The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,35

slid straight back into it as if I’m still fourteen years old. It’s comforting, I find, as I push the lurid box into the top of my bag and try to screw up the courage to walk through the staff entrance of the town hall for the first time in over eighty days. They know I’m coming, of course, and I’m sure they’ll bend over backwards to make things as easy as possible for me, but all the same I’m fighting to keep my toast down as I take a here-goes-nothing deep breath and climb out of the car.

‘Like a boss,’ I mutter, lifting my chin and lowering my shoulders until my shoulder blades almost touch. ‘Like a boss.’ I’m channelling a kick-ass character off one of the American TV programmes I love, someone far more sassy and no-nonsense than I am. Meghan Markle in Suits, maybe. Up to now, the relaxed dress code of jeans and T-shirts at work has always been a bonus, but right now I’d quite like to hide behind a power suit, spike heels and a chignon.

I stare at the security key pad on the door, and poke half-heartedly at the silver buttons. They don’t work of course; the code changes every few weeks, for no real reason other than procedure, because there’s very little point to anyone bothering to break in. What would they take? Well-read books from the town’s library housed on the ground floor? We’re probably one of the last remaining places to still rely on the library cards and stamp system. Delia, our octogenarian librarian, wouldn’t cope with anything more up to date. Our office upstairs isn’t much better equipped when it comes to technology – a couple of old PCs and a photocopier is about as good as it gets. Some might call it charming; others might deem it out of the ark. Both are accurate descriptions. There’s a pleasing old-school vibe to working here, but it can frustrate the hell out of me when things don’t get replaced until they literally fall apart. This bloody security lock, for instance, with clunky buttons you have to stab at as if you’re in a foul temper. I’m not in a foul temper, but I am fast getting cold feet and considering bolting back to my car, when an arm lands heavily over my shoulders. I find myself pulled into a sideways hug, pressed against the side of Phil, my boss.

‘Lydia, thank God you’ve come back,’ he says, squeezing me as he reaches over and attacks the key pad with gusto. ‘The place has gone to pot without you.’

It’s exactly what I need to hear. No pomp and ceremony, no carefully worded welcome-back interview. Phil is one of those bosses everyone adores, full of bonhomie and charisma, a man who naturally connects with people – so much so that he boomingly offered to be Dawn’s birth partner if her husband happened to be working away when it all kicked off. Thankfully, she didn’t need to take him up on the offer, but we all had a bit of a laugh at the idea of him scrubbing up and getting in there at the business end. I don’t doubt that he genuinely would have, too, had the need arisen.

‘Look who I found trying to break in the back door,’ he says as he leads me into the upstairs office.

It’s stupid to be nervous, but I am. I’ve worked here for the last five years: these people know me; I know them. But they knew Freddie too, and they’re all looking at me round-eyed and I can tell that right now they’re thinking: Shit, what in God’s name do we say to her, will she dissolve into tears if I say his name, will she be offended if I don’t, I think I’ll just look incredibly busy and smile and see how things go after a cuppa.

‘Cuppa?’ Dawn asks on cue, and I nod gratefully as she makes a bolt for the kitchen.

My desk next to the window looks as if it’s become the general dumping ground, piled high with brochures and boxes, and my chair is nowhere to be seen. I’m not sure how to feel – relieved no one has jumped in and bagged my plum spot beside the only window in the room, or miserable because they haven’t thought ahead enough to make it welcoming. Ryan, twenty-two and prime fodder for a spot on Love Island with his blue-black hair and