The Two of Us Page 11

  I slept with a girl called Ellie, but now is hardly the time to divulge.

  ‘Had a Smelly Ellie in sixth form,’ I tell her. Which isn’t a million miles from the truth.

  ‘Kids,’ says Ivy, ‘so cr— Oh!’ her eyes go wide as her hands move reflexively to her belly.

  ‘What’s up? Are you . . . is everything okay?’

  Ivy smiles. ‘Someone,’ she says, stroking her bump as if it were a puppy or a kitten or . . . well, a baby, ‘someone’s restless.’

  ‘Really, which one?’

  ‘Hard to tell.’ Then, directed at her bump, ‘Who’s fidgeting, hmm?’

  ‘First time?’ I ask.

  Ivy nods. ‘No one owning up, hey?’ She pushes a hand into her tummy, attempting to elicit some response.

  ‘Anything?’ I ask.

  Ivy shakes her head sadly. ‘Show’s over, I think.’

  I don’t actually say the words: That’s what you think, but I do raise my eyebrows as I resume massaging Ivy’s legs.

  Ivy groans.

  ‘Does that feel good?’ I say.

  But as I look into her face, all the colour drains from Ivy’s cheeks. ‘I . . . I don’t think all that jiggling was such a good idea,’ she says, and then she holds a hand to her mouth and scampers off to the bathroom to barf.

  When I wake the following morning Ivy is not beside me. We’ve been living together for almost eight weeks now, and it’s not unusual for me to wake in an otherwise empty bed. Ivy used to enjoy starting the day with what she euphemistically calls (called) a ‘wriggle’, but now that she has a pair of sweet potatoes using her bladder as a bouncy castle, it seems the only thing on her waking mind is a pee and a cup of tea.

  My old neighbour, Esther, has a theory about pebbles in a jar:

  If you place a pebble in a jar every time you make love in the first year of a relationship, then remove a pebble every time you make love thereafter, you will never empty the jar. I get it, and I don’t doubt it contains a grain (or a pebble) of truth. I just hope, like so much else in our short relationship, this early burst of sexual industriousness isn’t a phenomenon Ivy and I have managed to tick off in a condensed time frame i.e. in nineteen days instead of twelve months. There are, of course, extenuating factors. In the seven and a half weeks since I moved to Wimbledon, we’ve both been working, and it would have been hard to arrange schedules that were less aligned. Added to that, on the nights when we are together, Ivy is usually asleep on the sofa within seconds of nine o’clock ticking over. Even at weekends we’re out of synch. I run and Ivy practises yoga, but we never manage to co-ordinate these things, which equates to around two hours spent apart on both Saturday and Sunday. She reads, I watch Columbo; I walk to the shops, she takes an afternoon nap. And it’s not unpleasant; in fact, it’s cosy. But too much cosy can get a little . . . well, boring. I like the life we share together; it just feels like we’re living it about twenty years too soon.

  This morning I find Ivy in the living room, moving through a yoga routine. Dressed in a pair of sky-blue leggings and a pink vest top, she is currently balanced in Downward Dog. Hinged at the waist with her hands and feet on the yoga mat and her limbs locked straight, Ivy’s body describes a perfect A-frame.

  ‘Morning, sweet cheeks,’ I say to her elevated bottom.

  Neither Ivy nor her elevated bottom answer.

  I pat her on the backside as I walk through to the kitchen, where I flick on the kettle.

  ‘We should get some full-fat,’ I say.

  Ivy can’t see the bottle of skimmed milk I’m brandishing because her head is now squashed between her knees, but she knows what I’m talking about. We have discussed the fat-content of our milk several times. If I want it, Ivy says, then I should buy it. Problem is, Ivy takes care of the online shop and the only time I think about milk is when I’m standing in front of an open fridge, holding a carton of what amounts to little more than white water. I mean, is a little milk in my milk really too much to ask?

  ‘For coffee,’ I say.

  Ivy transitions into Cat.

  The kettle boils and I make a full cafetiere of coffee.

  Into Cow, into Modified Cobra.

  ‘Want one?’ I ask.

  Ivy grunts – through exertion or as an answer, I can’t tell.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ I say.

  ‘Kind of doing something,’ she says from between her legs.

  Skinny coffee in hand, I take a seat on the sofa and spectate. I have seen Ivy move through these poses many times now. In the first few weeks of our relationship she encouraged me to join in, which I did; and on more than one occasion our final position was one you don’t perform in public. Ivy transitions into Caterpillar – head on the mat, back arched, bum in the air.

  ‘Remember when we used to do yoga together?’ I say.

  ‘Unnh hmm.’

  ‘Seems like a long time ago.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Ivy shifts her weight backward so that she is on all fours. She rotates her hips one way then the other. I doubt it’s actually called Sexy Fox, but that’s the name which comes to mind.

  ‘What’s that one called?’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Ivy.

  ‘Funny name.’

  Ivy doesn’t answer.

  ‘I could join you if you like?’

  ‘Haven’t you got things to do?’ says Ivy.

  ‘All right,’ I say, a little stung. And then, remembering something her brother Frank said when we visited Ivy’s parents: ‘Chillamena Willamena.’

  ‘Christ, that’s annoying,’ she says, and I don’t remember her reacting the same way when Frank said it.

  I leave my unfinished coffee on the arm of the sofa, knowing it will piss Ivy off even further, and go through to the bedroom to change into my running gear. I strap on my iPod and fold a tenner into my trainer so I can buy a bacon sandwich and a carton of full-fucking-fat milk on the way back.

  For the first mile I run angry. And with no clear destination in mind, I run not towards Wimbledon Common, but away from it. Instead of the open spaces, the trees, the pond and the bridle path, I pound the hard pavements, running beside busy roads and filling my lungs with car fumes. It takes me less than an hour to arrive at my old street in Brixton.

  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.’

  Chapter 13

  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.