The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,13

I don’t have any other plans; my Saturday is a blank sheet and I know how nervous she is about her new job. She’s given so much of her time to me since the accident – perhaps I can give a little back.

Okay

I fire it off quickly, before I can let myself say no.

See you in ten.

I feel as if everyone is staring at me as I walk into the pub, like one of those saloon bars in the Wild West where everyone pauses when the doors swing open and glares at the stranger who’s dared to enter their midst. I’m probably over-egging it; in fact, I definitely am, given that there’s fewer than twenty people in the place and half of them are pensioners nursing pints of mild and watching the snooker on the tiny TV up in the far corner.

The Prince of Wales is a proper pub, complete with ill-advised green-and-brown carpet and beer mats from the seventies. Not a gastro menu in sight: Ron behind the bar runs to crusty cheese rolls and pickled onions on match days if you’re lucky. But it’s our local, just around the corner from home, with little appeal to the hipster crowd, beloved by the patrons for exactly that reason. I’ve never once felt nervous coming in here, but I do today. Sickly nervous, in fact, and very alone as I scan the room in search of my sister.

I spy her before she sees me. She’s standing with David and a few others over by the fruit machine, her back angled towards me, wine glass in hand, as she leans in to listen to the guy next to her. I swallow hard as I recognize Freddie’s drinking mates, people we went to school with, guys who’ve been on the fringes of my life for ever. David spots me and lifts his hand, nudging Elle to let her know I’m here. She’s by my side in a flash, her hand sliding into mine.

‘Good girl,’ she says. It could come over as patronizing from someone else, but not from Elle because I know she gets how difficult this is for me, and I also know how much she misses the things we used to do together. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ She squeezes my fingers, a subtle gesture that I appreciate as we make for the bar.

I keep my eyes trained forward, not glancing towards the group by the fruit machine even though I know they must all be looking my way. Truth told, I’ve avoided going anywhere where people knew Freddie because I haven’t been able to face answering questions about how I’m coping, or hearing about their own shock and grief. Is that selfish of me? I just can’t summon the emotional wherewithal to be bothered about them.

Ron, the owner, smiles at Elle and reaches for a fresh glass. ‘Same again?’

His eyes slide to me and it takes him a few seconds to place me as Freddie’s girlfriend. Something akin to panic flashes over his face momentarily before he recovers himself.

Elle nods and turns to me. ‘Lydia?’

For a moment I feel as if this is the first time I have ever been in a pub, confused and hot under the collar, seventeen again, pretending to be old enough to drink. My eyes skate over the bottles too fast and I can feel my heart begin to race.

‘Glass of wine?’ Ron suggests, already reaching a second glass down from the overhead rack, and it’s as much as I can do to nod gratefully. He doesn’t ask what I want, just slides a large glass of something chilled and white in front of me, pats my hand briefly and gives Elle a fierce look when she tries to pay for the drinks.

‘On the house,’ he says, gruff to the point of a growl as he picks up his cloth and polishes the bar, doing his best to act disinterested. I look at Elle and I can see she’s a little choked up by the gesture. I’m getting tearful and Ron is in danger of wearing a hole in the bar, so I pick up my glass with a small, appreciative smile and head for a table in the corner. Elle detours briefly to David and the huddle by the fruit machine, and I take a gulp of wine and glance across to see who’s there. The usual suspects. Deckers and co sinking a few beers before the football; Freddie’s friends of old. Duffy