Lydia
Two Years Ago
The thing about people-pleasing was that it rarely pleased anyone – least of all, me.It felt like running on a treadmill, chasing new, exciting vistas, destined to a view that never changed.Exhausting.Pointless.And yet I couldn’t step off.Not even for one of the most important nights of my best friend’s life.
The night we celebrated his posh new title: Best Bartender in the UK.
My heart pounded as I paced through the quiet, carpeted hallways of Momentum Fitness, my ‘office’ for the last decade, legs screaming out after a day lifting, stretching and running alongside my clients.I’d arrived at five in the morning and was leaving as the spring sun was setting behind bright pink clouds.I glanced at my phone.Shit. I was almost two hours late.I made my way out of the whooshing doors, across the empty carpark, typing a quick, one-handed text.
Don’t hate me.I’m on my way, but it came out as ‘Dunt haye me.I in my wsy’.
‘Fuck Craig,’ I muttered, cursing the reason for all my woes – the newly minted gym supervisor who seemed determined to make my life hell.He’d been promoted a few months ago and acted like he’d been ordained by God himself to micromanage every corner of Momentum.Like tonight, for instance, when he made me stay late to scrub the gym floors, even though we had a whole team of cleaners who showed up before we opened to do exactly that.
I should have said no.I should have pushed back.But Craig had never liked me and, stupidly, I still wanted to change that.
I chucked my fluorescent orange bag into the boot of my Honda Civic, its bright colour not giving me the burst of joy it usually does.I accelerated, navigating Friday night traffic, down Everly Heath High Street, oak trees flitting by.My lip was almost bleeding as I pulled down a familiar street of redbrick terraced houses, finding a lucky parking spot on the packed street.
I heard the sound of metal crunching.
‘Shit!’ I jumped out of the car to find matching dents on my car and the immaculate BMW that I knew belonged to Jake three doors down.God, he loved this car.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
I fished a pen and a scrap of paper out, shoving the pen cap in my mouth as I wrote.
Jake – sorry – scratched your car.Really sorry!!!I can pay.– Lydia.
And then scribbled down my phone number.He might want to call to shout at me.Or demand my first-born.Or maybe just process an insurance claim.Or all three.
I took a deep breath.I just needed to find Ren, apologise for being late, and then everything would be okay.As I jogged towards my childhood home, I saw our neighbour, Deirdre, was stood outside her house, fag in hand.Her jet black hair, long and thinning, was thrown up into her signature beehive.
‘Lydia.’ Deirdre’s voice was sandpaper.
‘Hi, Deirdre!’
‘Loud in there.’ She nodded her head.‘Quite a knees-up.’
I shoved my key in the door, wrestling with the ageing lock, thumping music coming from the other side.God, Mum and Dad said a few drinks to ‘celebrate Ren’s achievement’.It sounded like a rave.
‘I’ll get them to keep it down.’
‘Don’t on my account, love.You know, I used to throw quite the do’s when you were younger.’
Yes, and I could have sworn they involved several couples, keys, and a bowl, but I kept those suspicions to myself.I wasn’t going to kink-shame my 70-year-old neighbour.
I eyed the pampas grass in Deirdre’s front garden as the door gave way.Discarded streamers and congratulations balloons littered the hallway.Jesus!It was barely 9 o’clock.Mum and Dad’s parties could get a bit wild on occasion, like half of the social club kitchen-dancing until the early hours of the morning, but as I passed the lounge full of people I didn’t recognise, with empty bottles on the floor, and snogging couples pressed against the wall, I was bemused.
I pushed through the huddles of people, finding Mum in the kitchen drying glasses.I touched her shoulder, and she whipped around, brandishing a glass.
‘Oh!’ Mum brought her hand to her chest.‘God, you scared me, Lydia.’
‘Who are all these people?’
‘Oh,’ Mum sighed, smoothing her blonde bob.‘Some people Ren invited.They’re lovely.But, my God, do they get through some drinks.I’ve cleaned these glasses twice.’
A woman with spiky blonde hair and a nose ring appeared, looking lost, until Mum handed her a clean glass.
The girl topped the glass up with a huge measure of amber liquid and made her way back towards the pounding music.‘Lola.Lovely girl.Works at a bar in town called Satan’s Butthole.Sounds horrible, but I said your father and I would go and have their signature cocktail – Ring of Fire.It’s a belter, according to Lola.’
