Page 35 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘No crisps,’ I say. ‘No sprouts either?’

It’s a running joke; she always hides sprouts underneath other things on mine and Elle’s plates because she knows we hate them.

She laughs, half-hearted. ‘Help me start putting things out on the table.’

I carry the turkey through to the dining room and place it down in pride of place, my eyes scanning Mum’s gorgeous festive table. It’s always the same: fresh flowers, her best crystal and a Christmas log ornament Elle and I made together at junior school. It’s not very impressive, a chunk of sawn-off branch covered with raggedy clumps of spray-on snow, a threadbare robin clinging to the top of it with spindly wire feet. Mum’s dressed it up with fresh holly and a fat, creamy candle as she always does, a silk purse of a sow’s ear. I find it comfortingly nostalgic. So many things in my life have changed, but there are some things that will always stay the same.

Half an hour later the food is in its place and we’re all sitting round the table when we hit our next hurdle: who is going to carve the bird.

My mum picks up the carving knife, uncertainty all over her face. It was always Freddie’s job.

‘Let me,’ David says, clearing his throat as he gets to his feet. He looks as nervous as he did before his wedding speech.

We all love David, but he is the least practical man on the planet and famously clumsy. Mum’s eyes round slightly as if she can’t quite bring herself to hand over the carving implements in case he slips and someone ends up in A&E.

‘He’s been practising carving from YouTube videos,’ Elle says softly.

Mum looks at me and I nod because there is something so endearing about the idea of David studying how to carve a turkey on YouTube. We all watch as he tries not to make a hash of it, poking an experimental fork in before going for it, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip in concentration. It’s not a complete disaster; I’d give him a three for technique and a ten for effort, which more than makes up for the splinters of bone in my dinner.

‘Pass the roast potatoes?’ Elle gives Mum the amused side-eye. I can see how hard she’s trying to keep things jolly.

Mum doesn’t miss a beat and holds out the sprouts instead.

Elle puts two fingers in her mouth and mimes choking as Mum places the bowl down. ‘They’re good for you,’ Mum says. ‘You could do with some colour in your cheeks, you’re looking peaky.’

Oddly enough, the comment is enough to add an instant stain of colour to Elle’s cheeks. I suppose we’re all feeling sensitive today.

I pick up the wine bottle and pour for Mum first, and then Elle. It’s David who gives the game away.

‘Didn’t you, erm, decide not to drink today, Elle?’ he says, and she shoots him furious daggers in return.

He turns as puce as Mum’s red cabbage, making a show of carving more uneven slabs of turkey in a bluster to cover his tracks. ‘You know, you’re on that diet …’

I meet Elle’s panicky eyes across the table; she’s never dieted for a day in her entire life, and in that instant I know. Mum realizes too, laying her cutlery down and placing her shaking hand flat over the base of her throat.

‘Elle,’ she breathes. ‘Does this mean …?’ She pauses. ‘Are you …?’

‘I’m sorry,’ David says, grabbing Elle’s hand on the tabletop. ‘It just came out.’ He looks wretched.

We all fall momentarily silent, staring at each other. Elle cracks first.

‘We weren’t going to say anything today,’ she says. ‘We only found out ourselves a few days ago.’

‘Darling,’ Mum gasps, and for the second time today she’s crying. And then so am I, and so is Elle. We huddle round the table, Elle on my left, Mum on my right, David opposite, and we all grip hard on to each other’s hands. We sit for a few minutes, half sobbing and smiling, not wanting to let go.

‘I guess I better drink for two, in that case.’ I laugh a little, filling my own wine glass to the top.

Elle nods, her worried eyes searching my face, trying to discern if I’m faking it. I’m not, and I am.

I’m not, because I’m thrilled from the soles of my shoes to the tips of my silly party hat; she’s wanted to be a mother since we were little girls pushing our doll’s prams around the back garden. She was far more maternal than me even back then; her dolls were always pristine with their hair brushed, while mine were usually missing an arm and had biro on their faces. I understand why she wasn’t going to say anything today, but I’m glad that I know. I don’t want her and David to have to hide such life-changing news for fear of upsetting me.

But I am faking too, because it’s a shock and so strangely life-affirming: a baby. A brand-new life, a razor-sharp reminder that Freddie and I will never know the joy of having a child of our own.

I raise my glass. ‘To you two,’ I say, and I dry my tears because this is one of their most precious life moments.

‘Three,’ Mum adds, high-pitched hysterical.

We clink glasses and I give Elle’s hand an extra squeeze. It’s good news.

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