The Two of Us (14 page)

As I approach Esther’s flat, I see that her ‘For Sale’ sign now bears a glued-on panel saying ‘Sold’. This shouldn’t come as a surprise; her flat has been on
the market for several weeks and she and Nino have been planning their escape to Italy since the summer. But it makes me sad, nevertheless.

‘Morning, love,’ Esther says, as if she were expecting me. ‘You lost?’

‘Something like that. Can I use your shower?’

Because I hadn’t thought this through in any way whatsoever, I have to borrow a set of clothes from Nino, who stands a foot shorter than I do, but more than makes up for it in
circumference. The clothes Esther has laid out on the spare bed are simple enough, but you’d be surprised just how ridiculous you can look in a pair of jeans and a woolly jumper. The jeans
hang halfway down my shins, exposing a pair of beige socks that would be awful even if the ankle elastic wasn’t shot (Esther has also provided a pair of Nino’s now-grey Y-fronts, but I
can’t bring myself to wear them so I fold them up and stuff them into a pocket in my denim clown trousers). The jumper Esther has selected to complete this ensemble is a loose-knit, purple
and green striped article that fits as snugly as a sack on a scarecrow. I look like a mental patient. But needs must when you’re a stupid sodding idiot.

Esther cooks me a full English breakfast and probes not-so-subtly into the nature of my surprise visit. I consider lying and telling her that I’m here to check on my tenants in the
upstairs flat, but that would involve a) lying; b) checking on the tenants; and c) stepping inside my former residence which, I suddenly realize, I don’t want to do ever again. Yes, I had a
leather recliner and an HD TV, and yes, the fridge was always replete with full-fat milk, but I also did a lot of stupid things while I lived above Esther. Looking back, it seems the only good
thing that happened during that time was meeting Ivy, and the only good decision I made in that flat was to move out.

‘Tiff,’ I say.

Esther laughs. ‘First one?’

‘Second maybe.’

‘Anything serious?’

‘Just me being annoying.’

‘If I had a penny . . .’ Esther says, shaking her head. ‘We’d have moved out of this place a long time ago.
Tiff
,’ she says, laughing.

‘You sold it then?’ I say, gesturing at the room around me.

Esther’s face morphs from chuckling joviality to sobbing tears, the sound of her laughter transitioning seamlessly into a hitching whimper. I pull my chair around to her side and hug her
while she sobs into my shoulder.

‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘I thought this was a good thing?’

‘It is, love,’ she says, bringing on a fresh deluge. ‘Of course it is.’

‘So why the tears, hey?’

Esther sits upright, wipes her eyes with a sleeve and sniffs like a dockworker. ‘You,’ she says, her composure returning, ‘you’re like a son to me.’

Inside my head, I say the words,
And you’re like a mother to me
, but even unarticulated, the phrase catches in my throat and I feel a wet pressure behind my eyes. I smile instead,
and I hope that the way I do it speaks for me.

Esther makes more toast, even though I haven’t finished the first serving, and fills me in on the remaining logistics of her and Nino’s move – the packing, the flights, the new
cottage in the Italian countryside. After a family Christmas in Exeter with her daughter, two sons and eight grandchildren, she and Nino will leave for Urbino.

‘Where’s Nino now?’

‘After forty-odd years you stop asking,’ she says. ‘Want some free advice?’

I nod.

‘Don’t trip over yourselves trying to be a perfect couple, love. Get out of each other’s way; don’t be afraid of falling out, shutting up, or telling little porky pies;
do your share of the cleaning; don’t leave your dirty undies inside out on the carpet; leave the seat down; buy her flowers once a month and pinch her bum once a week – the rest’s
up to you.’

I consider telling Esther bum-pinching (well, patting) was involved in the build-up to today’s tiff, but I know it would be missing the point. ‘Works for you, does it?’

‘Me and all my babies, love. All had kids, had every kind of problem there is between ’em, but they’re all still married.’ And she says this with no small amount of
pride.

‘You should write a book,’ I tell her.

‘I bloody should, love,’ she says, topping up her tea from the pot. ‘Not to say me and him haven’t thrown our fair share of pots and pans. My word, love, we had some
dingdongs. Came close to falling apart more than a few times, too.’ She laughs gently, a philosophical mixture of fond nostalgia and pragmatic regret. Or maybe it’s nothing more
complicated than simple amusement. ‘Just remember you love each other,’ she says. ‘Easier said than done, sometimes, I know. But that’s the trick, sweetheart – just
remember you love each other.’ Esther gives me a hard look. ‘You do love her?’

I nod. ‘With all I’ve got.’

‘Well stop moping, you silly boy.’

It takes longer to get to Wimbledon by bus than it did to run the outward journey, not because I ran particularly fast but because London traffic is particularly slow. As the bus crawls onward,
I doze, head lolling, vision fuzzing, thoughts turning to nonsense. When I go to bed drunk – like I did last night – I sleep all the way through, but wake up exhausted nevertheless. As
if I shut down so completely that even my restorative mechanisms crash. On the number 57 to Wimbledon, I snap awake periodically with my mouth open, drool on my chin and the echo of a snore inside
my skull. This, coupled with my escaped mental patient wardrobe and Lidl carrier bag full of sweaty running gear, ensures no one sits next to me. And so I doze some more. By the time we arrive in
The Village, I feel like a new man (even if I am dressed like an old tramp).

When I walk onto our street I spot Harold, Ivy’s awkward teenaged neighbour, sitting on the front step of his flat. Unlike my flat in Brixton – which at some point in history was
simply the upstairs of a bigger, single residence – these maisonettes were purpose built. Even so, we share a gate and a path and our front doors stand adjacent to each other like conjoined
twins. Harold is holding half a deck of cards, the rest spread out on the path between his feet. I nod good morning to him and he looks up briefly, grunting a response. We’re a few days into
December now and although the temperature is mild for the time of year, it’s still a little cold for sitting on the doorstep in a T-shirt.

‘You not cold?’

Harold shakes his head.

‘Waiting for someone?’

He glances over his shoulder. ‘Not exactly.’

I sit on the step beside him. ‘Patience?’ I say, nodding at the cards arranged at his feet.

Harold laughs, a single mirthless note. ‘What’s with the stupid clothes?’

‘Fashion,’ I tell him. ‘All the cool kids are wearing it.’

Harold’s expression tells me he’s not buying, but neither is he interested in pursuing the subject. Since our initial encounter (fighting over a set of keys on Ivy’s doorstep)
Harold has continued to regard me with a mixture of suspicion and disdain. His hostile jealousy, however, seems to have mellowed since it became apparent Ivy is pregnant. His mother, Maureen, is
civil but not overtly friendly. As if she’s permanently distracted, worried or exhausted. There is a boyfriend, but I’ve never been introduced. Ivy has invited Maureen for coffee,
supper and wine on separate occasions – not because she felt a pressing desire to befriend this shy, bespectacled, harried-looking woman, but because not inviting her was becoming an
embarrassment. And every time, Maureen has declined politely with a feasible but flimsy excuse – paperwork, ironing, whatever. And so Ivy has stopped asking and that seems to suit us all just
fine.

‘Whatsisname in?’ I ask.

‘Lol,’ Harold says.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny, I . . .’

Harold looks at me as if I really am as stupid as my outfit suggests. ‘Not
lol
, Lol. Not
laugh-out-loud
, lol. Lol as in Laurence.’

‘Lol? Really?’

Harold shrugs.

‘I never knew,’ I tell him. ‘My best mate’s called Laurence, but we call him El. Never heard of
Lol
.’ I pronounce the last word with exaggerated playground
derision, leaning heavily on both Ls.

Harold laughs at this, repeats it.

‘Seems like a nice guy,’ I say.

‘He’s a perv.’

I look at Harold.
Are you sure?

‘Always pinching Mum’s bum,’ he says, avoiding eye contact.

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Never mind, give me those cards.’ And I scoop them up before Harold has a chance to answer.

‘I was playing with those!’

I shuffle, cut, shuffle again. ‘Pick a card.’

Harold does so, silently and with a total absence of enthusiasm. I do all the business of looking away, shuffling, furrowing my brow, etc. before locating his card, which is now – yes,
miraculously – upside down within the deck. Harold shrugs, says he’s seen David Blaine do it hanging from a helicopter. It takes two more tricks before the bastard cracks a smile, and
by now my bum is numb from sitting on the cold hard step.

‘So, Harold,’ I say. ‘Any chance you could nip inside and get me the spare key?’

‘Wondered when you were going to ask,’ he says, the smile broadening.

‘Lol,’ I say, and Harold laughs again.

As I ascend the stairs to the flat, I am welcomed by the aroma of bacon, sausages and eggs. Ivy is reclined on the sofa, reading a novel, and I flop down beside her.

‘Afternoon,’ she says. ‘How’s Esther?’

‘Who says I’ve been to Esther’s? Maybe I’ve got a fancy woman stashed away somewhere.’

‘Likes you dressing up as a 68-year-old, does she, this fancy woman? And what does she wear, curlers and a housecoat?’

‘It’s hobo chic.’

‘Suits you.’

Ivy puts her book down and pads through to the kitchen area. She takes a heaped plate of full English and places it in the microwave. ‘Toast?’

I’m still carrying a bellyful of Esther’s fry-up, so I decline. While Ivy waits for the microwave, she busies herself making coffee. The microwave pings and Ivy replaces the first
plate with a second. That she made me breakfast is wonderful; that she waited for me before eating her own is an act of love. Finding space inside my stomach for two sausages, double bacon, half a
tomato, beans and a good dollop of scrambled egg is by far the most impressive magic trick I have performed all morning. And the process of reheating has made it no easier – the eggs are
rubbery, the bacon tough, the sausages hard, the tomato soggy and the beans congealed – but I get through the entire plate with a great big crazy grin on my face. David Blaine, eat your heart
out.

Ivy has clearly decided to sweep the last few hours under the carpet, and I’m happy to be complicit. We were both present at the scene of the squabble, both culpable (some, obviously, more
culpable than others), and there is nothing to be gained from a post-mortem. My previous girlfriend and I would fight, then apologize, then backtrack through the incident, deconstructing and
apportioning blame, more often than not leading to a repeat performance of the original débâcle. I like Ivy’s way better. Particularly when I’ve been acting like a
berk.

Ivy washes the dishes and I dry.

‘What are you doing on Thursday?’ she asks.

‘Nothing as far as I know. Why?’

‘Good,’ says Ivy. ‘We’re going on a date.’

‘Brilliant. Where?’

Ivy taps the side of her nose with a sudsy finger. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

Seventeen and a half years ago, whilst driving to collect El and me from the cinema, my mother was killed in a car crash. A supermarket wagon sideswiped her yellow Datsun and
spun it into the path of an oncoming motorcycle. A million events and circumstances proceeded, followed, coincided and aligned with each other to bring all the elements – lorry, motorcycle,
my mother – together. It wasn’t my fault that I went to the cinema and I don’t blame myself for my mother’s death, but if I hadn’t been there then there’s a damn
good chance my mother would still be alive today.

There is still so much Ivy and I don’t know about each other – things you don’t drop into conversation, but discover piece by piece as your relationship develops and moves
forward. Our relationship proper is only four months old, so there are many pieces left to uncover. Ivy knows that my mother died in a traffic accident, but she doesn’t know Mum was driving
to collect me from the cinema, and she doesn’t know that I haven’t been to the movies since.

But as I wait for Ivy outside the train station, I have a dreadful feeling – emphasis on
dread
– that this is where my surprise date is scheduled to happen. The Wimbledon
Odeon is visible from where I’m standing, and the thought of going inside is affecting me physically. I can feel my heart thumping, my stomach is knotted and, despite the cold, my head and
back are prickled with sweat. But I’m okay with it, I think. I can’t live the rest of my life not taking my children to the pictures, and if not tonight then at some point soon I will
be forced to man up, bite the bullet and grasp the popcorn. And on some level, I’ll be disappointed if we’re not going to the flicks tonight. After all, it’s not like
there’s anyone driving here to pick me up afterwards.

I turn away from the cinema to scan the throng pouring through the ticket barriers. It’s dark already and there must be hundreds of people pushing and jostling through the gates.

‘Looking for anyone in particular?’ a voice whispers behind me, and her breath is warm against my ear.

Ivy’s hair is tucked up inside a white, knitted hat that might look nerdy on anyone else but her. ‘Excited?’ she asks.

‘Depends where we’re going.’

‘Well, as it’s our first official date night, I thought we should have a traditional date.’

‘Does it involve popcorn?’

‘You bet your sweet butt it involves popcorn.’

‘In that case, I’m excited.’

And we walk arm in arm to the cinema.