The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(71)

I’m more asleep than awake when my phone buzzes a little after five. I made it as far as the shower a while ago and now I’m back on the sofa in my PJs, clean at least, pretending to watch some movie so awful I haven’t even registered the main character’s name. I dig my mobile out from amongst the cushions under my head, and my screen informs me I have one new message – it’s Kris. We’ve texted a bit recently, but I haven’t seen him since our first date. Even though I’ve wanted to, it hasn’t felt right.

Fancy a coffee? Could really use a friend if you’re around. K x



My thumbs move to tell a white lie so as not to offend him.

I’m at my mum’s, a family party thing, will give you a bell tomor



I pause and delete. Kris is the one person who plays no dual role in my complicated double life and he sounds as if he’s having a rough day. Surely I can find it in myself to offer something kinder than a brush-off?

Hey you. Everything okay? I’m mega hung-over at home. You sound low, call me if you want. L x



He replies straight away.

Would it be totally weird if I come to see you for an hour? Could really do with getting out of the house.



Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve already played my hand by saying I’m around to chat, so I hesitate, and before I can compose my thoughts another text pings in.

Sorry. Ignore that. Crapshoot of a day, you know how it goes sometimes.



And because I do know exactly how it goes sometimes, I tell him no, it’s not weird, and yes, he can come over. And then I panic like hell and throw some actual daytime clothes on.

We sit at my kitchen table and drink coffee, and he tells me that his wife appeared out of the blue this morning. She let herself in with the key she hadn’t bothered returning, stayed just long enough to fill an Ikea blue bag with things she wanted, then as she was leaving she told him she’s three months pregnant with twins.

‘God, I don’t know what to say.’ I’m horrified for him. He looks like a kicked dog. ‘Shall I call her some terrible names?’

‘Already did that, right after she left,’ he says. ‘Didn’t help very much. And she took the kettle.’ He drains his coffee. ‘Who does that, Lydia? Takes the kettle?’

I shake my head. ‘Was it a special kettle?’

He shrugs. ‘It matched the toaster.’

‘Did she take the toaster as well?’

He nods ruefully. ‘No tea, no toast.’

I hold his gaze, glad to see the beginnings of amusement there.

‘You can probably get a new set for twenty quid from the supermarket,’ I say.

‘I don’t even like bloody toast,’ he says. ‘And I don’t drink tea, either.’

I try not to laugh, but I can’t help it because what a ridiculous thing to do, really, turn up and take the kitchen appliances.

‘I’ve been offered a new job,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘Or a partnership, actually.’

‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it? It sounds good.’

He nods, but his face is conflicted. ‘It’s in London.’

Ah. ‘Will you take it, do you think?’ I say tentatively.

‘Probably,’ he says. ‘It’s with a friend from uni, he’s expanding his practice.’

‘Right,’ I say. The news that he’s leaving changes the dynamic between us in a great rush; I don’t think I’ll see him again after today.

‘Another coffee?’ I put my hand on his shoulder as I get up to make us a refill.

‘You’re just showing off now because you have a kettle.’

‘Maybe,’ I say, but I’m not thinking about coffee or kettles any more. I’m thinking how easy he is to be around and how his grey eyes have green flecks in when you really look, and when he reaches for my hand to pull me into his lap, I let him.

He sighs and wraps his arms around me, his face in my hair, and I’m not sure which of us is giving comfort and which of us is receiving. He hasn’t come here to talk about his kettle. He’s come here because seeing the woman he loved and lost has knocked him for six; I understand that feeling more than he knows. He’s here because I’m blessedly separate from every other part of his life; I get that too. We don’t know each other’s family or friends – we don’t even know each other very well – but right now that’s precisely what makes this right. I am to him what he is to me: a blank page. I like him a great deal and at a different stage of our lives it might have become a chapter or even a whole book, but he’s leaving for London and my life is just too complicated to accommodate someone new in it. This story has just one page: boy meets girl, they save each other, and then they never see each other again.

‘Lydia,’ he says, his hands bracketing my face, and then he pushes his fingers into my hair and kisses me in a way that vaporizes every rational thought from my brain. His low mood meets my kicked-around heart and we both lose control.

‘I didn’t come here for this,’ he says as I pull his T-shirt over his head, and I believe him.

‘I know that,’ I say, shaking as his fingers find the clip of my bra.

‘Shall I stop?’ he asks, one hand on my bared breast, the other thumbing away a tear as it rolls down my face.