The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,50

slide down my jean-clad backside and he lifts me clean off the floor.

‘I think you should kiss me like this on the actual day,’ he says.

‘Be a bit impractical in my dress,’ I say, locking my legs around his waist. He holds me there and looks me in the eye, laughing.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, getting me going in a place like this.’

I hug him, really, really tight. He hugs me back, and for that one golden minute, I’m one hundred per cent happy.

Tuesday 25 December

‘Gin and tonic.’ Elle hands me a drink. ‘Heavy on the gin.’

She touches the rim of her glass against mine, in solidarity rather than celebration. We all knew that today would be hard; for a couple of days last week I wasn’t even planning on coming to Mum’s at all. Freddie and I never had that awkward tussle of alternating whose family we went to for Christmas Day, because his mum has spent the festive season in Spain for at least the last decade. Which made the thought of today even worse. I had a bit of a meltdown, truth be told. Christmas is just so in your face, isn’t it? On the radio, in the shops, on everyone’s lips. The worst of it is that I love Christmas. I’m a total sucker for the movies, the glitter, the food. I start celebrating in October, planning which movies to watch, writing endlessly changing lists of gifts to buy and meals to attempt.

Perhaps because Freddie was such a big kid, he really threw himself into the whole season, whipping everyone else up with him. Jonah texted me a photo this morning, one from their teenage years when Freddie bought them both ridiculous Christmas hats with flashing red bobbles. It’s silly and joyful, their fraternal bond brighter even than their hats. They were both only children, but in each other they’d found a brother. I called him quickly and it was good to hear his voice and feel able to tell each other how much we miss Freddie today. I cried my first tears of the day when he said he missed me too; he always used to come over to ours for Christmas morning bacon sandwiches. Jonah’s in Wales for Christmas this year, Dee has family there. I expect there’s an element of running away too, but I can’t blame him. I sent him back a photo of the bike Freddie bought me a couple of Christmases ago, because I’d once told him I always had Elle’s hand-me-downs as a kid. He hid it outside in the garden with a huge red bow on it. I felt about eight years old. I looked it too, delightedly trying out my new ride up and down the street along with two other shiny new bike owners, both of them under ten. I’m pretty sure my whoops were the loudest.

There’s none of that easy joy today; we’re all subdued, brittle, smiling because we need to rather than because we want to. I feel bad that my whole family have had their Christmas overshadowed too. It’s as if a huge raven has landed on the roof and folded his wings down over the windows, dulling the lights on the tree and underscoring the day with melancholy. At least it’s just us, though. My Auntie June tried her best to get us to go to them for a change, which was lovely of her, but we decided to stay put in the end. Going somewhere else wouldn’t have lessened the impact of Freddie’s absence, and at least here I can sob into my turkey if I need to. I feel a bit bad for Auntie June though, I know she’d have loved to have us all over, if only to water down the acerbic effects of my cousin Lucy.

‘Your mum’s in a panic, she’s forgotten to put the roast potatoes in,’ David says, coming through from the kitchen wearing his customary Christmas jumper. He and Freddie used to try to out-jumper each other, every year more garish than the last. David wasn’t going to wear one at all today; Elle told me so a week or two ago, sending me instantly online to remedy it. I went for one bearing a huge reindeer in sunglasses with flashing antlers – I think it would have been Freddie’s choice had he been here. I gave it to David just now and he made a bad job of hiding his emotions as he