The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,60
And then he’s gone, jogging and then running, putting as much distance between us and our sorrow as quickly as he can.
I move back into the shadows of the house, into my silent, lonely hallway, and sit on the bottom step of the staircase, my head resting against the wall. It’s nine months now since Freddie died. In nine months I could have grown a whole new human. I didn’t though; I lost my favourite human in the world instead, and now, inevitably, I’ve gone and lost one of my oldest friends too.
2019
* * *
Thursday 3 January
I’ve holed myself up at home and lied to my family that I’ve got a rotten case of sickness and diarrhoea to stop them from coming to visit me. It wouldn’t usually keep them at bay, but Elle’s being careful because of the baby and Mum and Auntie June have gone for their customary kick-off-the-new-year-in-style spa weekend. They tried to cajole me into going, hence the fictitious bug I don’t want to pass around like a belated Christmas prezzie.
I’ve missed Freddie intensely these last few days. The times I get to see him are magical, but I’ve missed him keenly here in my long waking hours. I look at my watch. I’ve been up for a couple of hours but it’s still only eight thirty in the morning, barely light. I’m going to force myself into basic self-care in a while: take a shower, heat up some soup, watch the last remnants of holiday TV. I’ve been wallowing since New Year, unable or unwilling to scoop myself up. I’m kind enough to myself to acknowledge that perhaps I needed to go low, an inevitable reaction to the high emotion of the holiday season, but it can’t go on. I have to show up for work, and for life, on Monday, so I need to clean myself up, eat, maybe even put a wash on and drag the hoover around. I tried to call Elle just now. She didn’t answer; morning sickness has kicked in over the last couple of days, so she’s probably sleeping.
I sit in the corner of the sofa and pull my knees into my chest. I daren’t call Jonah, not after the way we left things on New Year’s Eve. He was right, I know – it doesn’t help either of us to be around each other any more. I honestly don’t know if that will ever change, a thought that makes me rest my chin on my knees, weary. There’s no getting away from it. I’m deeply lonely. My eyes settle on the pill bottle on the mantelpiece and my resolve to spend the day doing productive things evaporates, because there’s a place I can go where I won’t feel so alone.
Thursday 3 January
This isn’t our bed. This isn’t our bedroom. I lie perfectly still in the shaded grey morning light, my eyes sliding over the ornate plaster roses on the high ceiling above us and the full-length silk curtains drawn across the windows. Freddie is sprawled out on the pillows beside me, one arm flung over his face as it so often is when he sleeps. I take a moment to study him in this half-light; he’s fast out, his mouth slightly open, his eyes flickering beneath his eyelids as if he’s dreaming.
Where are we? I’ve never seen this elegant room before. It’s far too grand to be the spare room of anyone we know; there’s no Ikea furniture in here, for starters. It’s a hotel, I’m sure of it.
My toes sink into the carpet as I slide out of bed and cross to the window to peep round the side of the curtains. And then I slide my whole pyjama-clad body behind the curtain to get a better look, and gasp softly, overcome. It’s snowing out there, fat white wonderland flakes, and it’s unmistakably Paris. Of course it is. God, it’s picture-book beautiful. My breath mists the cold glass as a queue forms outside a small boulangerie down below, and before I can think too much I move around the room and throw my clothes on to go outside and join the throng. I’ve clearly come here prepared for a winter break: my boots and warm coat are by the door, and I wind Freddie’s scarf round my neck before I slip quietly from the room. The scent of him fills my head as I bury my face in the soft wool, and for a second I stand