Page 59 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘Me too,’ he says. ‘I’d got my eldest sister primed to fake an emergency if I texted her a code word.’

‘You hadn’t,’ I laugh.

‘I absolutely had, you might have been a hideous person,’ he says, falling into step beside me. We’re heading towards the taxi rank just along the high street and the pavements are quieter now. It’s one of those balmy English summer evenings, all the more pleasurable because they’re never a given. ‘She was going to mysteriously break her arm if I texted the word purple.’

‘Purple?’ I find it funnier than it is, probably because of the wine in my bloodstream. ‘As in rain and Cadbury’s chocolate?’

He nods, stepping around me so he’s closest to the road. ‘What can I say? I’m a Prince fan.’

‘I’m going to think of you in a purple velvet suit from now on,’ I say, slowing my step as we approach the taxi rank, a couple of cars idling ready for passengers.

He smiles down at me as we come to a standstill, and he reaches out and smooths his hand lightly over my hair.

‘I like that you’re going to think of me at all,’ he says, and his eyes tell me he doesn’t expect anything more than that from me right now.

‘Thank you,’ I say, terrified because I think I do want more. ‘I had a really good time tonight.’

‘Thank you for letting me be the first,’ he says, and I catch hold of his hand in mine.

‘I’m glad it was you,’ I say, breathless, and he reads my cues and lowers his head slowly to mine.

‘You’re trembling,’ he says.

‘Kiss me,’ I say, and he does, and I close my eyes and feel a million forgotten things. It’s strange and beautiful and sexy and melancholy, his hand against the small of my back, his mouth gentle and almost too brief. Something shifts inside me. It’s like unstoppering a new bottle of scent: floral undertones of romance and late-night amber. It’s a smell I don’t recognize; it’s not my own, but I think over time I could come to see it as such. I think I could even grow to like it.

‘Goodnight, Lydia,’ he whispers.

I’m still holding his hand, and he squeezes it briefly as he opens the door of the cab.

I’m awkward as I try to reverse myself in, and he laughs. ‘You might find it easier if you let go of my hand.’

I look at our hands and shake my head, laughing too.

‘Goodnight,’ I say, looking up at him once I’m inside.

‘Can I see you again?’ he asks, his hand on top of the open door. He doesn’t pretend he isn’t bothered about my answer.

‘I’d really like that,’ I say, not pretending either as the cab driver puts his indicators on to pull out. I lay my head back and close my eyes as we move through the dark streets towards home. I can practically see my mum and Elle standing shoulder to shoulder giving me an excited double thumbs-up, as if I’ve just made it through the first round of a talent show. I breathe in deeply, trying to catch lingering traces of that intriguing scent.

Saturday 6 July

‘I’m not wearing it.’

Elle is standing in front of me laughing, a sister-of-the-bride sash slung around her body. She’s sun-kissed and relaxed in a strapless red jumpsuit and heels, and she seems so much more herself than the last time I saw her. I have a twinge of guilt for not coming back more this last month. She’s holding out a veil covered in various silly hen-night accessories. A strip of paracetamol. Gaudy fake wedding rings. A champagne cork. I can’t see a condom, but I’m willing to bet there’s one there somewhere.

‘You have to,’ she says. ‘Dee made it, she’ll be offended.’

‘Dee made it?’

Elle fiddles with the hairslide attached to the veil, her blood-red nail polish immaculate. ‘You should be thanking me. She wanted to order everyone matching T-shirts with neon-pink slogans.’

‘I still think they were a good idea.’

I turn at the sound of Dee’s voice as she appears in my kitchen carrying a bottle of champagne. She’s glammed up to the max in a thigh-length blue sequinned dress, her usual ponytail replaced by bouncy Kate Middleton curls. It’s not a look I’d have predicted from her. ‘Thought we’d have a bit of the good stuff before we go.’ She jiggles the bottle at me, shiny-eyed.

Elle claps her hands, already turning to my glasses cupboard behind her. She sometimes takes the piss out of my minor obsession with glassware; I’ve got the right glasses for all eventualities, my beloved, eclectic car boot and charity shop collection. Cut-glass highballs, spindly flutes, red wine, white wine, champagne saucers and a really pretty set of coloured soda glasses from the sixties. It’s my thing. I try not to wince as she lifts the champagne saucers – coupes if you want to be fancy – out from the back. I don’t often buy incomplete sets, but these three impossibly tall and skinny-stemmed rose-pink glasses called out to me for help, dirty and balanced precariously amongst a pile of saucepans and plates at a car boot one cold Sunday morning. Freddie grumbled about carrying them and the woman selling them grumbled about wrapping them up for me, but I bought them none the less and love them dearly. Too dearly for the way Elle’s waving them around by their fragile stems.

‘Let me,’ I say, taking the bottle and taking charge.

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