Page 16 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

I’ve startled her; I see something familiar move through her eyes. I recognize the fleeting rawness, how she takes an extra breath before she speaks, as I often do when someone unexpectedly mentions Freddie’s name. She still hasn’t said anything, so I fill the void.

‘It’s just … I haven’t forgotten about him. That’s all.’

It’s my own fears spoken aloud, that the world will forget Freddie Hunter. I won’t, of course, but someone else sits at his desk at the office now and someone else wears his number on the Monday night five-a-side football team. It’s perfectly right that the world has kept turning, but sometimes I just want people to say they remember, so I say it now to Sheila and then instantly feel as if I’ve overstepped the mark.

‘When you’re young you think you’ve got all the time in the world,’ she says. ‘And then suddenly you turn round and you’re old and one of you isn’t there any more and you wonder how the years went so fast.’ She nods towards Freddie and shrugs. ‘Make hay while the sun shines. That’s all I’m saying.’

It’s such a pat phrase, and yet it isn’t to me any more because it’s a pretty damn accurate way to sum up my waking world: someone turned my sun off. I take the ketchup Sheila holds out to me with a small nod and head back to Freddie.

‘Fancy making hay this afternoon?’ I say softly, running my hand over his shoulder before I sit down.

‘Making hay?’ he says, perplexed. ‘Is that girl code for sex? Because if it is, then yes.’

I smile, putting the ketchup I didn’t really need in the first place down on the table. Luckily for him, he’ll never know what I mean.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he says. ‘Promise me you won’t go mad.’

‘I can’t promise,’ I say. ‘Not until I know what it is.’

He butters his toast as he shakes his head. ‘Uh-uh. Promise first.’

That’s so Freddie. ‘Fine,’ I relent. ‘I promise not to go mad.’

He’s instantly wreathed in smiles. ‘I booked our honeymoon.’

My heart lifts with joy and then sinks because it’s entirely possible I won’t be able to come back here this time next year; all of this could stop tomorrow. I actually feel it tumble, slow-motion somersaulting behind my breastbone.

‘You did?’

He looks so pleased with himself. He’s bursting out of his skin to tell me. ‘Do you want it to be a surprise?’

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I hope he takes the sheen of tears in my eyes as joy.

‘Where are we going?’

He pauses as if he’s seriously considering not telling me, but then he can’t keep the words in. ‘New York!’

Ah, of course we are. I’ve always wanted to go to New York. I’ve seen every episode of Friends, I want to be bezzies with Carrie Bradshaw, and I long to walk barefoot in Central Park. I don’t even chastise him about the cost, because in my head we’re already on the ferry to Staten Island. It’s ridiculously, perfectly us.

‘You couldn’t have got it more right,’ I say, reaching out across the table for his hand. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Let me daydream a while.’

He rubs his thumb over my knuckles. ‘You’re going to love it, Lyds.’

I have no doubt whatsoever. I feel like I’m about to cry, so I change the subject.

‘So what shall we do this afternoon?’

‘You mean it wasn’t girl code for sex?’ He looks hangdog, and then laughs. ‘We’re going to the movies, remember?’ he says, reminding me of a plan I’ve no knowledge of. ‘I’m going to snog your face off on the back row.’

‘Snog?’ I laugh. ‘No one says that any more.’

He reaches across the table and stabs my egg yolk. ‘I do. Hurry up, film starts at half one.’

‘Movies it is then,’ I say. It’s Bank Holiday Monday, I’m with Freddie, and we’re fine. Better than fine: we’re how we used to be, him and me against the world. I’m not even mad with him for the egg yolk thing, even though he always does it just to get a rise out of me. We’re going to go to the movies and snog like schoolkids on the back row. We’re going to make hay while the sun shines.

Sunday 27 May

I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, my sweat-soaked back pressed against the cupboard, the bottle of pills clutched tight in my still-shaking hand. I accidentally sent them flying off the countertop a few minutes ago, and then scrambled around on the floor like an addict, grabbing for them before they slipped through the cracks. I got a painful splinter in my index finger for my trouble, but all that mattered in those panicky seconds was ensuring that every last one of the remaining tablets went safely back where they should be.

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