costs a small fortune. The colours are brighter, the edges sharper, the sounds clearer. It was Technicolor brilliant, like watching a movie at an IMAX theatre. No, more like being in a movie at an IMAX theatre. It was too real to not be. Freddie was alive, and showering, and running late for work, and making Keira Knightley jokes once again.
I rack my brain, trying to dredge up a memory of any mention of a corporate coffee client before he died. I’m sure there wasn’t one; it’s as if Freddie has been living the last fifty-seven days behind a veil, going about his day-to-day business without a care in the world.
I’m once more overcome with the need to try to fall back asleep, to go and find him, back to the life where Freddie’s heart is still beating, but in that world he’s already out slaying the advertising business with a flash of his cufflinks and a smile. For someone who didn’t even want to go to bed last night, I now find myself absolutely unwilling to get up and face the new day. It takes me a good fifteen minutes to convince myself that leaving the bedroom is even a remotely good idea. In the end, I strike a bargain with myself: if I get up and do Friday, if I shower, eat and maybe even leave the house for a while, then I can take another pill. I’ll have an early dinner, come back to bed, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to spend the evening with my love.
Saturday 12 May
‘I’ve been dreaming about Freddie,’ I say, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug for comfort rather than warmth. Elle looks at me across the kitchen table, nodding slowly.
‘I do that every now and then too,’ she says, stirring sugar into her drink. ‘I’d be more surprised if you didn’t dream about him, to be honest.’
‘You would?’ I look at her sharply, willing her to meet my eye and pay full attention because this is important. ‘It hasn’t happened to me before.’ Disappointment twists in my gut. What’s happening to me feels too intimate to be a run-of-the-mill kind of thing.