The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(95)

I can see now how much I’ve relied on my other world to offer me an escape from this one; an escape from the hard, unforgiving coalface of grief. This afternoon though … it didn’t do that. It left me feeling jaded and despondent again, lower than I’ve been since New York, and thinking things through this evening has led me closer to an undeniable truth.

I’ve traded healing here for living there. I’ve used visiting the other place as a way to try to outrun grief, even when every grief manual I’ve ever read tells me that just isn’t possible. Maybe my bloody doctor was on to something – I haven’t passed sentiently through the process. Instead, I’ve zigzagged between worlds, taking the long way round, slowing myself down without realizing.

I didn’t take any more pills in Croatia after that night in New York, and as a consequence I slept more soundly at night. The circles faded from beneath my eyes and my heart beat easier in my chest because it wasn’t putting in double shifts. My days were simpler because living one life is less stressful than living two.

I can’t ignore the fact that I’m changing any more, that the me who visits Freddie in the other world is less and less like the Lydia he knows. And, in truth, I like this new version of me better. She’s still really messed up, but she’s plucky. Adventurous and strong. She’s been trying to move slowly forward, walking against the tide, and all this time I’ve been trying to pull her back.





Saturday 28 September


‘Are you absolutely sure?’

I meet my hairdresser’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Yes.’

She’s standing behind me with her scissors in her hand, and for a woman paid to cut hair, she looks particularly reluctant.

‘I haven’t cut more than an inch off your hair in the last ten years,’ she says, biting her lip.

It’s true. I’ve flirted with layers, every now and then I’ve had a fringe put in, but that’s as exciting as it’s been.

I pick up the weight of my plait for one last time. ‘Do it, Laura.’

She takes a deep breath and doesn’t ask again.

Afterwards I sit in the car, my plait coiled in a clear ziplock bag in my lap, much more than a physical weight off my shoulders. Dawn donated her hair a few summers ago, so I looked last night and found a charity that makes wigs for teenage girls. My hair was my pride and joy when I was fifteen; you need something to swish and hide behind at such a tender age. It warms me to think my hair might in some small way brighten the life of another girl who’s struggling. I have no need for it any more.

In the hallway I drop my bag and examine myself in the mirror from every angle, smoothing my fingers down the back of my revealed neck, fiddling with the short strands around my face. I can put a tick in that classic get-all-your-hair-cut-off box now on the grief reaction checklist. Laura nearly had a heart attack when I asked for a pixie cut. She grabbed a pile of magazines to show me photographs of short cuts, imagining that I’d got it wrong. I hadn’t – I knew what I wanted – and looking at myself now, I’m glad I was brave enough to go through with it.

Brave. I turn the word over in my head and then I say it out loud. My reflection looks steadily back at me, telling me I’ve done the right thing. I add ‘brave’ to the collection of words that describe my life right now.

It’s five in the afternoon here, which I reckon makes it nine in the morning in LA. I texted Jonah a photo of my new haircut a few minutes ago, and just when I think he’s having a Saturday morning lie-in my phone lights up with a message.

Calling you right now.



I grin and drop down into the corner of the sofa with my legs curled under me as my phone buzzes and then he appears, laughing, still in bed.

‘Let me get a proper look at you then,’ he says, and out of nowhere I feel shy and wrinkle my nose up, embarrassed as I twist my head from one side to the other and await his verdict.

‘What do you think?’ I ask.

He’s the first person besides my hairdresser to offer an opinion.

‘You look … you look Australian,’ he says, and then he laughs again, shrugging because he knows it’s a ridiculous thing to say.

‘Australian?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It’s the tan and the hair combo, I think. You look like you should be a lifeguard on Bondi Beach or something.’

‘That is such a weirdly specific description,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Did I disturb you in the middle of some Baywatch dream?’

He runs his hand over his stubble and pulls a face that suggests I might have but he’s too polite to say so.

‘When did you get home?’ he asks.

Jonah and I speak quite a lot now, usually last thing at night for me. He was my main thread connecting me to home back in Croatia, the only person who hadn’t judged me harshly for going away – probably because, by his own admission, he’d done pretty much the same himself.

‘A couple of days ago,’ I say. ‘Not the warmest of welcomes, it has to be said. I stayed away too long.’

‘They’ll come round,’ he says. ‘They love you.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I say; he’s right, of course. I change the subject because thinking about Elle and Mum lowers my spirits. ‘What’s new with you?’