The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(94)

I clam up, unsure what to do or say.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asks eventually.

I shake my head. Shopping is next on my list today; the cupboards are bare. She opens the fridge and pulls out a half-empty glass dish of lasagne and pushes it into my hands.

‘Here. Take that with you.’

I stare down at it, stupidly close to tears because both of my most special people have dismissed me from their homes today. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

She nods and then looks away out of the window.

‘I’ll be off then,’ I say. ‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’

She nods again, tight-lipped.

‘It’s really nice to see you, Mum,’ I say quietly. ‘I missed you.’

I turn away and leave, and she lets me.

I climb into my car, tearful and rejected, and as I drive the familiar streets towards home, I know it’s finally time to go back.





Tuesday 24 September


He isn’t here. I’ve found the courage to return at last, but the house is empty. Further inspection tells me that there’s none of Freddie’s favourite beer in the fridge and the washing basket contains only my clothes. Where is he? We’ve only been married a couple of months. I start to panic. Was our argument in New York the catalyst for change? Did I derail our happiness to the extent that our fledgling marriage has hit the rocks? I pour myself some juice, my hand shaking as I pick up my phone in search of answers.

Two messages flash up on my screen. From Elle, do I fancy going to theirs for fish and chips later? From Mum, the offer of a spare ticket to a play she’s seeing in Bath at the weekend. They’re rallying round me here in this world. I rub my finger over my wedding ring, still in place on my third finger. Where are you, Freddie Hunter?

I click his name and wait for it to ring out, hoping I don’t get his answer machine. It’s seven in the evening, so I’m hopeful that he won’t be working, wherever he is.

It takes longer than usual to connect, and when it does it isn’t the regular ringtone. It perplexes me, and then my heart jumps because he answers.

‘Freddie?’ I say, uncertain. It’s noisy wherever he is.

‘Lyds?’ he half shouts. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll go outside.’

I can hear the bustle of conversation and background music, laughter and raised voices. I think he’s in a bar.

‘Christ, it’s hot here today,’ he says, clearer now. ‘My shirt’s sticking to my back.’

‘Where are you?’ I say, confused.

‘Right now?’ he says. ‘Outside a beach bar. Vince is in there flashing the company credit card around in the hope of sealing the deal.’

‘All work and no play, right?’ I say, vague, trying to force lightness I don’t feel into my voice.

He laughs. ‘When in Rome. Or Rio, as the case may be.’

Rio? Freddie’s in Brazil? Distant bells ring in my head. He might have mentioned something, but I’m certain I didn’t know he was going to spend any significant time out there.

‘I miss you,’ I say, because it’s true, especially now I’ve heard his voice again.

‘You too,’ he says. ‘It won’t be for much longer now. Two weeks, three at most.’

‘Another three weeks?’ I say, downbeat. The things I said in New York obviously didn’t land at all if he’s allowed this to happen. Or if I have. By the looks of our fridge and the messages from Mum and Elle, he’s already been gone for a couple of weeks.

‘Don’t start again,’ he sighs, irritated. ‘You know I can’t help it.’

It’s clear we’ve reached a pinch point here.

‘Did you say you’re on the beach?’

‘No,’ he says, over-patient, mildly pass-agg. ‘I said I was with Vince, trying to seal a deal for the PodGods. This whole place revolves around the bloody beach, Lydia, it’s not my fault, okay?’

‘I didn’t say it was,’ I say, miserable. I haven’t spoken to Freddie in weeks, and now I am and it’s like this again. If we were together, we’d be able to talk our misunderstanding out, but it’s not so easy down the telephone line. It strikes me now how reliant our relationship has always been on physical closeness: on touch and on being able to read each other’s visual cues. We don’t have the luxury of any of that right now and what we’re left with feels disappointing and riddled with the potential for angst. I can hear someone shouting Freddie’s name, Vince probably, telling him to come and grab a Caipirinha. He mispronounces it. It doesn’t surprise me, he’s a bullish sort of man, not someone who’d take the time to learn something like that. I’d lay money on the fact that he’s flown himself and Freddie to Brazil without even finding out how to say please and thank you in Portuguese.

‘I need to get back inside,’ he says.

‘Sounds like it,’ I say, feeling dejected, wishing I could find the right words to heal this.

‘I’ll call soon,’ he says, and then he’s gone, back to his cocktail, back to the beach bar, back to his life without me.





Tuesday 24 September


I sit alone in my lamp-lit living room, a mug of hot chocolate clasped in my hands in the hope it’ll help me sleep. What a hideous, crappy homecoming. Mum and Elle probably wish I’d stayed in Croatia, and Freddie is out in Rio knocking back cocktails on the beach.