Page 44 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

I nod and he pulls me to my frozen feet. ‘Can we find somewhere warm?’

He pulls my bobble hat further down to cover my ears. ‘Yes.’ His phone buzzes in his coat pocket, but he ignores it.

‘Do you need to get that?’ I say, because work have been blowing his phone up on and off for most of the morning.

‘Nope,’ he says. ‘Whoever it is can piss off. I’m in Paris with my favourite girl.’

I smile because it’s a lovely thing to say, but I shiver too. It might have been the snowflakes settling on the exposed skin at the back of my neck, or it might have been because the Freddie I knew would never have been able to resist checking it wasn’t something urgent. Although things in this life often feel exactly the same, they’re very subtly different. It’s unsettling.

Every street we look down seems to have a breathtaking monument lolling nonchalantly at the end of it, all of them calling us to come closer and comment on their grandness. It’s a city built to be admired, never more so than today with the snowstorm bleaching the scene greyscale and dramatic. It’s as if we’re starring in our own black-and-white movie. Parisians wander past us immersed in each other or heads down, intent on getting where they need to be; the city belongs to them in the winter, before the hordes of tourists move in as soon as it warms up. Today it’s theirs and, miraculously, it’s ours too.

‘Wow,’ I say, slowing in front of a colossal building surrounded by soaring stone columns. My city map informs me it’s La Madeleine, a church.

‘It looks almost Roman, doesn’t it?’ I lay my hand against one of those monumental columns as I wander up the wide steps, irresistibly drawn inside by the sheer scale and grandeur. Freddie joins me and we walk slowly hand in hand across the marble floor, awestruck by the size and beauty of the place. It steals my breath; decadent chandeliers cast a warm glow over the lavish frescos decorating the domed ceilings and there is an overwhelming sense of peace and reverence, an oasis in the hustle of the city. We’re not religious people, Freddie and I, but still I’m moved by the history and the atmosphere of reflection. We reach a bank of white taper candles lit by visitors in remembrance of lost loved ones, and when I glance at Freddie I find him digging around in his pocket for change. I can’t manage any words as he slips coins into the donation box and picks up a couple of candles. He rarely talks about the father he lost as a child; he was too young to have many memories to cherish but still his absence has been keenly felt. It’s one of the things that used to bug me the most – that he wouldn’t open up to me about it. But that’s just how he was brought up. His mum is very ‘live for the moment’. I sometimes think it comes over as selfish, but it’s probably more that she is a product of her own upbringing too. She was a beauty queen in her day, very adored and looked after by her own parents and then by Freddie’s dad. And then by Freddie.

I’m not sure why he hands me a candle too; for my grandparents perhaps, or out of politeness. I watch him sigh as he chooses a place for his act of remembrance amongst the other candles. Some stand tall, others have burned down to almost nothing. And then he turns and lights the wick of my candle, and I’ll never forget the look in his eyes – it’s as if he knows. He holds my gaze, and for a little while we just stand and stare at each other. This is it. This is all of our tomorrows, every day of our love concentrated into one small light that will burn out too soon. My hand shakes as I try to decide where to place my candle. In the end I stand it beside Freddie’s.

‘Time to go,’ he says, his arm around my shoulder. I take one long, last look at the candles over my shoulder as we reach the doorway. Two tall white cenotaphs. One for a much-missed father, one for his beloved son.

‘This place?’

We pause outside a tiny corner cafe, its emerald-and-gold-striped awnings bowed heavy with snow. It’s busy inside, but the outside tables are sheltered from the weather, so I nod and home in on a spot near the glow of a space heater. Freddie orders moules-frites, but for me it has to be hot chocolate and a cinnamon pastry. I know, croissants for breakfast and pastries for lunch, but I’m in Paris, after all. For a few minutes we sit and thaw out, watching the city slide by, drinking it all in. The traffic crawls slowly thanks to the inclement weather, and the people who pass us by are hunkered down into their jackets and scarves against the swirling snow.

I look away from the scene to Freddie’s appreciative smile as the waiter places his lunch down. His eyes light up at the sight of his food, the rich scent of wine and garlic on the air. How I wish I could preserve us just as we are right now inside a snow globe, two miniature for-ever lovers having lunch beneath the striped awning of a Parisian cafe. It’s one of those press-pause moments, the kind of unexpected perfect you only get a handful of, and because no one knows to appreciate those moments more than me, I do. I press pause in my head and commit it all to memory, every last detail. The exact pattern of the metal lattice chairs, the particular shade of blue of Freddie’s scarf, the tiny ceramic floral motif on the heavy silver cutlery, the bronze sugar crust on my pastry. And then, as if to remind me there’s no such thing as perfect, my mobile rattles on the tabletop and a message flashes in from David.

Sorry to bother you on holiday, Lydia, but I thought you’d want to know this straight away. Elle lost the baby. She’s okay – well, as well as she can be, she’s sleeping now. Call me when you can. X

Thursday 3 January

I jolt upright on the sofa, my heart racing far too fast to be healthy, as out of breath as if I’ve run to catch the last train. I grab for my mobile and scan it quickly, but there are no missed calls or messages. I brave Facebook and see the green online dot next to Elle’s name, so I fire off a quick message to check she’s okay in as vague a way as possible. She replies almost straight away: she knows it’s early days but do I fancy pushchair shopping next weekend?

The relief. I slump back against the cushions. Up to now the sleeping visits have been my saving grace, my way back, my sanity and my sanctuary. But this … Elle. I somehow hadn’t imagined that bad stuff, really bad stuff, might happen there too.

Sunday 6 January

‘How is she?’ I ask, making David a coffee because he looks knackered. Elle’s in the shower so I take the opportunity to find out how she really is before she tells me that she’s fine.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table and rubs his fingers over his eyes. ‘Not too bad, mostly,’ he says. ‘She was upset this morning, but she ate some of the soup your mum brought round.’

I know I resolved to take the pills less frequently, but I couldn’t stay away when I know what my sister is going through. I spoke to Mum briefly on the way here and she’s worrying herself sick about them both. Their faces on Christmas Day, their joy, and now this. It’s so cruel.

‘And you?’ I say, wrapping my arms around David’s shoulders.

‘I wanted to call him Jack, after my dad,’ he says. ‘If it was a boy.’

He leans his head into the crook of my arm and, to my distress, he cries. We stay like that for a couple of minutes, and then he reaches for the tea towel and swipes it over his eyes.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t expect that to happen.’

I squeeze his shoulder. ‘Don’t feel like you always have to be the strong one,’ I say, because I know he’ll have been holding it together for Elle.

We turn at the sound of my sister coming downstairs. She’s wearing plain navy cotton PJs, and her wet hair is brushed back from her colourless face. She looks about fourteen years old.

‘Hiya,’ she smiles. ‘You didn’t need to come, I told you not to worry. Mum’s been here, and David’s mum this morning too.’

‘I know,’ I say. I want to hug her or something but she’s flitting from job to job, straightening cups, replenishing the kitchen-roll holder, emptying the dishwasher. I don’t push the issue because I’ve been where she is – heartbroke brittle, not wanting people to touch me in case I lose it. ‘I won’t stay too long.’

‘Why don’t you two go through and watch a bit of telly?’ David says. ‘I’ll bring you a cuppa.’ He looks to me for back-up.

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