Page 89 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘Christ, it’s hot here today,’ he says, clearer now. ‘My shirt’s sticking to my back.’

‘Where are you?’ I say, confused.

‘Right now?’ he says. ‘Outside a beach bar. Vince is in there flashing the company credit card around in the hope of sealing the deal.’

‘All work and no play, right?’ I say, vague, trying to force lightness I don’t feel into my voice.

He laughs. ‘When in Rome. Or Rio, as the case may be.’

Rio? Freddie’s in Brazil? Distant bells ring in my head. He might have mentioned something, but I’m certain I didn’t know he was going to spend any significant time out there.

‘I miss you,’ I say, because it’s true, especially now I’ve heard his voice again.

‘You too,’ he says. ‘It won’t be for much longer now. Two weeks, three at most.’

‘Another three weeks?’ I say, downbeat. The things I said in New York obviously didn’t land at all if he’s allowed this to happen. Or if I have. By the looks of our fridge and the messages from Mum and Elle, he’s already been gone for a couple of weeks.

‘Don’t start again,’ he sighs, irritated. ‘You know I can’t help it.’

It’s clear we’ve reached a pinch point here.

‘Did you say you’re on the beach?’

‘No,’ he says, over-patient, mildly pass-agg. ‘I said I was with Vince, trying to seal a deal for the PodGods. This whole place revolves around the bloody beach, Lydia, it’s not my fault, okay?’

‘I didn’t say it was,’ I say, miserable. I haven’t spoken to Freddie in weeks, and now I am and it’s like this again. If we were together, we’d be able to talk our misunderstanding out, but it’s not so easy down the telephone line. It strikes me now how reliant our relationship has always been on physical closeness: on touch and on being able to read each other’s visual cues. We don’t have the luxury of any of that right now and what we’re left with feels disappointing and riddled with the potential for angst. I can hear someone shouting Freddie’s name, Vince probably, telling him to come and grab a Caipirinha. He mispronounces it. It doesn’t surprise me, he’s a bullish sort of man, not someone who’d take the time to learn something like that. I’d lay money on the fact that he’s flown himself and Freddie to Brazil without even finding out how to say please and thank you in Portuguese.

‘I need to get back inside,’ he says.

‘Sounds like it,’ I say, feeling dejected, wishing I could find the right words to heal this.

‘I’ll call soon,’ he says, and then he’s gone, back to his cocktail, back to the beach bar, back to his life without me.

Tuesday 24 September

I sit alone in my lamp-lit living room, a mug of hot chocolate clasped in my hands in the hope it’ll help me sleep. What a hideous, crappy homecoming. Mum and Elle probably wish I’d stayed in Croatia, and Freddie is out in Rio knocking back cocktails on the beach.

I can see now how much I’ve relied on my other world to offer me an escape from this one; an escape from the hard, unforgiving coalface of grief. This afternoon though … it didn’t do that. It left me feeling jaded and despondent again, lower than I’ve been since New York, and thinking things through this evening has led me closer to an undeniable truth.

I’ve traded healing here for living there. I’ve used visiting the other place as a way to try to outrun grief, even when every grief manual I’ve ever read tells me that just isn’t possible. Maybe my bloody doctor was on to something – I haven’t passed sentiently through the process. Instead, I’ve zigzagged between worlds, taking the long way round, slowing myself down without realizing.

I didn’t take any more pills in Croatia after that night in New York, and as a consequence I slept more soundly at night. The circles faded from beneath my eyes and my heart beat easier in my chest because it wasn’t putting in double shifts. My days were simpler because living one life is less stressful than living two.

I can’t ignore the fact that I’m changing any more, that the me who visits Freddie in the other world is less and less like the Lydia he knows. And, in truth, I like this new version of me better. She’s still really messed up, but she’s plucky. Adventurous and strong. She’s been trying to move slowly forward, walking against the tide, and all this time I’ve been trying to pull her back.

Saturday 28 September

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

I meet my hairdresser’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Yes.’

She’s standing behind me with her scissors in her hand, and for a woman paid to cut hair, she looks particularly reluctant.

‘I haven’t cut more than an inch off your hair in the last ten years,’ she says, biting her lip.

It’s true. I’ve flirted with layers, every now and then I’ve had a fringe put in, but that’s as exciting as it’s been.

I pick up the weight of my plait for one last time. ‘Do it, Laura.’

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