Page 78 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

I hear her sigh. ‘Nothing, love,’ she says. ‘I worry about you, that’s all.’

‘I’m just on holiday,’ I say, brushing her concerns aside as if they are unwarranted and unnecessary. I can see her in my mind’s eye, standing in her hallway, frowning, twisting her necklace around her fingers. ‘I’ll message you a picture of the view. I’m going to read books on the beach. Lie in the sun. Eat too much, drink too much. Just chill out for a week or so, that’s all.’

I don’t tell her about the job offer.

I couldn’t face talking to Elle after my call with Mum, so I texted her instead, a pre-emptive strike in case Mum calls her in a tizz. That was this morning and she hasn’t replied yet, but I expect she’s got more pressing things on her mind than checking her phone. Counting toes, buttoning sleepsuits, kissing the pronounced curve of tiny cheeks. Those kinds of things. I press all thoughts of home and the baby to the back of my mind and bring myself back to here, to my now.

I don’t tell her about the job offer either.

It’s a little after nine in the evening, and I’m sitting on my balcony watching the evening unfold. Vita and Petar made me welcome downstairs for dinner just now, feeding me delicious baked chicken and rice, refilling my glass with local wine, introducing me to the staff. Down below the restaurant terrace is buzzing with activity, every candle-lit table alive with families and lovers, suntanned shoulders and flashes of laughter, children perched on the terrace edge with their toes in the cooling sand, the clatter of cutlery on china, babies sleeping in pushchairs. It’s a movie-perfect scene that’s no doubt repeated all across the Med tonight: white lights strung from pine trees, the lingering scent of salt and sun cream from the beach, people gathered together as stars emerge in the darkening sky. Perhaps it’s the sunshine or the holiday vibe but my mood already feels a little lighter here, my heart too.

My phone is in my lap as I flop back in the deckchair, wine glass in my other hand. Petar insisted I bring the rest of the bottle up with me. It’s heady with blackcurrants and spice, and it’s dulling my edges nicely. Still no reply from Elle. In my haste to get away I didn’t stop to consider her feelings, but I honestly don’t think for a minute that she’ll begrudge me this. Her every waking moment must be filled with baby-related thoughts; she’s learning how to be a mum and I have no pearls of wisdom to offer her there. If anything, my absence will probably be a bit of a relief, although she’d never say as much.

I sip a little more wine, and my phone buzzes. Elle at last.

Croatia? WTF, Lyds, did the sight of my ladybits send you running for the airport? Am already knackered. Come back soon, miss you. X

I smile, then hold in a little gulp-cry when an angelic photo of a sleeping Charlotte pings in.

She looks a lot cleaner than the last time I saw her, thank God! Too beautiful for words, sis, you did good. Blowing kisses in your direction. Xx

I press ‘send’, smiling as my words head across the seas towards home. God, the baby is gorgeous. I’m not going to get a look-in with that child. It’s as well that I’ve stepped back for a little while, giving everyone else a chance to cluster around and press tiny clothes and gifts into Elle and David’s hands as they clamour for a hold. David has quite a clan and Mum won’t be able to stop herself from camping out on Elle’s doorstep.

Something in me settles, soothed by Elle’s acceptance of my leaving.

I ignore my phone the second time it buzzes, then pick it up moments later, feeling guilty. My first emotion is relief: it isn’t another unbearably gorgeous baby picture. My second emotion is harder to identify so I don’t try: it’s Jonah calling me from LA.

I scrabble to answer before he hangs up.

‘Hey,’ I say, tucking my hair behind my ears as I sit up straighter in the chair. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Hey yourself,’ he says. The smile behind his voice makes me smile too.

‘How’s LA?’ I say. ‘Have you made your fortune and married Jennifer Lawrence?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve done,’ he laughs. ‘How about you?’

I hesitate. ‘Same old same old.’

I don’t know why I don’t tell him I’m in Croatia. Probably because I just can’t face another ‘what the hell are you doing there’ conversation.

‘What time is it in LA?’

‘Lunch,’ he says. ‘I’m eating the world’s biggest bowl of pasta and I thought of you.’

‘Stodgy and pale?’ I say. My skin looks practically blue here amongst the sun-kissed crowds.

He laughs. ‘The waitress’s name is Lydia.’

‘Oh.’ My limited knowledge of LA conjures up a Cameron Diaz-style roller-skating queen with Jonah’s pasta held aloft on a tray as she pirouettes between tables.

‘So seriously, is it going well?’

He pauses. ‘You know what, it really is,’ he says, half laughing, incredulous. ‘Scarily so.’

‘That’s good though, right?’

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