The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,138
really, not mine, but maybe tonight I can find the right words for both of us.
Dear Jonah,
So, I read the manuscript and I love it – of course I do. I cried on page one, and to be honest, all the way through, because Freddie is there on every page. You’ve brought him, and us, to life with your magic words.
I’m not surprised people have fallen in love with your story. I have too – I’m so very, terribly proud of you. But, Jonah, here’s the thing. I think they’re right – you should change the ending.
Every story has a beginning, a middle and, if you’re lucky, a happy ending – your characters deserve that much after everything they’ve been through. Your audience does too. Let people leave the theatre with empty popcorn buckets but hearts full of hope, because surely there’s more than one happy ending for everyone?
I wish I could say all of this to you in person, but I think we both know Phil would fire me if I asked for any more time off at the moment! Besides … some things are difficult to say out loud, so maybe it’s as well.
You and me … it’s complicated, isn’t it? But then again it isn’t, really, when you think about it. We both loved Freddie – if he was still here, I’d be his wife and you’d be his best friend, and I don’t for a minute think that would have ever changed. We’d have all grown old, although I don’t think he’d have ever truly grown up.
But he isn’t here. There’s just you and me. We’re for ever changed because we loved him, and things changed for ever because we lost him. But aren’t we lucky to have shared so much? We have a for-ever bond. I can’t imagine sharing my life with someone who didn’t know him.
Change the ending, Jonah.
Love Lydia x
Wednesday 29 January
I almost didn’t mail the letter, because I’m not sure our friendship can survive it. I queued in the post office, anxious, and in front of me a small child reached up and slid his hand into his mum’s. It reminded me of that grey pebble being slipped into my hand for luck, and it gave me just enough courage to pass the letter over.
That was more than three weeks ago and he hasn’t replied. I’ve imagined any number of reasons why. Perhaps the letter got lost in the post and he’s out there in LA thinking I haven’t bothered to read the script – or worse, that I read it and hate it. Or maybe he’s got it and he’s mortified because I’ve read the signs all wrong and he doesn’t know how to let me down gently. Or it could be that he’s moved to Vegas and married a showgirl, my letter still unopened on his doormat. If it’s that one, I hope someone does me the kindness of scrawling ‘return to sender’ on the envelope.
‘I wish your mother had never introduced me to these,’ Ryan says, unwrapping his mint biscuit. He’s surreptitiously eating his lunch behind the front desk in the library, breaking my no food or drink rule. I don’t mind; he comes down every now and then to spend his lunch break with us, drawn as much by Flo and Mary as me, I suspect. They’re both in this afternoon, sitting either side of Ryan behind the desk.
‘How’s it going with Kate?’ I ask. He’s been seeing Kate, the Uma-Thurman lookalike who ran the speed-dating sessions, for a while now. They bumped into each other in the supermarket a couple of months after the event; as he tells it their eyes met over the cucumbers, but I think he’s embroidering the truth for the sake of comedy.
‘Good.’ His ears turn pink. ‘She’s …’ He puts his biscuit down while he thinks. ‘You know that place in town next to the dry-cleaner’s?’
I frown as I try to bring the high street to mind. ‘The butcher’s?’
‘Best pork pies for miles,’ Mary says.
Ryan rolls his eyes. ‘The other side.’
‘The fancy-dress shop?’ I say.
Ryan nods. ‘She’s into all that stuff.’
Flo rubs her hands together. ‘Does she want you to dress up as Batman?’
He blanches, and we all laugh even though it’s terribly indiscreet of him to say anything.
‘I’m going to put this lot back in the children’s section.’ I pick up an armful of books. ‘Don’t go bonking anything while I’m gone.’
I’ve grown to love my library. The kids’ section is my haven, set off in a side room to contain the noise, with graceful bay windows overlooking the street. I’ve reshelved the books and tidied the tables, and I take a breather for a few minutes on one of the deep window seats to watch the rain-damp street scene. People coming, people going. I don’t realize there’s anyone else in the room with me until I turn back and find Jonah Jones leaning on the doorframe in his winter coat, watching me.
I’m held bone still by the surprise of seeing him here; we stare at each other for a few silent beats across the room. His dark eyes tell me he’s crossed the ocean to see me and now he’s here he doesn’t know how to play this, and I can’t help him because I don’t know either.
He breaks first.
‘I changed the ending.’
‘You did?’
He walks towards me, almost within touching distance. ‘You were right. There’s more than one happy ending for everyone.’
I swallow hard. ‘Did the studio prefer it?’
‘They love it,’ he says softly, his lashes rain-spiked as he looks down.
‘And you?’ I sit on my hands because they’re desperate to reach for him. ‘Do you love it?’
He lifts his eyes to mine again.
‘I was worried it might feel too fairy tale,’ he says. ‘Too clichéd. But it doesn’t. He tells her he’s loved her for as long as he can remember. That he wants her to be his Friday nights and his Christmas mornings, and that every love song he’s ever written has been about her. He tells her he wants to be the one who holds her to sleep every night. That he wants his happy ending to be with her.’
I slide off the window seat and step towards him.
‘And then, because she told him there’s more than one happy ending for everyone, he kisses her.’
‘Wow,’ I whisper. ‘It sounds like a smash hit. I love it.’
I reach for him and he folds me inside his coat, close enough to feel his heart banging against mine. The studio will probably set the final kiss outside in torrential rain and lay a romantic soundtrack over it, but they’ll never come anywhere close to capturing the reverence in Jonah’s eyes as he lowers his head, or the tremble of his mouth when it touches mine, or the beautiful ache of our slow first kiss. It isn’t the bittersweet teenage kiss that never happened. It’s adult and electric, soft yet urgent. I hold his face between my hands and press myself against him, and he sighs my name and lifts his head just enough to be able to look down at me. We stare at each other, breathless, wondrous, and I realize it isn’t rain on his eyelashes. He’s crying.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Katy Loftus, editor, genius and friend, and to the brilliant team at Viking for your continuing support. Thank you more widely to everyone at Penguin, notably the mighty foreign rights team for sharing Lydia around the world.
I’m immensely grateful to Hilary Teeman and the fantastic team at Ballantine in the US. How lucky I am to work with you, your input and support means a great deal to me.
Many thanks to my overseas publishers, I’m honoured to work with you all.
Thank you to Jemima Forrester and everyone at David Higham for your help.
Much love and thanks to Kathrin Magyar for your generous charity bid to have your name appear in the book – I hope you approve of your character!
I must say a special and affectionate thank you to all of the people who have shared their stories with me, both online and in person. Grief is such a difficult subject to talk about – you have informed, inspired and touched me beyond measure.
I am, of course, unendingly grateful to everyone who reads Lydia’s story. Thank you for choosing to spend your time with The Birds, for chatting to me on social media, and for helping to spread the word. I’m unfailingly blown away by your fabulous pictures and blog posts.
Last, but not least, my family, past and present. This book in particular has been richly informed by you all, you lovely, crazy bunch! A word or a glance here, a laugh or a memory there – you’re all fabulous and I love you lots.
THE NEXT SWEEP-YOU-OFF-YOUR-FEET LOVE STORY FROM JOSIE SILVER