Lydia was considered dreadful. Utterly dreadful. So much so, you couldn’t help but pity her for how hopelessly inadequate she seemed. Everyone tried, in their own way, to remind the woman just how much she fell short.
She wasn’t simply dreadfulshe was also terribly lonely. No husband, her son grown up and living miles away in Manchester. Lydia was alone, no one to ring in the evenings, nobody who needed her.
When she turned up at work that Monday, her colleagues were full of tales of how theyd spent the weekend: one had tackled the garden allotment, another made enough jam to feed an army, another did a deep clean of the whole house. Lydia kept quiet. What was she to say? She didnt have a bloke, her child had flown the nest, so she stayed silent, fiddling with her tea.
She asked to leave earlyeveryone noticed. Once or twice a month, shed slip away before five, and each time, judgement hung in the air. Everyone at the office was sure Lydia met a string of secret lovers. It was the only explanation, they thought. Because Lydia, well she was the bad one, wasnt she?
Unlike the othersrespectably married, forever busyLydia was painted as the office warning sign.
“Lydia,” her mum scolded during their weekly phone call, “why cant you just settle down?”
“Settle down how, Mum?” Lydia asked, genuinely bemused.
“You know… find a man, get a husband, love. Its not too late, even for another childwomen have them well into their forties these days,” her mum pressed.
“Mum, why would I want just any man? Why do I need a second child from someone I barely know? I have Tom, thats more than enough for me.” Lydia was baffled. “And as for a man What would I do with him? Honestly? Im seeing Oliver.”
“Lydia!” her mum exclaimed. “Oliver isnt yours! Dont be daft, hes married!”
“He absolutely is mine,” Lydia laughed, “He asks me out, brings me little gifts, even pays for a holiday sometimes. He doesnt drive me up the wall, doesnt send me round to clean his mums windows, never expects me to wash his smalls or cook supper every day, and he never slobbers on the sofa all weekend. Perfect, really.”
“Perfect for his poor wife, you mean.”
“And youd want all that on my plate, Mum? Spare me. Im not eighteen anymore. Ive been married twice, dont forgettwice! Ran as fast as I could from that so-called happiness.
“My first husbandToms fatheryou remember, Mum. You were convinced it was the right thing. He was older, more settled, respected me, good job, everyone said. Five years stuck in that houseI wasnt allowed to study, couldnt have friends round, wasn’t even trusted with Tom: too young, might stuff it up. All I did was slog around after him and his mother. Oh, but I had gold. Yes, indeed.”
“Hed dress me up and wheel me out once a month to show offlook, a proper young wife, not like your silly little dolls. Though funny how he visited those dolls himself, wasnt it? And when I finally leftthanks to Gran, God bless herhe wanted everything back. Even my knickers.
“My second marriagewell, that was for love. At university and working my fingers to the bone so I wouldnt be a burden on you and Dad…”
“Lydia! Dont say such things. Did I ever begrudge you bread? Did I ever refuse a bowl of soup, for you or your son?”
“You never, Mum. But it wasnt just you, was it? Dad was always worried Id plant myself on you, that Tom would be extra baggage, and Nickgood old Nicknever settled either. Why bother, Mums always there. You were out at two jobs, dashing through Tesco on your way back, feeding everyone, cleaningwhile Nick sat playing video games, Dad ended up glued to the telly…”
So I rushed into marriage again, so desperate for love after living without it. And what changed? I dont know. More chores, really. Lydia the Angel became Lydia the universal provider.
My dear husband lounged on the sofa; I worked, dashed to the nurserymy child, after all, couldnt possibly ask him, not his biological son. Didnt matter anyway: even if Tom was his, not a mans job, is it? Men get tired. All they do is go to work, and then, what, complain about having to trek on the tram and come home for supper? I did the shopping, the cooking, washed, ironed, served, and then I was expected to soothe and pamper himGod forbid he missed out on his ration of affection and wandered off to some other treasure.
Short of cash? Well, thats for your child, Lydiaif you had a proper child with him, maybe hed lift a finger. Car repairs? Of course its my car, but were a family now, arent we? And how dare I earn more than himhe deserved so much better.
Leaving? He laughed. “Whod want you, Lydia, with a child in tow?”
So you see, Mum, Ive tried both ways: richer, poorer. Didnt matter. No one seemed happy except everyone but me.
“Lydia, thats just how life is. All women live like this,” Mum sighed.
“Let them, Mum. I wont. I dont want to.”
“So how was your Saturday?” Lydia inquired.
“Oh, you know. Nick and Maddy dropped off Olivia and Charlie. I took them to the park, made pancakes, wiped down, did the laundry, fixed Dads dinner, ironed a stack, finally put my feet up after midnight. Up early because the kids wanted more pancakes, then roasted a chicken for the family, made salads, baked a pizza, cleaned up after, then collapsed on the sofa at eleven, exhausted. Dad woke me just to send me off to bed.”
“Mum, I dont recall ever begging you to look after Tom so I could skive off and relax. Did I ever dump him on you and run out the door wide-eyed for a break?”
“You were always so independent, Lydia. These two well, theres no words really”
“Want to hear about my weekend, Mum? Friday night, Tom rang: could I look after Milo for the weekend? He and Marina were off to the Lakes.
Of course I took the catwhy not? If you werent so wrapped up in Nick and his brood, you might actually know whats happening with your eldest grandson.
So, Friday evening, Tom and Marina brought round the cat with a pizzapromptly disappeared on their trip. I indulged in pizza, curled up and binge-watched telly. No mad rush anywhere in the morning, blissfully lazy.
Saturday, I fed Milo, brewed myself coffee, wiped the surfaces, popped some clothes in the washing machine, tried calling you. Thought you might fancy a museum or just a natter. Dad picked up, you were up to your elbows in washing up. He barked that you were slaving away while I swanned about like Lady Muck in the museums.
I nearly took offence, but really, what for? Dads always right, isnt he?
I went to the exhibityou know, the one by your favourite artistyou used to love him. Then I wandered round the shops, treated myself to a coffee, came home to find Milo snoozing. Watched my shows, napped.
Sunday, we both slept in till eleven. Thought about inviting you for a river cruise, but Maddy answered, mouth full, that you were busywashing up, probably. Oliver rang that night, asked me out for dinner. Why on earth should I refuse? Im a free woman. I dont ask about his wife, he doesnt ask about Tom. We dont talk about problems. Were just what we are.
Had a wonderful evening, slept soundly, started Monday refreshed.
Mum, I tried dating unattached men. Its a nightmare. You only get man-children desperate for someone to mother them or men embittered by a parade of ex-wives and a football teams worth of kids. Divorced, divorced, divorced.
What, why do you look at me like that, Mum? The worlds changed.
One chap even declared Id have to take on his children”Youre a woman, its in your nature to love all children,” he said. He planned to spend his own meagre wage on his hobbyfishingwhile looking after his kids and ex-wife with what was left. Me, Id have to bankroll uswith the promise hed cook me a nice bit of trout now and then.
When I asked if hed help Tom, he scoffed. “Toms got his own father, hasnt he? Let him help.”
Fair? I suppose. Thats why I told him to jog on. Toms got his dad, but hes also got me.
Now, Im labelled cold, calculating, mean-spiritedaccused of wanting some poor man to look after me and Tom. I’m called selfish and sly.
So yes, Mum, Ive got Oliver now. Maybe Im the wicked one in your eyes. But I dont feel ashamed for living this way.
It hurts, Mum, because its you I ache fornot me. So I drag you out of the house like today, told you I needed help. I lied. Because I want you, just for a while, to enjoy yourselfnot as a mum, a gran, a cook, a housekeeper. As yourself, with your daughter.
“Youve gone mad, Lydia. What about your dad?”
“What about him? Is he ill?”
“No, but dinner…”
“I dont believe you haven’t got the dinner already cooked.”
“But it needs heatingoh, and Nick…”
“Mum!” Lydia put her hand on her mothers arm, voice warm but firm. “Let me be the wicked one for once. Come on, lets go out and have fun. Please. Just for me.”
Monday morning, all the women chattered in the office about how shattered they were after their weekend break.
Lydia just flashed a knowing, wicked smile. If anyone asked, they already knew Lydia was no angel. She glided by, smiling at her own private jokethe only one in on her secret, and everyone else convinced they knew just what went on in Lydias head. Of course it was something wicked.
