Page 58 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Kris laughs. ‘My mother is fairly progressive.’

It creeps in around the edges of my consciousness; I’m enjoying his company. He’s quick to smile, and he doesn’t seem to have an agenda. We talk about his job and mine, about the shaky state of the nation, about the one-eyed cat he’s taken in because it pitched up in his garden and didn’t leave, and Turpin the deserter cat who has pretty much left me for another woman. He refills our cups and I realize hunger has replaced my nerves when he picks up the menu and suggests food. We pick our way over a charcuterie sharing plate and I find myself asking him what brought him to the silent dating event.

He ordered a beer with dinner, and he stares into it now. ‘Loneliness, I guess. I was married. My wife and I separated a couple of years ago.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’ As soon as it’s out of my mouth I hate myself for parroting the same trite apology so many people have said to me.

‘Yeah, so was I for a while,’ he says, rueful. ‘Very sorry for myself, anyway. Not so much for Natalie; she moved to Ireland with her boss, who incidentally drives a Ferrari.’

‘God.’ I chase an olive round my plate with a cocktail stick. ‘Bastard.’

‘Yeah.’ He laughs a little. ‘Anyway, I got pretty sick of it being just me and the one-eyed cat and somehow I found myself signing up to stare at complete strangers in the town hall.’

‘Did you tick any other boxes in the end?’ I ask. Okay, I know I’m fishing.

‘No,’ he says, his eyes alive with humour. ‘Did you?’

‘I didn’t have a sheet, remember?’

‘Ah. Just doing your job. I remember now,’ he says, then adds quietly, ‘For the record, you were very good at it.’

I feel heat flush up my neck when he doesn’t laugh to diminish the value of the compliment.

‘Thank you. It scared me, but I’m glad I did it.’ I pause just as he did a second ago, and then add, ‘Now.’

‘Because of me, right?’ he laughs, holding eye contact.

‘Because of the olives,’ I say, and he lays his hand over his heart as if I’ve wounded him.

He looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Why did it scare you?’

I knew we were going to have to talk about my life at some point this evening and I’ve deliberated over how much of the truth to reveal. Not because I want to lie; I just don’t want Kris to look at me any differently to the way he does now. He’s the first person in my life to treat me normally since the accident, without sympathy or side-eyes to check I’m okay. It’s a relief.

‘I haven’t dated for a long time.’

Kris peels a slice of serrano away with the tips of his fork. ‘No?’

It’s a ‘tell me more’ kind of no, and I pick over the various phrases in my head to find one that fits.

‘I was with someone,’ I say, and then correct myself. ‘I was with Freddie. We were together for a long time, and he, umm, he died.’

There. I’ve said it. Kris places his fork down and looks at me, unflinching. Please, I think. Please don’t say you’re sorry for my loss.

‘Jesus, Lydia, no wonder you were scared,’ he says. ‘You must have been to hell and back.’

It’s an apt description. Some days I’ve stood too close to the flames, my face burning, but now I feel as if I’m slowly backing away from the heat.

‘Something like that,’ I say. ‘You’re the first. You know, the first man, since …’

He doesn’t let me falter for long. ‘Want to talk about it, or not talk about it?’

‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ I say, grateful for the choice and that he hasn’t pushed for details. Sitting here this evening with Kris has felt ever so slightly magical; lighter and brighter than my usual nights. I’m not ready to let go of those feelings yet.

‘In that case, would you like an ill-advised cocktail from this lurid list?’ He hands me a laminated neon-turquoise card from the menu stand.

And just like that, he steers us away from the past and back to now.

‘I can’t believe it’s ten o’clock,’ I say, hooking my jacket over my bag because it’s still warm when we step out of the cafe. ‘I was only staying for an hour.’

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