The Two of Us (9 page)

‘These come in a bag,’ she says. ‘’s got a heart on it.’

I place both my hands on the glass counter. ‘Listen, I don’t want a bag, I want a b—’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to please remain behind the counter please.’

I spring back to attention. ‘I am behind the counter. I was just . . .
Jesus!
I just want a sodding b—’

‘Is there a problem?’ asks a thinly stretched male voice.

I turn to face a middle-aged man standing behind the till, his right hand poised conspicuously beneath the counter. I look back to the girl. She crosses her arms and waggles her lip stud.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll go to Argos.’

‘Whatevs,’ says the girl. ‘But their earrings is clappers.’

I have no idea what ‘clappers’ means, but I’ll bet it’s not an endorsement.

Standing in the queue at the Argos jewellery counter, it occurs to me that giving Ivy a set of keys to my flat is only marginally more meaningful than giving her a drawer for her knickers. I
love Ivy; I love sharing a bed, sofa and bathroom with her even if she doesn’t close the door when answering the call of nature. And let’s not forget our child, now the size of a
kumquat, with ears, nostrils and a heart that beats one hundred and eighty times a minute. The sensible thing to do – the right and romantic thing – would be to ask Ivy to move in with
me completely – body, soul and underwear. The only problem I can envisage, however, is that Ivy would be out of her mind to abandon the leaf-dappled serenity of Wimbledon Village for the
pungent, threatening cacophony of Brixton. But it’s my turn to be served, so I offer up a desperate prayer to the patron saint of idiots, and ask the bored counter assistant for a pair of her
cheapest earrings.

I’m drinking, Ivy isn’t.

Two glasses of wine cost more than a bottle so I ordered a bottle, but I’m nervous and it’s making me drink too fast. We’ve finished our starters and our main courses, and are
now waiting for dessert to arrive. The boxful of keys in my front jeans pocket is too uncomfortable for me to have forgotten its existence for even one second. I’ve been waiting for an
opportune moment to present it, but every time there’s been a lull in the conversation, my nerve has gone and hidden beneath the table. Instead, I’ve lurched from one inane
conversational gambit to another, like a teenager on a first date. Fortunately, Ivy is so exhausted she either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care. I attempted to initiate a discussion about
baby names, but Ivy said it’s too early. I asked if she wanted a boy or a girl, and she said all she wanted was a healthy child. I asked did she want a home or a hospital birth and she said
could we just change the subject. I talked about the weather. You can tell Ivy would rather be at home, sleeping on the sofa in front of a crappy movie, which, considering her circumstances, is
entirely understandable.

‘How was your pasta?’ I ask.

‘Nice. How was your fish?’

‘Good.’

‘Great.’

‘Yeah, I like fish.’

Mercifully, the waitress arrives with our desserts. It isn’t an opportunity, exactly, but this date has about ten minutes left to run, so it’s do-or-die time. I brace myself, take a
deep breath and reach into my pocket . . . and it’s only as the box comes into view above the table-top that it occurs to me what normally comes in ring boxes.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ I say, and I only wish I’d thought a tiny bit harder.

Ivy all but recoils in her chair.

It’s almost certainly my imagination, but the background chatter of the other diners seems to fade out. I am acutely aware of the guitarist in the corner, crooning quietly about –
yes,
amore.
In the movie version of my life, all heads would turn towards me expectantly: a fat woman would pause, dessert halfway to her mouth; a lothario waiter winks encouragement; an
elderly lady reaches for her husband’s hand and gazes into his milky eyes; for comic relief, a balding bespectacled man would glance at his sour-faced wife and shudder. But this isn’t a
movie, this is real, unscripted unrehearsed life, and the only person looking at me is Ivy. And I have one hundred per cent of her attention – the way I would if I were waving, say, a
blood-stained axe in her face.

‘No!’ I say, and in my haste to reveal not-a-ring, I fumble the box into my tiramisu. ‘Fuck!’

And now I have attracted the attention of a couple at the adjacent table. I smile at the gawping woman and she winks in return.

Ivy is clutching her fork like a horror movie starlet attempting to fend off the unfendable.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, finally snapping the stupid box open. ‘It’s keys.’

Ivy looks at the keys like she’s never before seen such an item. The woman at the adjacent table goes back to her meatballs, disappointed.

‘For my flat,’ I say. ‘For you.’

‘Keys,’ says Ivy, still processing the situation. Her face transitions from fear to confusion to relief and back to confusion.

‘Move in with me?’ I say, and I hit the question mark harder than necessary. It sounds like I’m pleading.

Ivy takes the keys, inserts her finger through the ring holding them together, realizes what she’s doing and puts the bunch down on the table as if they might be dangerous. ‘This is
a surprise,’ she says.

I do a cabaret flourish with my hands. ‘Ta-daaa!’

Ivy laughs politely.

‘Is that a yes?’

Ivy chews her bottom lip.

‘How are your desserts?’ asks a waiter.

Ivy’s is untouched but melting; mine has a box-shaped indentation in its centre. ‘Delicious,’ I say, ‘but I couldn’t eat another thing.’

‘Madam?’ asks the waiter.

‘All done,’ says Ivy. ‘Thank you.’

‘Can I get you coffee?’

‘Just the bill,’ Ivy and I say in perfect unison.

We don’t talk as we walk back to my flat. It’s a cold evening with no stars, but I steer us along the scenic route, nevertheless. We stroll arm in arm, taking in the pungent air and
watching the fighting drunks, passed-out tramps, strung-out whores and maniacal pimps. It’s a beautiful evening. As we turn the corner onto the relative safety of Chaucer Road, Ivy comes to
an abrupt halt, pulling on my arm.

‘What is it?’ I ask, checking up and down the street.

Ivy smiles, takes my hands in hers. ‘Will you move in with
me
?’ she asks.

I hug her, kiss her.

‘Is that a yes?’ she says, laughing.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Ivy frowns. ‘Is this . . . did you set me up?’

‘That’s not a very romantic way of putting it.’

‘I dunno,’ says Ivy, and she sets off walking again, pulling me along behind her. ‘It might just be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

In the six weeks since El came back from San Francisco, his tan has faded and his head appears smaller, although the latter is almost certainly a by-product of his new
beard.

‘Fuckig itches like a b. . . bastid.’

‘Well, let me shave the scraggy thing off, for pity’s sake,’ says Phil.

‘P. . . p. . . you’ll prolly kill me,’ El says, then laughs. ‘Second th. . . thoughts. M. . . maybe should.’

El’s twitches and tics have escalated to the point where he can’t shave without cutting himself half a dozen or more times. And he’s too temperamental, too stubborn, to allow
Phil to do it for him.

‘Anway, ’s. . . ’strendy.’

‘You look like a vagabond,’ says Phil, who himself looks uncharacteristically dishevelled. He has bruise-coloured bags beneath his eyes and it looks as if he’s been crying, not
sleeping or both.

El doesn’t reply; he’s engrossed in his iPad, as he has been for most of the evening. There are two pizzas on the coffee table, but Phil isn’t eating and El lost interest
halfway through his second slice.

El holds the iPad towards me. ‘Here’s a g. . . good ’un.’

‘What is it?’

‘V. . . video. One of my g. . . gang.’

Phil sighs. ‘I wish you wouldn’t, El. It’s terribly morbid.’

I take the iPad and press play. A woman is sprawled on a sofa, her left arm tangled around the back of her head, the hand opening and closing like a spastic crab. Off-screen, a male voice tells
us this is someone’s wife, she’s had Huntington’s for eight years and is making this film for her seven-year-old son while she is still able. The woman slurs, gasps, groans her
way through a heartfelt message; telling her son she loves him, apologizing for not being there to see him grow up. While the left hand clenches and relaxes, the woman brings the right to and from
her forehead as if chastising herself for dying of this disease. At about fifty seconds in she starts crying.

‘Cr. . . cracks me up,’ says El, laughing disingenuously.

Phil stands abruptly and walks from the room.

‘G. . . get her,’ says El, loudly.

‘Give him a break, El.’

When I visit El, Phil invariably disappears to the pub for an hour, so I’m not overly concerned when I hear the front door slam.

El grins. ‘We can have a d. . . drink now.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I tell him.

‘S. . . s. . .’

‘Save it, El. Whatever it is.’

I take my time making the tea, and when I bring the pot back through to the living room, El has shut off the iPad.

‘W. . . was I a w. . . wa. . . ?’ He mimes masturbating.

‘Yes,’ I tell him, ‘you were, but he’ll get over it.’

El looks genuinely remorseful. ‘I d. . . don’ wanna be l. . . like that,’ he says.

‘A wanker?’

El shrugs. ‘That too.’ He nods at the iPad. ‘Don’ wanna e. . . end like that.’

El has crumbs and scraps of food in his beard; they’ve been bothering me for the past five minutes, and I lean across to wipe his face with a napkin.

‘Fuck off!’ he barks, and the ferocity of it startles me.

‘Okay. Sorry.’ I sit back and try not to sigh out loud. I know it’s his disease and not him, but the thought doesn’t settle me – if anything, it makes me
angrier.

El clutches at and drops the TV remote. ‘Bastid!’

I start clearing the table of pizza, using it as a pretext to get out of my chair and retrieve the dropped remote. Without saying anything or making eye contact, I place the remote on the arm of
El’s chair. When I get back from the kitchen he’s watching what appears to be a cop drama. I sit down quietly.

After several minutes, El turns to me. ‘Havn’ got a f. . . fuckig c. . . clue what’s ’appenin in this p. . . programme.’

‘
Blackadder
?’ I ask him.

He nods so enthusiastically I have an urge to ruffle his hair, but I’m afraid the bastard might bite me.

El doesn’t have the focus or clarity to follow an original plot anymore, but he can still remember most of the scenes and dialogue from the TV shows we watched together fifteen years ago.
Phil has bought him box sets of
Red Dwarf
,
Fawlty Towers
,
The Young Ones
and, of course,
Blackadder
.

‘Which one?’ I ask.

‘Anyfink wiv Qu. . . Qu. . . Queenie,’ he says. ‘Hey, h. . . how’s y’woman?’

‘I’m moving in.’

‘’s quick. Dint kn. . . knock her up, did you?’

‘Funny,’ I say.

‘I kn. . . know, I’m f. . . fuckig h. . . h. . . ’sterical.’

Phil returns from the pub at a little after ten, by which time El is asleep in his chair and I’m halfway through episode three.

‘God, I love Queenie,’ he says. Then, nodding at El, ‘How’s Baldrick?’

I laugh. ‘He’s fine, sleeping like a baby.’

‘Appropriate,’ he says. ‘Listen, about the melodrama . . .’

‘Forget it,’ I tell him. ‘Honestly.’

‘How was he?’

‘Fine. Told me to fuck off when I tried to clean his beard, but other than that.’

‘’s. . . ’s rude to talk ’bout someone when they’re . . . inna room.’

‘Ah, it wakes,’ says Phil. ‘Let me clean your beard, you’re like a hairy bloody toddler.’

El holds his chin forward for wiping. ‘Toddler?’ he laughs. ‘J. . . jus’ wait till I start sh. . . shittin’ myself. W. . . won’ be long now.’

‘There,’ says Phil, brightly, ‘all clean.’ His teeth are wine-stained and he’s beginning to slur his words. He flops onto the sofa and places his hands firmly on
his knees, as if composing himself.

An uncomfortable silence fills the room, all the more awkward because it has blossomed from nowhere.

‘S. . . s. . . spit it out,’ says El.

‘Now that’s the cat calling the monkey hairy-arsed,’ says Phil.

‘Spit what out?’ I ask.

Phil takes a deep breath and rises from the sofa. He crosses to an antique bureau and returns with a stapled A4 document. ‘This is an ADRT.’

‘Thassa one,’ says El, beaming.

Phil goes on: ‘It’s an advance decision to refuse treatment. It means that if—’

‘W. . . when!’

‘. . . El’s condition deteriorates, he will not receive treatment to keep him alive.’

‘Good, innit!’ says El.

‘His idea, I take it?’

Phil takes hold of El’s hand. ‘Ours,’ he says.

‘I fuckig f. . . found it,’ says El. ‘Don’t steal my f. . . c. . . th. . . thunder.’

‘And we need you to witness it, please.’

Phil places the document on the coffee table and hands me a biro. I touch neither.

‘So what happens if he . . . if he hurts himself, if he breaks his leg? What if he chokes on his pizza? You just going to stand and watch?’

I’m not sure Phil buys into my indignation, and I don’t know that I do either. I understand what this is about, I get the need, but to sign it without at least some protest would
feel like a betrayal.

‘Of course not,’ says Phil, gently.

‘Y. . . y. . . you fuckig will.’

‘El, shush a moment. It means El won’t ever be hooked up to a machine to keep him breathing. If he has a heart attack he won’t receive CPR.’

‘Means I can d. . . d. . .’

‘El, please,’ says Phil.

‘K. . . ki. . . killjoy.’

On the doorstep, Phil cries, as he often does. It’s different tonight, though; it feels desperate – like he’s crying not only for El, but for himself, too.

‘You need some time on your own,’ I tell him. ‘A break.’