She has the most delightful petulant expression on her face and it makes me laugh. Stubborn, funny, principled, honest and resourceful – there’s nothing about her I don’t like. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I enfold her in my arms and pull her in for a quick kiss before resting my forehead against hers. ‘You’re amazing. How’s that?’
‘About time you recognised it,’ she says and put her arms around me and hugs me back. We stand like that on the platform until the restless movement of people around us signifies that the train is coming down the track.
Chapter Twenty-Four LYDIA
Life doesn’t seem to want to go smoothly for us. Ten minutes out of Leighton Buzzard we come to an abrupt halt and there’s an announcement to the effect that there’s been an incident on the line and we’ll be updated as soon as there is any more information.
‘Fuck,’ says Tom, fidgeting.
I lift my shoulders.
‘You do that a lot,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Shrug your shoulders. Why?’
No one’s ever asked me that before or even pointed it out. I want to do it again but he’s pinning me to my seat with a give-me-an-answer stare.
‘Why not?’ I do the shrug thing. ‘We can’t make the train move.’
‘Is it to feign indifference?’ He’s studying my face and frowns. ‘You’re not an indifferent sort of person.’
‘No. It’s to show that I’m not going to get worked up about things out of my control.’ But a truth darts into my mind. It’s also to mask my emotion. A way of not having to show my real feelings, to avoid revealing inner weakness. As a child, responding to things was a recipe for teasing, bullying and mockery so I learned to be indifferent. As an adult I’ve hidden my past. I never reveal the true details of my childhood. My friendships with people are guarded and although my friends from university, Eleanor and Olivia, know I had a difficult childhood, I’ve let them think it’s merely because my parents were eccentric and I didn’t get on with them.
These last few days I’ve shown more of myself to Tom than I’ve ever let anyone see. I’ve let down my barriers. I’ve enjoyed the time we spent at the house, sleeping together in the big bed, eating at the table, watching films. It’s more of my life than I’ve shared with anyone else since my granny died.
Tonight, I’ll be sleeping in my own bed back in my own space. Normally the thought of my personal bolthole fills me with satisfaction. It’s my safe place, all mine, where I have complete control over every aspect of my life. If I want to leave it messy, I can – not that I ever do. Things will be where I left them. There will always be food in the cupboards. The bills will be paid. The electricity will be constant.
For the first time ever, I realise it’s lonely and that I want more from life. Spending this limited time with Tom has shown me that I could be with someone, that I could share my space and that not everyone is completely selfish. The thought of going home to my empty flat is no longer as appealing as it always has been.
Suddenly I need him to know all of me, not just the bits I’ve let him see. Maybe I’m hitting the self-destruct button, showing him the unlovable child I was. Maybe it’s a bit easier because he’s pulled back. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending it’s not part of who I am. There might not be a future with Tom but there could be with someone. Maybe it’s time that I let some other people in.
‘When I was a kid, nearly everything was out of control,’ I confess.
‘Is that why you collect things?’ asks Tom. ‘The coffee, the pasta, the money?’
I nod and swallow ready to take the dive. ‘Yeah. Stupid really, but I’ve never got over the fear of going hungry. Or worrying that I might not have enough money to pay for things I need.’
‘Your parents didn’t feed you?’ Tom’s horrified and I feel the familiar sense of shame.
‘No, it’s not that. They just forgot. They were alcoholics. Not just serious drinkers but completely addicted to alcohol. The next drink was always the most important thing. Life was very chaotic. Money went on booze before food.’ I try to make light of it because I always have done but seeing Tom’s face makes it so much harder. I don’t want his pity. I’m a survivor. I’m me both because of and in spite of my upbringing. ‘I became the master of the unlikely combinations. Tinned tomato sandwiches and peanut butter on cheese crackers.’
Tom frowns and takes my hand. ‘That’s awful, Lydia.’
‘I survived.’ I squeeze his hand, reassuring him that I’m okay. He shakes his head and brings my hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to my palm, closing my fingers over it. He takes my hand in both of his.
‘You did more than survive,’ he says. ‘You’re amazing.’
I shrug … my usual defence.
‘Don’t do that. Don’t shake it off. You are amazing. You never complain.’
‘When I was a kid there was no point. Once my granny died, there was nothing anyone could do to help.’
‘But surely … school … social workers. Someone must have noticed.’
‘I was neglected but not abused. The system is overloaded. I wasn’t in any “physical danger”.’ I trot out the phrase that I heard someone tell the head at my junior school as I sat in the corner of his office, my too-small shoes pinching my toes.
‘Oh Lydia.’ The sorrow in his voice triggers a quick burst of fury in me.
‘I don’t need pity,’ I snap because I hate remembering being that defenceless child at the mercy of adults and the unkind comments of other children. I left it behind. I’m not her anymore and I don’t want him to think of me like that. I need to tell him in unemotional language what it was like to show that I’m not that child anymore.
In a passionless voice, I recount the story as if it’s a newspaper article, something that’s remote from me. It’s a way of putting distance between me and the truth.
‘Apparently my mother managed to stay off the booze long enough to have and keep me. After that she and my dad went on a celebratory bender that has never stopped. As far as I know, they’re still alive. How she and my dad managed to find the registry office let alone register my birth is a mystery.
‘My parents were alcoholics who should never have had a child. I was a massive inconvenience which they conveniently forgot they had for a lot of the time. Luckily for me I spent most of my time with my granny until she died when I was five. I inherited her beautiful Regency terrace house, which my parents moved into. Granny would have revolved at high speed in her grave at the antics they got up to and the steep decline of the once gracious, elegant home.
‘Middle-class and well-educated, my parents had enough sheen to fool the social workers who would occasionally rock up when the school flagged their concerns, when my shoes were too small, when I never had a packed lunch and when communication home went unanswered. But there are worse problems out there, and the threshold of our family issues wasn’t high enough.
‘So there you have it. Warts and all. Lydia Smith.’ I brush over my real name. That’s the final indignity and I never tell anyone. ‘Now can you stop feeling sorry for me.’ The fury snaps in my voice again but this is my defence mechanism. Push him away before he pushes me away. Decides he can’t possibly have feelings for someone like me. My parents couldn’t love me, not more than the booze, so how will anyone else?
Tom’s eyes widen in surprise at my flare of anger and then his face softens before he says very firmly, ‘I don’t pity you. All I can do is admire you. The person you are now. You’re amazing. You said you went to Cambridge. That’s fucking incredible – it’s an achievement in its own right but even more of one if you didn’t have any parental support. You’ve built your life in spite of them and from here it looks like a good life. You’re honest, strong, brave, resourceful – one of the best people I’ve ever met. You’re awesome.’
I go to shrug and catch Tom’s eye. ‘Own it, Lydia. Say after me, yes, I’m pretty fucking amazing.’
I give him a snooty look, trying not to let the needy child that still hides inside me grab on to the compliment. I lift my chin as I retort, ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. I don’t need your affirmation.’
