The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,89

we all look at Lucy, too afraid to laugh.

‘No, she can’t,’ Mum says. ‘I gave them to the charity shop. They were in her good navy handbag.’

I laugh so hard that the strawberry condom bats me in the eye.

It’s after eleven, I’m a glass or two beyond merry, full of hoisin duck, and it would appear that I’m dancing on a table in The Prince of Wales. I guess it was inevitable we’d end up here, just as it was inevitable that Freddie’s stag party would do the same thing. The hen party whittled down to a coop of three after the restaurant; Dawn and Julia shared a taxi home, and a still-frosty Lucy was designated driver for Mum and Auntie June, leaving me, Elle and Dee to wind our way through the doors of The Prince just after half past ten with a Destiny’s Child-like confidence. I don’t know which of us would be Beyoncé. Not me, for certain. But what we lack in talent we make up for with enthusiasm as we lead the pub in a rousing chorus of ‘All the Single Ladies’. I don’t actually know the words beyond the chorus, but it doesn’t really matter because no one else here does either. Elle is waving her arms over her head, Dee is doing a shoulder shimmy as she stabs at her ring finger and Freddie is shouting that he’s putting a ring on it in exactly two weeks’ time. Part of me recoils at being referred to only as ‘it’; when I say as much, Freddie blames Beyoncé and hauls me down off the table.

‘Nice dress,’ he grins, setting me down.

‘You think? Not too grown up?’

‘You are all grown up now, Lydia Bird.’ He touches the lace neckline of my dress. ‘It’s different on you, but good different.’

Yes, I think, it’s different. Jonah appears, switching the empty beer bottle in Freddie’s hand for a fresh one as he dips in and swerves the condom to kiss my cheek.

‘Great singing up there,’ he lies.

‘Mind the …’ I say, gesturing vaguely towards the veil and its various appendages.

Jonah shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe you actually wore it.’

‘You knew?’

He reaches out and taps the condom packet. ‘Stapled that one there myself at midnight last night.’

‘From your wallet?’ Freddie laughs. ‘Hang on to it, Lyds, it might be worth something at the Antiques Roadshow.’

I screw my nose up, not impressed. Obviously I appreciate the effort Dee has made, ably assisted by Jonah. I’m grateful too that Freddie and co have ended their evening here tonight rather than in town, a last-minute scale-down because Freddie is needed at work tomorrow to prep for an important new client. It’s all very hush-hush, someone they’re wooing in the hope of poaching them from under their closest rival’s nose. He lives for that thrill, so much so that he’s prepared to curtail his own stag night in order to be the most prepared person in the room come Monday. Another life tip cribbed from Barack Obama, no doubt.

Half an hour later and Jonah is on the piano, Elle is in a distant corner on David’s knee and Dee is leaning against me in that I-don’t-think-I-can-stand-independently way that suggests she’s had enough to drink.

‘Don’t say anything to him,’ she says, poking her straw into the bottle she’s clutching. I’ve no idea what it is; it’s lurid blue and might not have been her best idea this evening.

‘To who?’

She pulls her straw from her drink and taps the dripping end against her ring finger. ‘To Jonah. Elle’s right. He’s Mick Jagger and I’m no Jerry Hall.’

I laugh, because it’s ridiculous. ‘He’s not Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall would eat him alive.’

Dee shakes her head, unconvinced. ‘I can’t even sing, Lydia. He needs Adele, not me. I’ll never be Adele.’

‘You made a pretty good Beyoncé just now,’ I point out. ‘Come on, stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ I give her shoulders a bolstering squeeze. ‘You’ve got great hair.’

‘No, you’ve got great hair,’ she sighs, dramatic. ‘You’ve got Jerry Hall hair.’

‘I wish I’d got her money,’ I joke to keep things light.

We fall silent and watch Jonah. He’s not even looking at the piano keys as he plays, his hands confident and assured, the crowd with him as they always are in here.

‘It’s in his DNA, isn’t it?’ Dee says. ‘Music, I mean.’

I nod, and I’m suddenly despairing from my hen-party heels to the tips of my ridiculous veil because she’s absolutely right. ‘In his bones,’