The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(86)

Monday 22 July


New York, New York, so good they named it twice. I’ve just showered after a quiet morning people-watching on the beach, and now my stomach is alive with nervous excitement at the thought of seeing Freddie, of being in New York on honeymoon. I have no idea what we’ll do or where we’re staying, it’s all been a closely guarded secret. I could probably hazard an educated guess at a couple of things on Freddie’s itinerary; New York has been my number-one dream destination since my slightly obsessive Sex and the City addiction and I’ve dropped a million hints over the years of things I’d love to do if we ever go.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Horse-drawn carriage rides in Central Park. The Staten Island ferry. I know, I know, I’m a great big cliché and there’s a million other brilliant things to do, but I can’t help myself. Oh God, New flippin’ York! I’m going to be there today with Freddie.

I think fleetingly of home, of Elle and the baby and of Mum. I hope they understand how much I need this time away, that they don’t think me too selfish. I shake the niggling worry off my shoulders, assuring myself that they love me, they know me well enough, they’ll be okay.

I’m sitting in the middle of my pine-framed double bed, water in one hand, pink pill in the other, almost scared because I’m so desperate for everything to be perfect. I’ve always imagined New York to have this unique smell: brewed black coffee, sugar donuts, newsprint and taxi fumes, bagels and beer from bars where everybody knows your name. Okay, I know Cheers wasn’t set in New York, but there must be places just like it on every street corner. Or maybe cafes like Central Perk, full of sagging sofas and magazines and women with fabulous hair.

Oh New York, New York, hold on. I’m coming, at last.





Monday 22 July


‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’

Freddie’s disconcerting words are the first thing I hear as I try to orientate myself. We’re sitting in a booth, and everywhere is too noisy and too bright. Freddie is opposite me finishing off a burger the size of his face and in front of me is a half-eaten plate of grilled salmon. We each have frothy milkshakes, and the logo on the menu helps me out: we’re in Ellen’s Stardust Diner. I check my watch quickly; it feels too early to be eating food like this. I guess you’d call it brunch.

‘We won’t want to eat again today,’ I say, hiding the surprise I feel at our restaurant choice. This place wouldn’t have made my wish list, but being fair, it’s Freddie’s honeymoon too, so it’s okay.

‘Save some room,’ he grins.

‘For …?’

He taps the side of his nose. ‘You’ll see later. It’s a surprise.’

I smile, glad to know that our day is balanced with things for both of us. And I’m being churlish; this place might not be on my list, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it. I flip the gratitude switch on in my head. Freddie booked New York to make my dreams come true, I can’t expect him to get all the details bang on. Besides, I can see how this is supposed to be fun. Neon lighting, disco balls and wannabe Broadway actors serving food while belting out show tunes. It’s stereotypical America with bells on. It just caught me off-guard, that’s all.

I watch Freddie (my husband!) for a few seconds through my lashes, trying not to make it obvious that I’m staring. He’s in his element in places like this, where the fast-paced, high-energy level chimes with his. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of his platinum wedding ring; still gleaming, yet to wear a groove of familiarity into his flesh. I check out my own hand and find my ring there too, a slender white-gold band beneath my engagement ring.

Oh. I bite the inside of my lip because it looks so perfect, exactly the way I’d imagined it would the day we picked out my trilogy diamond ring a few hours after Freddie proposed because I was too excited to wait.

‘So, Mrs Hunter,’ he says. ‘Ready to make a move?’

Mrs Hunter. First the rings, now the name. In truth, I wasn’t sure what to do about my surname when Freddie proposed. I’m Lydia Bird. Mum, Elle and me – we’re the Birds, it’s always been us three. I don’t feel able to think of myself as Lydia Hunter, even though it’s a perfectly good name. Elle had the same concern when she married David, and in the end she settled for double-barrelling his name on to the end of hers. I didn’t really have that option – Lydia Bird-Hunter makes me sound like something from The Hunger Games. It wasn’t a question we ever got around to resolving in my waking life, but it seems that here the decision has been made – I’m no longer a Bird.

‘Mrs Hunter,’ I say slowly, trying it out. I can’t help smiling as I say it; I longed to be Freddie’s wife, and now I am.

‘Sounds good, eh?’ he says, holding my hand across the table.

I squeeze his fingers. ‘It does,’ I say. ‘It’ll take some getting used to.’

‘You’ll always be Lydia Bird to me,’ he says. It’s exactly what I needed to hear. I’m still the same person, my new name doesn’t change anything. I love him for understanding that it might feel strange.

Outside on the street, Times Square is an assault on all of my senses at the same time. Everything is bigger, noisier and brighter than I’d anticipated, and I cling to Freddie’s arm and laugh at the sheer overwhelmingness of it all.