The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(84)

I sigh as I walk out on to the balcony. God, this place. It’s like something from a postcard; eye-popping colours, a scattering of simple buildings, an easy sense of unhurried calm. I’m in Croatia, in a town I can’t even recall the name of. This time yesterday I was at home surrounded by people who know me. Today I’m a stranger in a foreign land. It’s a weight off my shoulders.

‘What the hell do you mean, you’re in Croatia?’ Mum shouts, the brief delay on her voice evidence of our distance. ‘You were here yesterday.’

‘I know,’ I say. I’ve been on the phone for about thirty seconds and the conversation spiralled from ‘hello, darling’ to this pretty quickly. ‘It was, umm, a spontaneous thing, Mum.’ I falter, trying to explain away the fact that I ran away from home.

‘But your sister has just had a baby,’ Mum says, incredulous even from a thousand miles away.

‘I do know that,’ I say, mild. ‘I was there.’

‘But, Lydia …’ She runs out of words. ‘Why?’

Why. There you go again, Mum, straight to the heart of it.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I just … I needed to get away for a while.’

She pauses. I can hear the upset in her silence. ‘How long for?’

I don’t know, so I tell her what she wants to hear. ‘A week or so. Maybe two. I’m off work.’

‘And then you’ll come home again?’

‘What else am I going to do?’

‘I honestly don’t know, Lydia,’ she says.

Her tone suggests she’s worn out by my reckless behaviour, which rankles with me because I’m hardly a bloody tearaway.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

I hear her sigh. ‘Nothing, love,’ she says. ‘I worry about you, that’s all.’

‘I’m just on holiday,’ I say, brushing her concerns aside as if they are unwarranted and unnecessary. I can see her in my mind’s eye, standing in her hallway, frowning, twisting her necklace around her fingers. ‘I’ll message you a picture of the view. I’m going to read books on the beach. Lie in the sun. Eat too much, drink too much. Just chill out for a week or so, that’s all.’

I don’t tell her about the job offer.

I couldn’t face talking to Elle after my call with Mum, so I texted her instead, a pre-emptive strike in case Mum calls her in a tizz. That was this morning and she hasn’t replied yet, but I expect she’s got more pressing things on her mind than checking her phone. Counting toes, buttoning sleepsuits, kissing the pronounced curve of tiny cheeks. Those kinds of things. I press all thoughts of home and the baby to the back of my mind and bring myself back to here, to my now.

I don’t tell her about the job offer either.

It’s a little after nine in the evening, and I’m sitting on my balcony watching the evening unfold. Vita and Petar made me welcome downstairs for dinner just now, feeding me delicious baked chicken and rice, refilling my glass with local wine, introducing me to the staff. Down below the restaurant terrace is buzzing with activity, every candle-lit table alive with families and lovers, suntanned shoulders and flashes of laughter, children perched on the terrace edge with their toes in the cooling sand, the clatter of cutlery on china, babies sleeping in pushchairs. It’s a movie-perfect scene that’s no doubt repeated all across the Med tonight: white lights strung from pine trees, the lingering scent of salt and sun cream from the beach, people gathered together as stars emerge in the darkening sky. Perhaps it’s the sunshine or the holiday vibe but my mood already feels a little lighter here, my heart too.

My phone is in my lap as I flop back in the deckchair, wine glass in my other hand. Petar insisted I bring the rest of the bottle up with me. It’s heady with blackcurrants and spice, and it’s dulling my edges nicely. Still no reply from Elle. In my haste to get away I didn’t stop to consider her feelings, but I honestly don’t think for a minute that she’ll begrudge me this. Her every waking moment must be filled with baby-related thoughts; she’s learning how to be a mum and I have no pearls of wisdom to offer her there. If anything, my absence will probably be a bit of a relief, although she’d never say as much.

I sip a little more wine, and my phone buzzes. Elle at last.

Croatia? WTF, Lyds, did the sight of my ladybits send you running for the airport? Am already knackered. Come back soon, miss you. X



I smile, then hold in a little gulp-cry when an angelic photo of a sleeping Charlotte pings in.

She looks a lot cleaner than the last time I saw her, thank God! Too beautiful for words, sis, you did good. Blowing kisses in your direction. Xx



I press ‘send’, smiling as my words head across the seas towards home. God, the baby is gorgeous. I’m not going to get a look-in with that child. It’s as well that I’ve stepped back for a little while, giving everyone else a chance to cluster around and press tiny clothes and gifts into Elle and David’s hands as they clamour for a hold. David has quite a clan and Mum won’t be able to stop herself from camping out on Elle’s doorstep.

Something in me settles, soothed by Elle’s acceptance of my leaving.

I ignore my phone the second time it buzzes, then pick it up moments later, feeling guilty. My first emotion is relief: it isn’t another unbearably gorgeous baby picture. My second emotion is harder to identify so I don’t try: it’s Jonah calling me from LA.