Page 76 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘Or otherwise it looks like there’s one seat left on the three forty-five flight to Split.’

‘Split?’

‘It’s in Croatia.’

I hand over my credit card.

Sunday 21 July

It’s strange being on a plane when you really think about it, isn’t it? Neither on land nor in space, hurtling through the celestial hinterlands in a tin can. The family next to me are trying to coax their toddler to eat his distinctly unappetizing airline breakfast so I lean my head against the window and try to tune them out. I gaze instead across the carpet of meringue cloud below the plane. Nigella wouldn’t be at all satisfied with it, I think, it’s wispy and insubstantial rather than stiff, glossy peaks. Burnished rose and yellow streak the dawn skies, and as I gaze out beyond the clouds I can see a scattering of distant stars. Is my other world out there somewhere too? Am I closer to it than usual right now? Would the contrails of this flight be visible there? It’s a terribly beguiling idea. Maybe the pilot will take a wrong turn across the heavens and we’ll touch down there by mistake. As I close my eyes and drift towards sleep, my brain throws up a memory of a quote Elle used to have on her bedroom wall, a Peter Pan poster I think: Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.

I hadn’t really considered the reality of being in a foreign land. This trip has been more about getting away than arriving. But now as I look down and see landmass ringed by tiny islands and boats with frilly tadpole wakes, I feel the first rumbles of doubt. Hundreds of red-brick monopoly houses scatter the verdant mainland as we come in low, the occasional splash of swimming-pool blue reminding me that I’m somewhere warmer than home. I don’t know anything about this place besides its name, and I have no idea what I’m going to do when I leave the airport. It’s an adventure, of sorts, but I’m not someone who, under usual circumstances, would consider themselves an adventurous kind of person. Under usual circumstances … perhaps that’s the difference. I haven’t lived my life under usual circumstances since Freddie died.

I make it through passport control and baggage reclaim by following the herd, and then I’m swept up in the bump and swell of suitcases through the exit doors. I’m instantly enveloped by heat. I step aside and stand still for a few moments, gathering myself. Bloody hell. I’m in Croatia. I have no idea what the language sounds like and the money I exchanged at the airport is unrecognizable to my eyes. I doubt I could even pinpoint this place on a map. I think briefly, longingly, of home, of Mum and Elle and the baby, and I resolve to call them as soon as I’ve found somewhere to be. I raise my hand to my eyes, almost like a sailor scanning the horizon, while I take in my options. There are buses around, but I don’t know where to buy a ticket. There are coaches, but I guess they’re package tour operators. Then I spy a line of cabs, and I’m chewing my lip, considering, when a guy approaches me.

‘You need taxi?’

I’m encouraged enough by the fact he speaks English to reply.

‘I’m not sure where I want to go,’ I say.

‘You want parties?’

I frown. I don’t know if it’s a general question or a proposition. He looks decent enough, but you never know, do you?

‘Or you need quiet place for reading books?’

Ah, it was a general question.

‘That one,’ I say quickly. ‘Quiet. Reading is good too.’

He looks at his watch. ‘My wife has a room to rent.’

‘She does?’

He nods. ‘In Makarska.’

I’ve no idea where that is.

‘She keeps a restaurant, the room is above. Close to beach.’

‘Is it far?’

He shrugs. ‘A little.’

Again, I’ve no idea how to quantify that.

‘Umm …’ I say, trying to decide if it’s good fortune or I’m about to be murdered and thrown off a cliff. Then something tells me to just go for it. ‘Okay.’

He breaks into a genuine smile and it changes his face. ‘I take you now. Vita will give you chicken for free, on my house.’

I’m guessing Vita must be his wife, unless he’s talking about himself in the third person, which would be weird. He takes my case in one hand and wipes his other on his short-sleeved checked shirt before holding it out to me. I really hope he doesn’t mean a live chicken.

‘Petar,’ he says.

‘Lydia,’ I reply, and I put my hand in his with a tentative smile. He pumps my arm, briefly and quite un-murderously, I’d say.

‘This way,’ he says. I’m relieved when he leads me to a white people carrier in a line of similar cabs, pausing to slap the shoulder of another driver through his open window. I’m bolstered. People know this man here and appear to like him. I’m starting to believe meeting Petar is a stroke of good luck – God knows it must be my turn for some.

---