Page 96 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

I like to think she remembers, that she’s content in my arms because she recognizes me as safe harbour.

‘What do we do now?’ I whisper, even though there’s no one in this part of the library for us to interrupt. ‘Shall I read to you?’

It feels like the appropriate thing to do given our surroundings, so I pick out a book I know well from my own childhood.

‘It’s a story about a caterpillar,’ I say, balancing the open book on my knees. ‘He’s a pretty greedy guy, from what I remember.’

I move her more securely into the fold of my elbow, and she watches me intently as I tell her how the caterpillar hatched on Sunday, ate an apple on Monday, two pears on Tuesday and three plums on Wednesday. I swear she’s taking it in. I tell her how he eats so much cheese and chocolate cake and salami that he feels ill, but then it’s Sunday and he starts all over again until he’s neither hungry nor little any more.

I close the book and put it back on the stand, even though the story isn’t over yet. Everyone knows how it ends.

‘And then, Charlotte, the caterpillar spins himself a cocoon and he goes to sleep,’ I say. ‘And while he’s sleeping, he dreams of all the wonderful things he’s going to see, the magical life he’s going to live and all the far-flung places he’s going to go.’

I stroke her palm and her hand closes around mine, a flower closing its petals, just as she did the morning she was born. Already her fingers are longer, less translucent, her grip firmer.

‘And after a while he’s had enough of sleeping,’ I tell her. ‘So he wakes up and stretches his new wings to test them out, and then he flies away in search of new adventures.’

And that’s when this small, precious child smiles at me. She’s been doing it for a few weeks for Elle and Mum, but she’s made me work for it – the price of leaving her in the lurch, I guess. I smile back, and then I laugh, and she just keeps giving me that ridiculous beam that’s split her face wide open like a small tree frog’s.

‘You’re really something, you know,’ I tell her, my throat tight. ‘Thank you for being here.’

And I am thankful. I don’t know if she would have had such an impact on me if I hadn’t been there to help her come into the world, if she hadn’t gasped her first breath in my hands. But she did, and in doing so, she laid her tiny palms against the edge of my sleeping world and pushed it just far enough away to make my journey there perilous.

As she grows I’m going to be on hand to help her learn colours and take her to the movies and warn her off the wrong boys, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to teach this little girl more than she’s taught me just by being here.

‘My little butterfly,’ I say.

Saturday 9 November

‘I bloody hate fireworks.’

Jonah laughs at me on my screen. ‘No, you don’t. You were always the one who wanted to go and see them.’

My phone is propped against a vase of flowers on the kitchen table so I can chat to him hands-free while I work. It’s Saturday night here, Saturday lunchtime for him, and I’m being particularly dull and catching up on library paperwork with a glass of wine. I don’t feel too sorry for myself though. In fact, I’m glad to have so much to think about at work, it’s helping to fill the empty spaces in my life. It’s been almost six weeks now since I washed the pills away and I’m honestly doing okay, in the daytime at least.

‘Yeah, well. I’ve changed my mind,’ I grumble. Our local park display is tonight, and it sounds like war has broken out.

Jonah turns from his kitchen counter and comes to sit down at the table.

‘Looks good,’ I say, nodding towards the bacon sandwich I’ve just watched him cook.

‘I had to go to three shops to find thick-sliced white,’ he says. ‘It’s practically illegal here.’

‘You’re just too British for your own good, Jonah Jones.’ I roll my eyes, laughing.

He shows me his Heinz Ketchup and grins. I put my pen down and reach for my wine glass.

‘Any new news? Tell me something good.’

He pushes his hair back from his face and my eyes flicker to the scar across his eyebrow, bleached silver by LA sunshine. In one of our conversations recently he told me that he unscrewed his bathroom mirror from the wall not long after the accident because he couldn’t stand seeing the constant reminder every morning; it’s a relief to know that he’s doing better now. I listen as he shares snippets of his LA week, eating his lunch as he goes.

‘Oh – and guess what?’ he says suddenly. ‘I ditched the car and hired a motorbike instead, fancied the thrill of the open road.’

I smile, biting back my desire to tell him to be careful, because he always is. I wonder if he ever got around to buying that classic bike off Gripper Grimes, the one he talked about with Freddie in our other life.

‘Vintage?’ I say, casual.

He frowns and shakes his head. ‘Brand new, why?’

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