The Two of Us (23 page)

‘Yeah. I’ll see you in the New Year.’ But she’s already gone.

The cab ride costs forty-six pounds, and by the time I arrive at the flat it’s past midnight and only three days until Christmas. Even so, I make no move to get out of the cab as the
driver goes through the act of looking for four pound coins to give me my change.

‘Cheer up, pal,’ he says, shoving the small change through the partition. ‘It might never happen.’

‘It already has,’ I tell him.

And as he drives away, I realize that I’ve left my present from Suzi on the back seat, unopened.

The flat is quiet and clean, and I remove my shoes at the top of the stairs and undress in the bathroom to avoid disturbing Ivy. I brush my teeth gently and am careful to piss against the
porcelain, not into the water. I’ve drunk, but I’m not
drunk
, so I manage to avoid all the creaky floorboards
en route
to the bedroom. The bedside clock says
it’s 12:18 and I can see the ghost of Ivy’s face in the green glow of the digits. I haven’t seen her face in daylight since Thursday morning, almost two days ago. I get into bed
silently, but as I turn onto my side, the duvet shifting on top of me sounds like an avalanche in the stillness of Saturday morning.

Ivy turns over and kisses me. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ I say.

She levers herself up onto her elbows. ‘Give me a push,’ she says. And as I do, she makes it all the way into a sit and swings her legs from the bed. She’s nearly made it to
the door when some part of her bashes into stacked Moses baskets. ‘Ow! Jesus.’

And I descend one more notch in my own estimation.

‘How was your day?’ I ask when Ivy shuffles back into the room. I’ve relocated the Moses baskets to my side of the bed, so she avoids further injury.

‘Good,’ she says behind a yawn. ‘You? How was the shoot?’

‘Could have been worse. Maybe.’

Ivy pulls the duvet over her shoulders and nestles herself comfortable.

‘I was thinking we could read the baby book,’ I whisper.

‘I read it with Frank already.’

‘What? What about me? Friday’s baby-book day.’

‘Well, it’s Saturday now.’

‘You’re joking, right.’

‘No. It’s gone midnight, I’m exhausted and I want to go back to sleep.’

And that’s the end of that conversation.

I’m wide awake now and vibrating with impotent anger. If there was a spare room to sleep in, I’d take myself there right now. But the spare room is full of Frank, as is this flat, as
is my life. I’d sleep on the sofa but there are no curtains in that room and I don’t know where Ivy keeps the spare blankets. I have a flat in Brixton but it’s full of tenants.
And lying here in the dark, in this room, it’s hard to imagine feeling any more trapped inside of a cell.

Nino has cooked pizza, we have paper party hats and Esther has laid out napkins printed with a robin perched on a snow-coated log. Most of Esther and Nino’s possessions
are packed ready for their move to Italy, and they have adorned the boxes and crates with tinsel, glitter and blinking fairy lights. Ho ho ho.

Since I got home from the Sprocket Hole Christmas party last night, Ivy and I have done a pretty good job of avoiding each other. I slept until after ten, got up, pulled on my running kit,
realized my cold had solidified and spread to my legs, made a Lemsip and went back to bed for another hour and a half. Ivy went shopping, then out to lunch with Frank and Frank’s son, Freddy.
I was invited but I declined. And not out of petulance. A trip to the cinema, McDonald’s and the Wimbledon shopping arcade is the sum total of Frank’s family Christmas this year, and I
didn’t want to crash it. I just want him out of our fucking flat. Ivy and Frank returned home sometime around six, and Ivy slept on the sofa under a novel while I made apple pie then played
Grand Theft Auto
with Frank. She showered, I showered and then a taxi came and took us to Brixton.

On the way over, Ivy and I talked around the last couple of days and the conversation had an air of cautious civility. We talked about the weather, about Frank’s son, about my shoot and
the book Ivy was reading. We didn’t talk about Christmas, about Frank moving out, about holiday arrangements, about arguing last night. But all of these things are at the forefront of my mind
and I’m finding it difficult to contain them.

Esther tops up my wine glass. My head is thick with cold and I should be taking it easy, but I also have a strong urge to get thoroughly drunk.

‘More apple juice?’ she says to Ivy.

‘I’m good, thank you.’

‘We have our own apple trees now,’ Nino says.

‘In Italy?’ Ivy asks.

Nino nods. ‘Apple, lemon, orange.’

‘Sounds amazing.’

‘Is amazing.’

‘You’ll come and visit?’ says Esther.

‘Try and stop us,’ Ivy says, and she flicks her eyes towards me and then away, as if the ‘us’ is still in debate. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

‘You’re quiet, love,’ says Esther.

‘Tired,’ I say. ‘I had a shoot yesterday, then a party.’

‘Shooting what, love?’

‘Nothing interesting.’

‘Good God, love,’ says Esther. ‘This is our last night, make an effort.’

‘Sorry. Tampax.’

‘
Gesù Cristo.
’ Nino gets up from the table and checks the oven.

‘That’s nice,’ says Esther, going to top up my glass, then realizing it’s already full.

‘So . . .’ says Ivy. ‘Italy.’

‘Italy,’ says Esther.

‘Nervous?’

Esther glances at Nino’s back as he fusses about at the oven. She nods conspiratorially to Ivy. ‘A little,’ she says, quietly.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say.

‘Besides,’ says Esther, ‘he’s done so much for me. Lived in a strange country, given me three children and always put food on the table. It’s his turn now,
innit.’

Nino sits back at the table and Esther leans across and kisses him on the jowl. Nino smiles at his wife and love flickers in his normally impassive eyes. ‘Pie in five minutes,’ he
says.

We travel halfway home in silence. It’s past midnight now, which means – technically speaking – it’s Christmas Eve. And although Ivy and I still
haven’t made our plans official, it seems pretty clear that she’s going her way and I’m going mine. Ivy’s head is resting on my shoulder, people are singing in the streets
and festive lights are reflected in the taxi’s windows. It should be a beautiful scene, but Ivy’s head is heavy and it’s making my neck ache. I am biting my bottom lip, and if I
don’t say something soon I’m in danger of drawing blood. I shrug my shoulder out from under her.

Ivy makes a sound as if she may have been dozing.

‘Sweet, isn’t it,’ I say.

‘What’s sweet?’

‘Esther and Nino.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Esther uprooting herself for Nino like that. Going all the way to a foreign country where she doesn’t know anyone and can’t speak the language.’ My voice sounds slurred,
skidding a little on the s’s.

‘She’ll have a great time,’ Ivy says, completely missing my point. ‘I’d love to live in Italy.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

Ivy doesn’t answer.

‘Would you go without me?’

‘What?’

‘To Italy?’

‘Don’t,’ Ivy says. ‘Not tonight.’

‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ I say.

Ivy says nothing.

‘I just don’t understand how . . . how Esther is prepared to move all the way to Italy for Nino. To live. And you won’t even go to North Wales for Christmas.’

‘And you won’t go to Bristol.’

‘I might if you asked like you meant it.’

‘Fine, come, then.’

‘Very convincing. Anyway, it’s my birthday.’

‘And I’m pregnant.’

‘With my babies.’

The cab ride is twenty-three pounds and I tell the guy to keep the change from thirty, but I don’t know who I’m trying to impress – Ivy is already halfway up the stairs to the
flat before I get out of the cab. Frank is in his room, and we resume our argument in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, washing our faces, with mouths full of toothpaste.

‘Your mum and dad have each other,’ I remind Ivy. ‘We can drive over on Boxing Day.’

‘Your dad will have a house full. And I don’t want to drive two hundred miles on Boxing Day.’

‘Jesus. Why are you being so fucking . . . stubborn?’

Ivy’s eyes widen, she pulls her head back as if recoiling from some awful vision. ‘Stubborn?’

I gesture at her as if this should be patently evident.

Ivy shakes her head and spits a gob of toothpaste foam into the sink and walks out, slamming the door.

When I get to the bedroom Ivy is already under the covers.

I walk round to her side of the bed and sit beside her. ‘I feel like I haven’t seen you since I moved in,’ I say, reasonably.

‘I’m not the one who’s working on a screenplay in my spare time.’

‘Is that what this is about?’

‘It’s not
about
anything. No. I—’

‘That screenplay,’ I say, ‘is the one thing I do for me. You have book club.’

‘I just want to go and see my family for Christmas.’

‘Ivy, we’re living with your fucking family. Th—’

‘My “fucking family”?’ There are tears in Ivy’s eyes and I feel terrible, but my blood is up and I’m not the bad guy here.

‘Your brother has been under our feet for
two weeks
.’

Ivy holds a finger to her lips, scowls, points at the wall between our room and Frank’s.

‘Are you serious? You want
me
to be quiet?’

‘Can you manage?’

‘I wouldn’t have to if we didn’t have a frigging lodger.’

‘It’s my flat.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, I . . . I didn’t . . .’

‘
Your flat?
’

Ivy closes her eyes.

‘Fine.’ I stand up. ‘Do you have any spare blankets anywhere in
your flat
?’

‘Fisher . . . there’s no need.’ She reaches a hand out to me. ‘Come here.’

I almost go to her, visualize myself doing it,
want
to do it . . . but my feet feel nailed down.

‘Please,’ Ivy says, ‘let’s not do this.’

‘I’m pissed,’ I say. ‘You’ll sleep better without me in the bed.’

‘It’s okay,’ Ivy says.

And something snaps. ‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?’

‘What?’ says Ivy, genuinely bemused.

‘
It’s okay
. Do you remember the first time you said that?’

‘Fisher, I—’

‘The first time we . . . made love. The very first time we made love, I asked if you had condoms.’

‘I don’t rememb—’

‘And you said,
It’s okay
. And I’ve thought about that –
a lot
– and . . .’

Ivy looks at me like I’m some mad stranger. I hold out my hands and shake my head, trying to find the words or drum up the courage to spit them out.

I turn away from Ivy and open the cupboard above the wardrobe. ‘I just need a blanket. I need sleep.’

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Have it your way; there’s one in the hallway cupboard.’

I don’t exactly slam the bedroom door, but I make damn sure the bastard thing is closed.

I have to empty the hallway cupboard of several boxes, many of them containing items for our babies, before finding a single, thin blanket. It’s grubby and partially covered with blades of
dried grass.

It’s cold in the living room, so I don’t undress. I make a nest of pillows and cocoon myself under the picnic blanket, but I can’t sleep. There is a streetlight outside the
window and amber light washes into the room through the venetian blinds. From where I lie I can see the boxed pram beneath the table. A door opens and a few seconds later I hear Frank’s
muffled bass. I don’t hear Ivy reply and a couple of seconds later a door closes. My mouth is dry, so I pull the blanket tight around my shoulders and shuffle to the sink to get a glass of
water.

Sitting on the counter top is the baby book.

At twenty-one weeks the babies’ circulatory system is complete, their ears are in position on the sides of their heads and they can be soothed by calming music or disturbed by an argument.
They may have recognizable family features; perhaps they have Ivy’s eyes, or my red hair. Their eyes move, they have discernible eyebrows and eyelashes. They may play with the umbilical cord,
gripping and pulling it. Much like their father, my babies’ brains are still developing. Some experts believe this is the time when memories begin to form, and if so, I hope they don’t
remember me shouting at their mother. At twenty-one weeks the mother will feel increasingly heavy and awkward. Her ankles may swell and she might develop haemorrhoids. It is not uncommon to be
struck by fear in the middle of the night, anticipating the pain and trauma of labour and the associated risks for the babies. At thirty-one years, fifty-one weeks and six days old, the father is
still a very long way from fully developed. His priorities are not yet aligned; his ego is fragile; his timing, tact, empathy and restraint are entirely absent. He still has a great deal of growing
up to do.

According to my phone, it’s 7:43 when Ivy gets into the shower on the morning of Christmas Eve. I didn’t think I’d drunk a great deal last night, but I have a
hangover that permeates every cell of me when I wake up clothed and shivering beneath a thin picnic blanket. My head hurts, my stomach is in revolt, I ache from sleeping on an old sofa that’s
approximately eight inches shorter than I am, and my pride is throbbing like a bastard.

I need a pee but I’m not ready to face Ivy, so I hobble into the kitchen to expel one and a half pints of urine into the sink. Judging by its contents – plates, pans, colander,
cheese grater – it looks like Frank and Ivy ate burnt bolognese last night and the sight of the aftermath makes my stomach turn.

Normally, Frank moves around the house with all the stealth of a baboon on a pogo stick, so I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear his voice behind me.

‘Morning, Fish.’

I’m only halfway through my piss and stopping isn’t an option, so I continue to pee on last night’s dishes.

‘Oops,’ Frank laughs. ‘Didn’t realize this one was taken. Ha ha.’