The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(82)

The attendant checks his watch. ‘The next flight after that is at two nineteen, but it’s to Goa.’

He looks at me as if that might be a deal breaker, but whether it’s Delhi or Goa makes no difference to me. ‘Is there a seat?’

A few more taps, a thoughtful twist of his mouth, and then a decision. ‘There is.’

My credit card is out of my bag and on the desk before I speak again. ‘I’ll take it.’

For the smallest of microseconds, his ultra-professional expression falters. ‘You’re sure now?’

‘Do I look like someone who isn’t sure?’ I ask. ‘I have a suitcase and my passport right here.’

‘And your visa is in order?’

My heart sinks. ‘I need a visa to go to India?’

His sympathetic expression is laced with irritation now. ‘Of course, but you can obtain it easily online.’

I have my phone in my hand, hopeful again. ‘Now? I could do that now?’

‘You certainly could, madam, but it takes two days to process.’

I could cry. In fact, I think I’m horribly close to it as I slide my credit card back into my purse.

‘Thanks, anyway,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But I need to get away tonight.’

He looks genuinely regretful as I wheel my case away, probably at the loss of commission.

The next desk is one of the major holiday operators with their own airline, so I drag my case up to the bored-looking girl behind the desk and, wiser from my India disappointment, I try a new, more targeted tack.

‘I’d like the next available seat on the next available flight to a warm country that doesn’t require a visa, please.’

Her eyes open wide behind her cat’s-eye glasses.

‘Right,’ she says, clicking her mouse to bring her computer to life as she shoves the sandwich she’d been eating in her drawer. Looking up at the clock on the wall, she makes a clicking noise behind her teeth, thinking.

‘You could just about make the Majorca flight, the desk closes in ten minutes,’ she says. I know I said the next seat on the next flight, but I’ve been to Majorca in the past and it summons Freddie memories I don’t need right now.

‘What’s next after that one?’ I ask.

She gives me an ever so slightly cynical look over her glasses before she checks, as if she half admired my opening boldness and I’ve let her down by being picky.

‘Ibiza at twenty past one.’

‘I was hoping for somewhere a bit less touristy,’ I say.

‘Have you been there before?’

I shake my head.

‘It might surprise you. There are different sides to the island, it’s not party central outside of San Antonio. Or you could always hop over to Formentera if you’re looking for somewhere a bit more hippy.’

I’m caught in indecision as she taps her long dark-blue fingernails on the keyboard again and narrows her eyes.

‘Or otherwise it looks like there’s one seat left on the three forty-five flight to Split.’

‘Split?’

‘It’s in Croatia.’

I hand over my credit card.





Sunday 21 July


It’s strange being on a plane when you really think about it, isn’t it? Neither on land nor in space, hurtling through the celestial hinterlands in a tin can. The family next to me are trying to coax their toddler to eat his distinctly unappetizing airline breakfast so I lean my head against the window and try to tune them out. I gaze instead across the carpet of meringue cloud below the plane. Nigella wouldn’t be at all satisfied with it, I think, it’s wispy and insubstantial rather than stiff, glossy peaks. Burnished rose and yellow streak the dawn skies, and as I gaze out beyond the clouds I can see a scattering of distant stars. Is my other world out there somewhere too? Am I closer to it than usual right now? Would the contrails of this flight be visible there? It’s a terribly beguiling idea. Maybe the pilot will take a wrong turn across the heavens and we’ll touch down there by mistake. As I close my eyes and drift towards sleep, my brain throws up a memory of a quote Elle used to have on her bedroom wall, a Peter Pan poster I think: Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.

I hadn’t really considered the reality of being in a foreign land. This trip has been more about getting away than arriving. But now as I look down and see landmass ringed by tiny islands and boats with frilly tadpole wakes, I feel the first rumbles of doubt. Hundreds of red-brick monopoly houses scatter the verdant mainland as we come in low, the occasional splash of swimming-pool blue reminding me that I’m somewhere warmer than home. I don’t know anything about this place besides its name, and I have no idea what I’m going to do when I leave the airport. It’s an adventure, of sorts, but I’m not someone who, under usual circumstances, would consider themselves an adventurous kind of person. Under usual circumstances … perhaps that’s the difference. I haven’t lived my life under usual circumstances since Freddie died.

I make it through passport control and baggage reclaim by following the herd, and then I’m swept up in the bump and swell of suitcases through the exit doors. I’m instantly enveloped by heat. I step aside and stand still for a few moments, gathering myself. Bloody hell. I’m in Croatia. I have no idea what the language sounds like and the money I exchanged at the airport is unrecognizable to my eyes. I doubt I could even pinpoint this place on a map. I think briefly, longingly, of home, of Mum and Elle and the baby, and I resolve to call them as soon as I’ve found somewhere to be. I raise my hand to my eyes, almost like a sailor scanning the horizon, while I take in my options. There are buses around, but I don’t know where to buy a ticket. There are coaches, but I guess they’re package tour operators. Then I spy a line of cabs, and I’m chewing my lip, considering, when a guy approaches me.