Page 88 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘She seemed stressed. The baby was crying, I didn’t stay long.’

Mum huffs. I don’t know if it’s at me for not staying long, or Elle for being stressed, or the baby for crying.

‘She isn’t just stressed. She’s struggling, Lydia. You’d know that if you’d been here.’

Ah. Me then, obviously. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘No,’ Mum says. ‘Clearly.’

It’s as if my prolonged absence has soaked up any residues of sympathy they had for me and flushed them down the sink.

‘I’m sorry for interrupting you … you know.’

She glances down at her blouse, knowing she’s buttoned it up wrong.

‘Poor Stef,’ she says, shaking her head.

‘Sorry.’

‘Will you stop bloody apologizing? It’s not helping.’

I clam up, unsure what to do or say.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asks eventually.

I shake my head. Shopping is next on my list today; the cupboards are bare. She opens the fridge and pulls out a half-empty glass dish of lasagne and pushes it into my hands.

‘Here. Take that with you.’

I stare down at it, stupidly close to tears because both of my most special people have dismissed me from their homes today. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

She nods and then looks away out of the window.

‘I’ll be off then,’ I say. ‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’

She nods again, tight-lipped.

‘It’s really nice to see you, Mum,’ I say quietly. ‘I missed you.’

I turn away and leave, and she lets me.

I climb into my car, tearful and rejected, and as I drive the familiar streets towards home, I know it’s finally time to go back.

Tuesday 24 September

He isn’t here. I’ve found the courage to return at last, but the house is empty. Further inspection tells me that there’s none of Freddie’s favourite beer in the fridge and the washing basket contains only my clothes. Where is he? We’ve only been married a couple of months. I start to panic. Was our argument in New York the catalyst for change? Did I derail our happiness to the extent that our fledgling marriage has hit the rocks? I pour myself some juice, my hand shaking as I pick up my phone in search of answers.

Two messages flash up on my screen. From Elle, do I fancy going to theirs for fish and chips later? From Mum, the offer of a spare ticket to a play she’s seeing in Bath at the weekend. They’re rallying round me here in this world. I rub my finger over my wedding ring, still in place on my third finger. Where are you, Freddie Hunter?

I click his name and wait for it to ring out, hoping I don’t get his answer machine. It’s seven in the evening, so I’m hopeful that he won’t be working, wherever he is.

It takes longer than usual to connect, and when it does it isn’t the regular ringtone. It perplexes me, and then my heart jumps because he answers.

‘Freddie?’ I say, uncertain. It’s noisy wherever he is.

‘Lyds?’ he half shouts. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll go outside.’

I can hear the bustle of conversation and background music, laughter and raised voices. I think he’s in a bar.

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