Page 74 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

I stayed long enough to find out that they settled on Charlotte after all; David carried her cautiously downstairs to give Elle a chance to take a very careful shower. We sat on the sofa examining Charlotte’s miniature hands and feet, her gangly limbs waiting to plump out, her shock of dark hair. David thinks she favours Elle; I think he’s probably right. The midwife came, brisk and efficient with her scales. Charlotte weighed in at a healthy 5lb 4oz, which is apparently great going for three weeks early.

I’m back home again now with a cup of tea. But now I’m here I don’t think the house has ever felt this empty; nor have I ever felt this lonely. The silence is acute. I could switch on the radio, but I don’t think I could stand the inane chatter or banal laughter. I’m exhausted to my bones. I feel strange … untethered, which is odd really, having just witnessed something as grounding as a birth. Perhaps I’ve hit emotional overload; getting married and delivering a baby all in the space of a few hours can do that to a person. I can’t easily explain it. It’s a feeling of disconnection, like distant clicks on the line when you call overseas. Elle has moved to another country now, somewhere I can visit but not stay. Everyone around me is moving forward, away from me: Mum with Stef, Elle and the baby, Jonah in LA.

My poor, strained heart. You know those old-fashioned music boxes lined with mirrors angled to reflect the slowly revolving ballerina from every angle? I have one somewhere with colourful birds painted on the lid; Jonah gave it to me for a birthday when we were still schoolkids. I imagine myself like that ballerina, a myriad spinning versions of me.

I’m so damn tired and it’s too much effort to get upstairs to bed, so I drag myself as far as the sofa and collapse, curled on my side, my face in my hands to block out the daylight. I’d cry myself to sleep if I had the energy; God knows I deserve a bloody good sob given the hours I’ve just lived through. But I don’t have the energy, and I don’t think I have any tears left in me either. I feel tinder dry, a parched pile of leaves that would catch alight at the merest hint of a flame. As I close my eyes I see the leaves scatter on the breeze, some here, some there, pieces of me drifting away.

It’s dark again when I wake up. I passed out into a dreamless sleep and now I’m wide awake at ten at night and seized by the urge to do something, to go somewhere, to take myself away from here. I’m not at work this week or next; I booked it off without mentioning that, had things been different, Freddie and I would be in New York on our honeymoon. I told Dawn I’m planning to redecorate the kitchen, and I told Phil and Susan I’m going to a spa with Mum and Elle before the baby comes. Neither of those were true. I’ve blocked this time out to spend at home, a back-to-back string of visits to my other world. Crazy as it sounds, I am going on my honeymoon.

But it occurs to me now that I don’t need to stay at home: have pills, will travel. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to get away. If I stay here, there will be demands on my time. Elle, the baby, Mum. I tell myself that Elle and David will appreciate some space to get to know their daughter. If I go away, there will be no one but myself to think about or plan for. My heart is banging with adrenaline; I’m gripped by the idea of being somewhere else. It’s a need, not a want. I feel like an elastic stretched taut, close to snapping, in need of careful release. My mind races around the options: beaches, mountaintops, oceans. Where can I go? I mean, I could actually try to get on a plane to New York. I consider it for a few minutes, but then I decide it’d be too weird even on my scale of weird to be there in both of my lives simultaneously. Upstairs, I practically run through the shower and change, throwing clothes and underwear into my suitcase dragged from the spare room, sunglasses, sandals. I know myself well enough to know that I don’t want to end up somewhere cold. Sunshine. I need to turn my face up to the sun and feel it coat my skin in hot, sticky warmth. Bag packed after a fashion, I drag it downstairs and hunt out my passport from the kitchen drawer. It’s in an envelope with Freddie’s, and for a few moments I hold them both against my chest, imagining us queuing at the airport with them clutched tightly in our excited hands. I daren’t look at his now; I need to stay in this frame of mind, the one that’s going to carry me all the way to a new place. I can’t wait it out until morning comes. I can’t wait even another hour, so I call a cab and drag my suitcase out on to the footpath and wait in the street. I push some money and a scribbled apology note through Agnes’s letter box; I feel obliged to ask her to watch Turpin even though he practically lives with her anyway, and he won’t give a damn if I’m not around. There’s no one else to leave a note for to alert them to my madness. I’ll message Mum and Elle when I’m sure where I’m going, but for now I lock the doors and fling myself into the cab when it pulls up, exhilarated. I can’t shake the feeling that someone or something will stop me, grab a-hold of my arm and tell me I can’t go, but no one does. I’m on my own. Captain of my own ship, albeit one who has no idea where she’s navigating towards.

I stand in the departures lounge and gaze at the board, bewildered. It’s only now that the first fingers of doubt begin to tap lightly on my shoulder. Truth is, I feel a bit unhinged, standing here in the middle of the airport on my own with a hastily packed suitcase, a half-empty bottle of pink pills and my passport. No one knows I’m here. I could turn round and go home, no one would be any the wiser. It’s tempting; I consider it. Everywhere I look there are couples and families, tired kids on iPads and hen parties making a beeline for the bar. I definitely don’t want to go anywhere there might be hen parties. I don’t know what to do so I stand still and let everyone move around me, surrounded by snippets of conversations, traces of duty-free perfume.

‘Okay, love?’ someone says, and I turn to see a security guard. ‘You’ve been standing there a while now,’ he says. ‘Need some help?’

He has a lived-in sort of face, as if he’s seeing out the last few years before retirement. I expect he’s asking me if I need directions to my check-in desk, but our conversation may as well serve a bigger purpose. He doesn’t know it, but he’s just become second-in-command on this ship.

‘I do, actually,’ I say. ‘Where would you go if you could go anywhere right now?’

Ted, whose name I know from his name badge, looks at me oddly, thrown by the question.

‘Home?’ he says.

I half laugh, desperate, because it’s the absolute wrong answer. ‘No, I mean abroad. If you could fly somewhere right now, where would you go?’

He eyes my suitcase and then me, assessing. What’s he thinking, I wonder? On the run from the police? Jilting someone at the altar? I belatedly hope I haven’t asked the least suitable person in the entire building for help; this guy could probably detain me. His hand rests on the radio on his belt, his thick gold wedding ring tucked into a well-worn groove on his finger.

‘Well,’ he says slowly. ‘I’d probably go for somewhere with a good internet connection so I could let someone know where I was when I got there.’

It’s fatherly; terribly endearing to this fatherless girl.

‘I will,’ I say, and then nod at the departures board again. ‘So, where?’

Ted sighs as if he’d really rather me turn round and go home instead. ‘You might be better seeing what’s actually available. Head over to the sales booths rather than the check-in desks.’

He points me in the direction of kiosks lining the far wall, illuminated in reds and yellows. ‘Oh, I see,’ I say. There’s quite a lot of them, a dozen or more, so I throw a different question at Ted. ‘A number between one and twelve?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Six.’

Six. It’s as good as any. ‘Thank you, Ted,’ I say, feeling a bit awkward, as if I should hug him or something. ‘I should, er … you know. Go.’

He steps aside and waves me along. ‘On your way then,’ he says. ‘And don’t forget to call home.’

I nod. He’s right; I should call Mum at least, but I daren’t yet for fear of her talking me out of it before I even get off the ground. Tomorrow is soon enough – Mum’s more than busy right now trying to get home from the Lakes to see her new granddaughter.

Right. Six. I approach the wall of kiosks and walk along, ticking them off in my head as I go. Kiosk one, United Airlines. I don’t think I can go to the US without visas and all that gubbins, so that would be a non-starter anyway. Two, Air France. Bit too close; I can’t guarantee Mum wouldn’t come and get me. Besides: Paris. Three, Qantas. Too far away. I want to get away, but not as far as I can possibly go. Four, Emirates. Hmm. I don’t think the bling and glitz of Dubai is what my soul needs right now. Aer Lingus is at five; another no-go purely on proximity. Okay. Kiosk six glows orange and red, welcoming me. Beckoning me, almost. Air India. Nerves grumble low in my gut. I’d sort of imagined myself heading out to the Balearics or Portugal, but something about the thought of India feels suddenly appealing. It’s far enough away to put me out of Mum’s reach, and it’s different enough to be exactly what I need – not that I knew it until this very second. I’ve never imagined myself travelling anywhere alone, let alone somewhere as unknown to me. Some of the desks have been closed up for the night, but as luck would have it, there’s a guy perched at the kiosk who looks up and catches my eye.

‘You need some help?’ he asks, smiling at me. It’s welcoming, and I move nearer.

‘I think I’d like to go to India,’ I say, ever so slightly slower than usual, as if I’m testing the words out.

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Where in India were you planning to fly to?’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling foolish. ‘Right. Well, where can I fly to soonest?’

If my answer surprises him, he’s professional enough not to show it. He taps his keyboard and I wait, crossing my fingers under the desk that he doesn’t tell me there are no imminent flights.

‘There’s a flight to Delhi in two hours and twenty-seven minutes,’ he says.

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