The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,114
I do remember reading about the closure. The important fact is that he bothered to check.
‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ I guess again, holding my breath because reservations at The Blue Box Cafe are rarer than hen’s teeth.
He holds out on me for a few seconds and then laughs, shrugging. ‘Tomorrow at ten a.m.’
‘No way!’ I say, delighted, sitting up on one elbow to look at him. I’ve TripAdvisored the cafe to death and mooned over their blue-and-white crockery, the Tiffany-blue leather banquettes.
‘And then Wicked tomorrow evening,’ Freddie expands, keen for praise. ‘That’s the one you want to see, right?’
I nod, glad he’s listened to me and not gone for something newer. We never seem to make the time for a weekend away in London to catch a show, and grabbing tickets for the big productions when they tour is nigh on impossible. I tried to get Wicked tickets a couple of years back but missed out. I’m glad now because I get to see it on Broadway. Broadway! I laugh, giddy, and flop back down into Freddie’s arms. ‘You’re my favourite person in the world,’ I tell him. Musical theatre isn’t his bag – I know this is just to make me happy.
‘Your favourite husband,’ he corrects me.
‘That too,’ I say, pressing my face into his neck and breathing deeply. He smells of expensive hotel toiletries, of joy and of New York, New York.
The bathroom is something else again. Floor-to-ceiling marble everywhere I look. I bathe in Bvlgari and envelop myself in a heavy white robe and slippers, feeling as if I’ve stepped inside a movie. We’re due downstairs in a little while for afternoon tea and champagne. How frankly fabulous is that? Our honeymoon is everything I could have wished for. Freddie has pulled out all the stops to make my first days as his wife as memorable as possible.
I expect to find him still in bed when I head back through, but he isn’t. I spy him out on the terrace in his robe, and as I step closer to the doors I see he’s on his phone. I can’t catch any words, but his animated body language and pacing tells me it’s work. It irks me, but it doesn’t surprise me that Vince wouldn’t respect the fact that we are on our honeymoon. I know Freddie could have ignored the call, but he wouldn’t, and I’m sure Vince knew that perfectly well.
I’m untangling my damp hair when he finally comes back inside, and I catch his eye in the mirror, hoping his mood isn’t ruined.
‘Everything okay?’
He drops down on the armchair and runs his hands through his hair. ‘No.’
I place the comb on the dressing table and scoot round on the stool to face him. ‘What’s wrong?’ I don’t really want to talk about work, but it’s clear he needs to decompress after the call, to get whatever it is off his chest so he can transition back into honeymoon mode.
‘Babe …’
Something in his tone alerts me to incoming trouble. He doesn’t generally call me ‘babe’, he knows I don’t really like it, but I don’t comment because he’s scrubbing his palms over his cheeks in an agitated, something-isn’t-right way. My mind starts to spiral. Is the company in crisis? Has he lost his job?
‘What’s wrong, Freddie?’
He shakes his head, then comes over and kneels in front of me. It’s unexpected. Submissive.
‘I need to go to LA, Lyds. Just for a day or so.’
I frown at him, not quite comprehending the problem. ‘Okay,’ I say slowly, and then I realize. ‘So you’ll go straight from JFK on Friday? I need to fly home alone?’
He swallows and looks away. ‘Tonight.’
I’m gobsmacked. ‘Tonight?’
‘It’s just for tomorrow,’ he rushes in, pleading. ‘I’ll be back before you even know it.’
I feel my blood start to heat. ‘You’re kidding, right? You’re on your honeymoon, Freddie. Our honeymoon.’
He’s nodding fast, clearly conflicted. ‘Don’t you think I know that? I said no, Lyds, but it’s crunch time with these clients. They’re on the verge of signing with someone else tomorrow, swooped in out of nowhere offering them the earth. I’ve been romancing them for bloody weeks; I even cut my stag night short for them, remember?’
He’s asking me to understand, but I don’t.
‘It’s not quite on the same scale though, is it?’ I say, staring at him. He can’t genuinely think this is okay, that juggling his stag night around is on a par with running out on his own honeymoon. ‘Say no.’