The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,54

‘We can’t afford to go to Paris.’

He shrugs. ‘I sold my guitar.’

‘You didn’t!’ The words jump from me. His Fender has been with him even longer than I have.

‘When did I last play it?’ he says. ‘It was going to waste in the loft.’

‘But you loved it,’ I say, still shocked.

‘I love you more.’

And there he goes again, shining his spotlight on me. It makes my heart clench to know that he’ll never play his Fender again, but it makes my heart swell too, knowing that he’d sell it to surprise me. I must have mentioned Paris a million times, but I never expected this.

I look into his eyes and all I see there is star-bright love.

‘You’ve really surprised me, Freddie.’

‘Just doing my job.’ He catches hold of my fingertips and kisses them.

I turn my hand over and hold his jaw. ‘Your job, huh?’

He kisses my palm. ‘Making you happy.’

‘You don’t need fancy trips to do that.’

‘You know me, I’m a fancy kinda guy.’ He grins, then looks at me, serious. ‘I wanted to give you something special, that’s all.’

‘Well, you did,’ I say. ‘You always make me feel pretty damn special, Freddie.’

‘Good.’ He taps me on the nose. ‘Can I watch Doctor Who now?’

We watch the Doctor and then the movie that follows it, a plate of turkey sandwiches balanced on the sofa between us.

‘Did you make these pickled onions?’ he asks, almost crying at the cheek-clenching strength of them.

‘Yes,’ I lie. In actual fact, Susan made them; Phil brought a box full of jars into work and begged us to take them off his hands.

‘With battery acid?’

‘So rude,’ I murmur, trying not to shudder as I bite one. They’re really, really sharp.

‘Good job I’m not marrying you for your cooking,’ he says.

‘Or my ironing,’ I say. Very little ironing goes on in our house, and the scant amount that does happen is usually done by Freddie.

‘I’m an enlightened man,’ he says.

‘And you give great gifts,’ I say.

‘Jesus, you’re lucky,’ he says, sliding the empty plate on to the table.

I lie back, my head in his lap.

‘Yes.’ I’m smiling as I close my eyes. ‘Yes, I am.’

I’m dozing, in that blissed-out state you only reach at the end of special days with special people. Freddie’s idly playing with my hair, twisting long strands of it around his fingers like a cat’s cradle.

‘Just so you know, Lyds, the answer is yes,’ he whispers. ‘One day, we will have babies. Lots of them. A whole brood, some of them smart like you, some with my big mouth who we’ll be forever defending when they’re in trouble at school.’

For a few precious seconds I can almost see them, almost hear their footsteps on the stairs. Jesus, Freddie Hunter, I think, more asleep than awake. My heart beats for you.

Monday 31 December

Even on the happiest of years, there is always something terrible about New Year’s Eve, isn’t there? All of that forced bonhomie, the hugs and the back-slapping, followed by the inevitable alcohol-induced tears. I’ve resisted all attempts to get me out of the house tonight – I am resolute in my decision to do my very best to forget about the fact that it is New Year’s Eve at all. I won’t be watching Jools Holland bash out ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on the piano with his celebrity friends, and I won’t be listening to Big Ben chime midnight, heralded by fireworks and TV crews, and Freddie won’t be the first person I kiss to bring in the brand-new year. My family are very unhappy with my insistence on being alone at midnight, so much so that I’ve agreed to spend midday with them instead, hence the reason I’m now dragging my feet as I approach my mother’s cheerful red front door. I don’t want to accept that it’s New Year at all, because much as this year has been an endurance test, come tomorrow I’ll have to say Freddie died last year. It distances him from me in a way that is wholly and thoroughly unacceptable and makes me full of rage and tears. Since our Christmas together, I’ve been feeling lower than I have for a while. My waking life just cannot compete.

‘Love,’ my mum says, opening the door before I can raise my hand to knock. ‘Glad you’re here.’

There’s frost on the pavements outside, but it’s comfortingly warm when I step inside Mum’s hallway.

‘Mind the carpet,’ she says, eyeing my winter boots in a way I know means take them