The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(4)
And then, little by little, it subsides. My heart rate begins to steady and my limbs turn lead-heavy. I’m warm, cocooned, and for the first time in fifty-six days, I’m not lost without Freddie. I’m not lost, because as I slide under the coat-tails of sleep, I can almost feel the solid weight of him depress the mattress, his body spooned around mine, his breath steady against my neck. Save me from these dark, uncharted waters, Freddie Hunter. I pull him close and breathe him in as I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Friday 11 May
You know those blissful dawn moments, summer mornings when the sun rises before you do, and you half rouse and then fall back asleep, glad of a few more hours? I turn and find Freddie still here with me and the relief is so profound that it’s all I can do to lie perfectly still and try to match my breathing pattern to his. It’s four in the morning, too early to get up, so I close my eyes again; I don’t think I’ve ever known such absolute comfort. The bed warmed by our nested bodies, the golden half-light before dawn, the muted music of birdsong. Please don’t let me leave this dream.
Friday 11 May
I know before I open my eyes for a second time that he’s gone. The bed is colder, the six a.m. sunlight harsher, the birdsong like nails down a blackboard. Freddie was here, I know he was. I burrow my head into the pillow and screw my eyes tight shut, searching the darkness behind my eyelids for sleep again. If I can only sleep, I might find him.
Panic starts to bubble low in my gut; the harder I try to relax, the more my brain fires up, preparing itself for the day ahead, full of dark thoughts and desperate emotions I don’t know what to do with. And then my heart judders, jump leads on a dodgy battery, because I remember: I have sleeping pills now. Pink pills designed to knock me out. I reach for the bottle Elle has placed on my bedside table and clutch it in both hands, relieved, then unscrew the lid and swallow one down.
Friday 11 May
‘Morning, Lyds.’ Freddie rolls over and kisses my forehead, his arm heavy over my shoulders as our alarm informs us it’s seven a.m. ‘I don’t want to play today. Shall we stay in bed? I’ll call in for you if you call in for me.’
He says something along the same lines most mornings and for a couple of minutes we always pretend to entertain the idea.
‘Will you make us breakfast in bed?’ I mumble, sliding my arm around the warmth of his body, burying my face in the soft down of his chest hair. There is a solidity about him that I love; he’s a commanding physical presence thanks to his height and broad shoulders. People at work sometimes underestimate his business brain because of his stereotypical rugby-player build and he’s more than happy to play that to his advantage. He’s competitive to the core.
‘As long as you want breakfast at midday, yeah.’ I hear the laugh behind his breastbone as he strokes the back of my head.
‘Sounds about right,’ I say, closing my eyes, breathing him in deep.
We stay like that for a few lazy, exquisite minutes, clasped, half sleeping, knowing we need to get up soon. But we linger, because these are the moments that matter, the ones that make it Freddie and me against the world. These moments are the bedrock our love is built on, an invisible cloak around our shoulders when we are out in the world going about our business. Freddie won’t return the interested look from the striking girl on platform 4 waiting for the 7.47, and I never allow Leon, the barista in the cafe I sometimes buy lunch from, to cross the line from messing around to flirting, even though he’s movie-star gorgeous and writes outrageous things on my coffee cup.
I’m crying. For a few seconds I don’t know why, and then I remember, and I suck down great lungfuls of air, like someone breaking the surface after falling into deep water.
Freddie startles, jerking up on one elbow to stare at me, concern on his face as he grips my shoulder. ‘Lyds, what’s the matter?’ His voice is urgent, ready to help, to soothe whatever pain I’m in.
I can’t breathe; my breath burns in my chest.
‘You died.’ I sob out the shocking words, my eyes scanning his beloved face for telltale signs of the accident. There’s nothing, no hint of the catastrophic head injury that claimed his life. His eyes are an unusual blue, dark enough to be mistaken for brown unless you’re close enough to really look. He sometimes wears a pair of black-framed glasses for important work pitches, clear glass, an illusion of weakness where there isn’t any. I stare into those eyes now and run my hand over the harvest-blond stubble on his jawline.
A soft laugh rumbles from him and relief passes through his eyes.
‘You daft cow,’ he says, hugging me in. ‘You were dreaming, that’s all.’
Oh, how dearly I wish that were true. I shake my head, so he takes my hand and lays it over his heart.
‘I’m fine,’ he insists. ‘Feel, my heart’s beating and everything.’
It is. I press hard enough to feel it jumping beneath my palm, and yet I know it isn’t, not really. It can’t be. He covers my hand with his own now, not laughing any more because he can see how distressed I am. He doesn’t understand, of course. How could he? He’s not real but, God, this doesn’t feel like any other dream I’ve ever had, either. I’m awake in my sleep. I can feel the heat of his body. I can smell the trace of his aftershave on his skin. I can taste my tears when he leans down and kisses me, tender. I can’t stop crying. I try to take shallow breaths as I hold him, as though he’s made of smoke and will blow away if I breathe too hard.