Page 84 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

He’s dressed now, his case packed.

‘I’ll see you when I get back,’ he says, raw. ‘Try not to hate me.’

I look at him, hurt beyond measure. I don’t say anything because I’m not capable of offering the soothing words he wants to hear.

He nods, hesitates as if he wants to say more, but doesn’t. He picks up his suitcase and leaves.

Tuesday 23 July

Everything is wrong. I came to Croatia to be with Freddie, blissful and uninterrupted. To picnic in Central Park, to take in a show on Broadway, to try on diamonds we could never afford in Tiffany’s. We were going to throw away the guidebooks and wander the backstreets in search of our own adventure, admire brownstones, eat delicious things in cafes that don’t rate well on TripAdvisor. We were going to do all of those marvellous things, but I’ve now realized that making new memories with Freddie means I’m trampling on my old precious memories of him.

I’ve turned our bruising argument over in my head a thousand times, examined it from every angle, trying to find something that isn’t there because my stubborn heart is desperate not to admit the truth. That the girl I used to be would likely have found it in herself to let Freddie leave, she’d have understood that he needed to go. Try not to hate me, he said; I feel sick remembering the look on his face. But I can’t shake the fact that the girl I am now knows it would have been wrong to accept him leaving. Damn it, Freddie should have said no to Vince, he should have put us first. But he didn’t, and I can’t square that with myself.

The thing about losing the love of your life is that you get to make up what would have happened afterwards. You’re entitled to dream all of your tomorrows would have been perfect because you loved them so much, you’re allowed to flex and bend every situation in your head so they’d say and do all the right things. Your love story never really ends because your brain paints them into every photograph and they’re there beside you on all of your special days. They don’t argue with you or fall short of your expectations, they don’t make questionable decisions and they absolutely, categorically, never run out on you halfway through your honeymoon.

I’m in a terrible mess. I’ve cried the frightened, body-racking sobs of a lost child. I crave the comfort of my mum’s arms and Elle’s everything’s-going-to-be-okay hug, but they’re oceans away. I came all this way to be with Freddie, but I’ve never felt more alone in my life.

Saturday 3 August

‘Take more water with you.’ Vita turns to the glass fridge behind her and pulls out a couple of bottles, pushing them across the counter to me. ‘Here.’

It’s relatively early on Saturday morning, just after seven, and Vita insisted that I take the day off. I’ve been here for almost two weeks now, and I haven’t taken another pill since that terrible trip back when I first arrived.

I’ve worked most days, by choice rather than demand. At first I did it just to get out of my head, but soon I realized there’s something freeing about tying the restaurant’s red apron around my body and picking up the notepad and pen – it beats any kind of paid therapy. I’ve toasted the blueness out of my skin on the beach for a couple of hours most mornings, and come lunchtime I’ve thrown on shorts and slicked on a little lip gloss to morph into Vita’s wing-woman. More often than not my evenings have ended chatting to Jonah on Skype, my feet propped up on the balcony and my eyes on the stars. It’s a simple, soul-nourishing routine. Clean and cathartic, as if by some miracle I’ve ended up exactly where I needed to be, in a safe place to hide from both my lives.

In quieter moments Vita and I have taken refuge inside from the heat, swapping stories and photographs. I’ve seen her on the day she married Petar eight years previously, a man of few words but good heart. I know she’s one of six siblings, aunt to more than ten, and that she and Petar long for a child of their own. In turn she’s heard news of Elle and the new baby, seen photos of my folks, and is vaguely aware that I do organizational things in my local town hall. I’m sure she’s also aware that there are elephant-sized chunks of my life I haven’t been able to share yet, and I greatly appreciate that she hasn’t asked. Truth be told, I’ve got a bit of a hero-worship-style crush on her. What I wouldn’t give for even half her serenity; she radiates quiet strength and good humour in a way that makes her addictive company to me. She seems to run the restaurant with little more than the occasional flick of her fingers and a smile. I expect she could run the country in the same way if she was of a mind. Lucky Petar and, for a little while, lucky me.

‘You remember the way?’

I nod. ‘Think so.’

I’m going to see some of the local sights, taking Vita’s moped to save the walk. I don’t think I’d have ridden one myself if I’d come here with Freddie, he’d have picked the biggest thing going and asked for a second helmet for me. It’s kind of liberating travelling under my own steam like one of the locals. People here have already become accustomed to me, greeting me by name thanks to my status as one of Vita’s friends.

‘It’s a straight road,’ she says. ‘Don’t hurry yourself back.’

I roll my eyes. It’s Saturday so bound to be extra busy around here and I don’t especially feel the need to take the time out.

‘And don’t grumble,’ she smiles. ‘It spoils your lovely face. You have to see the tourist sights while you’re here.’

‘You sound like my mum.’

‘In that case, your mother is a very wise woman.’ She reaches under the desk for the moped key. ‘It has enough fuel if you want to explore.’

‘I’ll be back soon. Before lunch.’

‘Don’t be.’

We lock eyes and then laugh as I swing my backpack over my shoulders. She follows me out to the moped and puts a paper bag in the basket on the front. I spy the end of a baguette poking out.

‘Your lunch,’ she says, unsubtle.

I swing my leg over the moped and fasten the helmet beneath my chin.

‘See you in a while,’ I say.

Vita nods, her arms folded across her chest. ‘I’ll be here.’

I’m not religious, but at Vita’s suggestion I find myself parking up at the Shrine of Vepric on the outskirts of the town. It’s early enough to still be quiet here, intensifying the volume of the crickets and the pervading sense of peace. The shrine is nestled at the base of a wooded hill. Croatia seems to have been created from a paintbox of vibrant turquoise and verdant green, never more so than here as I climb the wide stone steps towards the shrine. A couple of other people mill around, as quiet in their observation as I am in mine.

---