The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(99)

But if I do that, if I keep these pills safely tucked away, what will it mean for my life here? I swallow hard, because I know the answer. It would mean life here is always second best, for ever a waiting room, and that isn’t fair on me or anyone else in my life. This life has to be my only option, but more than that, my best option. I need to do the thing I’d do if I wasn’t afraid. It’s time to leave the other me to her own devices, let her know the joy of making breakfast for her children and birthdays with Freddie, unencumbered by the occasional visit from a sharper-edged, world-weary version of herself.

My hand is shaking as I hold the bottle out over the sink, and that’s okay, because this is hard. I turn the tap on full and hold my breath, my heart racing, and then I do it, fast, all in one rush so I can’t change my mind and stop midway through. The pills upend into the gushing water and swirl around for a few seconds, turning the water pink as they jostle to leave. I watch them, feeling everything: proud of me, heartsore, relieved, shattered. And then they’re all gone, vanished at last, and I turn the tap off and look myself in the eye in the mirror.

‘Just you and me now,’ I say.

I belt my dressing gown more securely around my body and feel a quiet sense of peace.





Saturday 12 October


‘Happy Birthday, June!’

We all raise our glasses and toast my Auntie June.

‘Sixty years young!’ Uncle Bob says, cliché-proud and loud enough to earn himself a tight ‘sit down before I throttle you’ smile from his wife.

We’re gathered in the packed local steakhouse, shiny balloons tied to the back of the birthday girl’s chair. Mum is beside me, Elle opposite with the baby on her shoulder, Charlotte’s first official family gathering. I’m greatly relieved that things are steadily thawing between us all since my return. Elle and I aren’t where we used to be yet, but she has at least fallen back into texting me daily videos of Charlotte. Mum burst into tears and hugged me when she saw my new hair. ‘You look too fragile, Lydia,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do about you.’

The truth is I don’t need people to do anything about me. My time away from my lives was transformative, necessary despite the strain it put on my relationship with my family. I’m not as fragile as my haircut makes me look.

My cousin Lucy gives me the side-eye from down the table. ‘How was backpacking, Lydia?’

Backpacking. Gah, she always knows what not to say.

‘Croatia’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘You should go.’

She picks up her wine glass. ‘I’m a bit old for that kind of thing.’

‘More of a package holiday girl.’ Elle catches my eye over Charlotte’s head.

Lucy shoots her a look. ‘Maldives, actually, for Christmas.’

‘Then you and Bob should come to us for Christmas lunch this year, June,’ Mum says, smiling at Auntie June.

David takes his daughter from Elle so she can eat, a well-oiled tag team, and I don’t miss the amused look that passes between them at Mum’s lack of tact. She’d never have made the offer if Lucy wasn’t guaranteed to be out of the country.

Uncle Bob considers it. ‘As long as I can carve,’ he says. ‘Tradition and all that.’

A moment of solidarity passes between the four of us at the memory of David hacking away at the turkey last year.

‘I think that can be accommodated,’ Mum says.

Auntie June leans forward and looks at me. ‘How’s your friend doing in America, Lydia?’

I lay my cutlery down, done with eating. ‘Yeah, he’s really well.’ In a town the size of ours, everyone hears about it if you so much as graze your knee, so Jonah’s LA scriptwriting venture has become a rich source of local gossip. The hairdresser asked after him, everyone at work too. ‘He’s staying out there for a while longer anyway, so that’s encouraging,’ I say.

‘God, I wouldn’t come back here if I was him,’ Lucy says. ‘Miami or here. Here or Miami.’ She makes weighing-scale motions with her hands as she speaks and rolls her eyes.

‘It’s LA,’ I say, trying not to let her rile me.

‘Same difference,’ she says. ‘Sun, sand, Americans.’

I think of Vita, serene and cool, drinking early-morning coffee on the terrace. She wouldn’t let someone like Lucy get under her skin. Since Freddie died, both Jonah and I have broadened our horizons, an instinctive reaction to the fact that he isn’t here any more. We’ve sought out places and experiences you’ll never find in a holiday brochure. Lucy hasn’t been through that kind of transition; I let her sweeping inaccuracy slide.

‘If you say so.’

The conversation ebbs and flows around me. Elle and David still speak about Charlotte in terms of weeks; she’s twelve weeks now and hitting all her milestones like a boss.

‘Takes after her mother,’ Uncle Bob says. ‘You always were the organized one, Elle.’

I don’t think he intended to imply that I wasn’t, but that’s what I take from it. It’s probably fair. I wonder what my children would inherit from me. Courage, Vita whispers. I only hope she’s right.

Something brushes past my ankles when I open my front door a little later: Turpin has come home. He jumps up on the kitchen work surface, watching me dig out some food for him.