Page 63 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘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,’ I say, thinking of how lost Jonah is in my waking life. If music is gone from his life, he’s in even more trouble than I thought. Maybe Wales is the best place for him after all.

Dee plonks herself down on the table behind us, and I excuse myself to go to the loo.

Locked in the cubicle, I sit on the lowered lid and pull my phone from my bag, as much from habit as the desire to check it. I need a breather.

My screen saver flashes up. Paris in the snow, rather than the stock image I’ve opted for in my waking life. I lean my head against the cubicle wall and stare at it, vividly remembering my numb hands around a cup of coffee, frozen icicles on cafe awnings, cold-lipped kisses. It feels strange when I think of it, more like a scene from a movie than my own life.

‘Okay in there?’

I jump. I’ve obviously been hogging the only cubicle for too long.

‘One minute,’ I say, shoving my phone back into my bag and flushing even though I haven’t used the loo. The woman waiting gives me a bit of a curious look when I emerge, and I can see why when I catch myself in the mirror – I’ve become a rocky-horror bride. Sighing, I rub cold water underneath my eyes with my fingertips to get rid of the mascara streaks. This isn’t how my hen night was supposed to end, crying in the bloody loo.

Outside, I stand in the cool, quarry-tiled corridor, unsure if I want to head back into the noisy bar or just call it a night and go home. The bar door opens, letting through a blast of music and raucous noise and Jonah Jones.

‘Are you hiding?’ he asks, smiling as the door closes behind him, blocking out the noise.

‘No,’ I say as he draws level with me. ‘Yes, a bit.’

‘You’re pretty difficult to miss in that thing.’ He points towards my veil as he leans his back against the opposite wall.

I nod and untangle it from my hair, wishing I’d binned it in the toilets.

‘It isn’t from my wallet,’ he says. ‘Just so you know.’

It takes me a second or two to realize he’s talking about the red-foiled condom.

‘Dee bought them.’

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