The Two of Us

by Andy Jones

  Bob’s lips part, revealing his teeth in an ugly, feral grimace that alone should be grounds for confinement in the secure wing of Wandsworth prison. ‘Struffnprrngnang,’ he manages, shaking his head with apparent loathing.

  I too glance at the bouncer and his posture brings to mind a cage-fighter waiting for the bell.

  ‘What the fuck are you on about, Bob?’ says Joe, forcing a laugh.

  The whole party is looking at Bob now, drinks halfway to mouths, the other dancers momentarily forgotten.

  Mercedes – naked except for a tiara and a thimbleful of glitter – smiles uncertainly, lifts her arms above her head and undulates like a snake rising from a basket. And this, it would appear, is the final straw for Bob.

  He lunges forward, one hand extended, fingers splayed as if waiting to receive a basketball, the other making a grab between his own legs. The bouncer is a blur, descending on Bob before he is halfway off his stool and wrapping one mitt around his neck and the other around his outstretched wrist. Bob’s mouth comes suddenly unhinged and he lets out a cry – no, a scream – of such anguish that the goon releases his grip and Bob drops to the floor as if shot.

  The ambulance driver calls it an inguinal hernia. ‘Not uncommon and not life-threatening,’ apparently. ‘Excruciatingly painful, mind,’ he says. Although anyone with eyes and ears doesn’t need telling. Worried, perhaps, that a writhing screaming man might dampen the ardour of the other punters, two bouncers attempted to remove Bob from the floor, but Bob reached for a new octave and instead, someone brought a blanket. Mercedes (a student nurse, ‘call me Sharron’) stroked Bob’s forehead and administered sips of water until the paramedics arrived.

  ‘A good way of thinking about it,’ says the paramedic, Carlo, a handsome man who looks like his uniform has been tailored with the sole purpose of dramatizing his biceps, ‘is he’s basically blown a gasket.’ He turns to Sharron. ‘And let’s be honest, who can blame him.’

  ‘Blown a gasket?’ says Stan.

  Carlo addresses his answer to Sharron, the two having established a professional camaraderie and maybe something more. ‘You know where the inguinal cavity is?’

  Sharron shakes her head. ‘I don’t think we’ve done that yet.’

  ‘Here,’ says Carlo, placing two fingers on his groin. ‘The membrane, yeah? – it’s basically ruptured, torn open, and a chunk of his lower intestine – a big one from the looks of it – has popped through the rip. Nasty business.’

  ‘Jesus bloody wept,’ says Joe, inflating his cheeks and holding a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Intestines?’ says Stan.

  ‘Think about it like this,’ says Carlo. ‘You know when you get your sausages from the butcher, and he puts them in a plastic bag? Now, imagine exerting pressure on the bag . . .’ he clenches his fists, flexing his biceps as he mimes bending an iron bar or tearing a phone book in half. ‘If the bag’s weak, like those small white ones you get in the market . . . well, something’s got to give.’ Carlo releases the tension in his arms and makes a sharp echoing Pop! with his full, wet lips.

  ‘Fascinating,’ says Sharron.

  ‘I think I’m going to puke,’ says Joe.

  The entire stag party is outside, coats on, to see Bob into the ambulance. And the relief is palpable, with Gaz being the only one in any way reluctant to call it a night. I suggested we all relocate to a restaurant, but Joe (who never regained control over his gorge after learning that Bob had begun the process of turning himself inside out) wasn’t the only one who couldn’t face the thought of food. Besides, everyone has something to do tomorrow, something that will be considerably less painful without a hangover: visiting in-laws, buying a turkey, fixing the toilet seat. Sharron accompanies us to the door (numbers have been exchanged between her and Carlo); dressed in Ugg boots, jogging bottoms and a baggy jumper, she looks small and timid. We hold an impromptu whip-round and (the fathers notably more generous) tip her in excess of a hundred pounds. Not a bad night for Sharron and Carlo, less so for Bob.

  Joe and I hang back, bear-hugging and handshaking everyone onto the tube or into a taxi until it is just the two of us left.

  ‘Right then,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Burger King?’

  ‘I thought you were sick.’

  ‘Sick of that lot of old women. It’s like trying to enjoy veal with a convention of fucking vegans, know what I mean?’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Come on,’ Joe says, steering me across the street. ‘I’ll buy you a Whopper. Oh, and I’m sleeping at yours tonight.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I am. And if Jen asks, we were out till four, did a shitload of coke, got vomitingly drunk, kicked out a nightclub and Malcolm had a fight with a taxi driver.’

  We’re back at the flat before eleven.

  ‘You’re back early,’ Ivy says as we walk into the living room. She and Sophie are huddled under a blanket, a bowl of popcorn balanced between them, a blurred freeze-frame (Rowan Atkinson, it looks like) on the paused DVD player.

  ‘Not a word to Jen,’ says Joe. ‘She’ll go fucking potty; accuse me of not taking it seriously. Joe, by the way,’ he says, extending a hand to Sophie.

  ‘Sophie, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And how you doing, gorgeous?’ Joe says to Ivy, kissing her on the cheek.

  ‘It’s going,’ she says, rubbing her stomach and scooching up to make room.

  Joe squeezes onto the sofa between the girls, pulls the blanket up over his legs and rests the popcorn on his thighs. ‘What’s this?’ he says, pointing his chin at the TV. ‘Mr Bean?’

  ‘Love Actually, actually,’ says Ivy, glancing towards me.

  ‘Great film,’ says Joe.

  ‘Can I quote you on that?’

  ‘Can you, fuck. This is a stag do – what goes on tour, stays on tour.’

  I still have my coat on, still haven’t said a word. ‘About last night,’ I say, and Sophie and Joe snap their attention from the popcorn to me. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Joe turns to Sophie, raises his eyebrows: Ooh, interesting.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ says Ivy, and it looks like there’s a film of tears on her eyes. She beckons me with two hands. I go to her, kiss her, give her the bloody big hug I’ve been holding onto since nine o’clock this morning.

  ‘I could murder a cup of tea,’ says Joe.

  ‘Milk no sugar,’ says Sophie.

  ‘Raspberry leaf,’ says Ivy.

  ‘Ooh, second thoughts,’ says Joe. ‘One of those.’

  ‘So, no strippers?’ says Ivy, as I go about fixing everybody’s drink order.

  ‘Obviously,’ says Joe. ‘Chucked it in after half an hour, though.’

  ‘Seems a shame,’ says Sophie.

  ‘Bob had a funny turn,’ I say.

  ‘Didn’t have the stomach for it,’ says Joe, and he laughs so hard Sophie has to rescue the popcorn.

  ‘Care to share?’ says Ivy.

  ‘Another time,’ Joe says. ‘It’ll put you off your popcorn.’

  I administer various teas, and take a seat in Ivy’s uncomfortable armchair.

  ‘Ready?’ she says, pointing the remote at the DVD player.

  ‘Ready,’ we say, and Rowan begins the business of gift-wrapping Alan Rickman’s necklace.

  Sophie left shortly after the film finished, and Joe is now tucked up in the spare room, vacated by Frank for the weekend. I’d hoped to wake up in a quiet house tomorrow morning, but I really should know better by now. After I’ve brushed my teeth and texted Jen (Joe in bit of a state. Sorry. Staying with me, don’t wait up x), I find Ivy propped up in bed, waiting.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I say, climbing in beside her.

  ‘I was going to give you this tomorrow,’ Ivy whispers. ‘But, seeing as you’re home early.’

  ‘It’s almost one.’

  ‘Okay, seeing as you’re not trolleyed, then.’ She reaches under her pillow and produces a small gift-wrapped box.

  I experience
a sudden, gut-squeezing panic. Christmas is more than a week away; we still haven’t agreed on our plans, but the sight of this small package suggests that Ivy might be heading to her parents even earlier than planned. When I got back to the flat with Joe tonight, it appeared that all was forgiven, but now, confronted with a Christmas gift at one in the morning, it seems that I might have misjudged the situation.

  ‘What’s up?’ says Ivy, holding the damned thing out towards me. ‘It’s not going to explode.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘About yesterday. I’ve been stressed. Stressed with work, and the stag do and the babies; and I know it’s hard for you, harder than it is for me, obviously, but I’ve just go—’

  ‘Fisher.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m trying to give you a present.’

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Are you going back to Bristol?’

  Ivy looks at me as if I’m high. ‘Not right now, no.’

  ‘So why are you giving me my Christmas present? I don’t . . .’

  ‘It’s not a Christmas present,’ Ivy says. ‘Just take it before my arm drops off.’

  I take the present; turn it over in my hands, inspecting it as if it’s some kind of test I’m failing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s an apology. Will you just open it?’ She’s smiling.

  Cautiously, I begin tearing the paper. ‘You don’t need to apologize, babes.’

  ‘I’m a lot more fun when I’m not pregnant, honest.’ Her smile is sincere but playful.

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry, joke.’

  Ivy sighs. ‘This isn’t easy, you know. I’m baring my soul here and—’

  ‘Babes, seriously, I didn’t mean it like that. Come on . . .’ I go to hold Ivy’s hand but she pulls it away from me.

  ‘I . . . call me an idiot, but I thought you might be a bit more gracious about it.’

  ‘Ivy, please . . .’ she shakes her head as a grin spreads across her face ‘. . . oh, you’re kidding. You’re kidding.’

  Ivy shrugs. ‘Never let your guard down, mister.’

  ‘Seriously, babes, you’re all the fun I can handle.’ I kiss Ivy and she kisses me back.

  ‘I know,’ she says, smiling. ‘Now open your present.’

  Behind the paper is a small jeweller’s box. Inside is a pair of black and silver clapperboard cufflinks.

  ‘They’re amazing,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  Ivy kisses me. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘You know, I don’t actually have one of those . . .’ I indicate my wrists ‘. . . one of those shirts.’

  ‘Really?’ says Ivy, unconvincingly. She takes the cufflinks from me. ‘Well how about I look after them for you until you do?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ivy. ‘And I’ll think of you every time I put them on.’

  Chapter 16

  The babies are more distinct on the monitor, they are moving and their hearts are beating; they look perfect. But we are tense, nevertheless. The sonographer measures our babies’ heads, abdomens and spines, muttering under her breath as she punches numbers into a spreadsheet. She counts their legs, arms, fingers and toes. She checks for cleft lip, spina bifida, heart defects, brain abnormalities, misplaced organs and short limbs. And whilst, of course, it is possible any one of these things could be anomalous, I never thought they would be. Call it dumb optimism or subconscious denial, but ever since our twelve-week scan showed no evidence of Down’s syndrome, not once have I worried that our children might have malformed hearts or misshapen limbs. I realize now that I have been guilty of gross complacency, and I can feel my own heart thump behind my ribs as the sonographer confirms that the twins’ bowels, intestines and livers are inside their bodies, their spines are covered in skin and the valves of their hearts are present and functioning. And as the sonographer moves her cursor and squints at the monitor, I hold my breath and squeeze Ivy’s hand.

  Again we are in the Tooting café that serves bad coffee. Only this time I’m in a state of relief rather than shock, so I’m actually drinking the beige, lukewarm liquid that passes for a latte. If anything, it’s worse than I remember.

  Joe left this morning after eight hours’ sleep and a full English breakfast; fresh, rested and ready to face the traditional post-stag berating. Today and tonight we have the flat to ourselves for the first time in a long time – just me, Ivy and our two perfect twins.

  As she stares at the most recent photograph of our babies, Ivy’s smile is so broad and involves so much of her face that her scars are pulled into deep crinkles. I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘What are you grinning at?’

  ‘You,’ I tell her, and I lean across the table and kiss her. ‘I love you.’

  And this greasy spoon is not the mountaintop, meadow or Michelin-starred restaurant I had in mind when I’d imagined saying these three words. I didn’t think Ivy had any more smile in her, but it turns out that she does – just one more increment, and it lights me up.

  ‘You took your time,’ she says, blushing.

  I nearly tell Ivy that I have, in fact, told her this once before, through a mouthful of jumper. But I’ll save it for another time – when we’re old and grey, perhaps.

  Ivy leans across the table and kisses me lightly on the forehead, the nose and the lips – one, two, three. ‘I love you, too.’

  Mount Everest, Niagara Falls, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon . . . who needs ’em? This moment, at this stained and wonky table in south-west London, is absolutely perfect.

  Chapter 17

  Yesterday I shot the cheese commercial. For thirty seconds of old shtick, it took a lot of time and effort and we didn’t wrap until after ten in the evening. That’s fourteen hours under hot studio lights with a trolley-full of the world’s seventh stinkiest cheese. I stood under the shower for twenty minutes when I got back to the flat and washed my hair three times. And in the morning I could still smell Limburger on my pillow. I’ll probably have to throw out the clothes I wore. Ivy’s morning sickness stopped several weeks ago, but she came close to a relapse this morning when she got a whiff of my cheesy carcass. I soaked in a steaming hot bath for a further thirty minutes before breakfast, and once again before leaving for Phil and El’s two hours ago.

  We’re having an early Christmas dinner. The big day is less than a week away, so this is the last chance the three of us have to get together before I go wherever I’m going for the holiday. Except there are four of us around this table: El and Phil are sitting across from each other, and I’m sitting opposite a man called Craig, who looks to be a similar age to Phil. Phil introduced him simply as ‘a friend’, and the curt, somewhat coy tone of Phil’s voice discouraged me from asking further questions. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear to God I had been set up on a blind date. The atmosphere certainly has the same sheepish awkwardness. El hasn’t commented, and this only adds to the strangeness of the situation.

  ‘Sh. . . sure I c’n s. . . smell cheese,’ El says.

  ‘It’ll be the sprouts,’ says Phil.

  Craig sits up straight, raises his nose and sniffs the air around him. He looks vaguely birdlike and whether it’s deliberate or not, I find the whole routine absurdly funny.

  ‘You know,’ says Craig. ‘I think I can smell it too.’

  ‘Ch. . . cheese.’

  ‘It’s psychosomatic,’ says Phil to Craig. ‘Like when someone talks about fleas.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Craig. ‘Probably.’ But he doesn’t seem convinced. He smiles at me across the table. I don’t think it’s a flirtatious smile, but it could be interpreted that way.

  My scalp itches now and whether it’s the excessive shampooing, Phil’s mention of fleas, or this whole set-up, who knows. A Christmas compilation is playing – Bing Crosby, Ray Charles, Nat ‘King’ Col
e, Dean Martin. The house is minimally decorated for the season: a sprig of holly, a small Christmas tree, rainbow tinsel draped over the mirror above the fireplace, cock-and-balls balloon arrangement in the corner. We’re all wearing Christmas hats, but I don’t feel in any way festive.

  My birthday is on Christmas Day, so you’d think December 25th would be right up there in Fisher’s Favourite Days. But I’ve never liked Christmas; my family always make the effort to honour my birthday, but it always feels fitted in and anticlimactic. And the anticipation of this, from the minute I open my eyes on Christmas morning, it seems to tarnish the whole day. I dunno, maybe I’m just miserable. Ivy and I still haven’t determined where we’re spending Christmas and it’s preying on my mind.

  ‘Pass the p. . . piggies,’ El says, and he oinks a couple of times for emphasis. His beard is thick and full now, he has gravy in his moustache and crumbs of potato hanging from his chin.

  ‘Eat your turkey,’ says Phil, pointing a knife at El’s plate. ‘You haven’t touched it.’

  As well as difficulty with attention and co-ordination, El has trouble chewing and swallowing, so it can take him well over an hour to get through an average meal. I’ve learned to eat slowly when I eat with El, so he doesn’t end up finishing his meal on his own. As a result, I am now sitting in front of a large plate of cold food in congealing gravy.

  El oinks again. ‘Piggies!’ he says, and Phil, sighing, deposits a pair of bacon-wrapped sausages onto El’s bright pink plastic plate. We are all, in fact, eating from plastic plates out of solidarity. El, however, is the only one drinking his meagre splash of champagne from a double-handled plastic sippy cup. We look like gate-crashers at a toddlers’ party.

  ‘Turkey’s delicious,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says Craig. ‘Very moist.’ He articulates the last word with a good serving of camp. ‘It can be a dry old bird, can’t it.’

  ‘Fisher works in advertising,’ says Phil. ‘He’s a director.’

  Craig raises his eyebrows. ‘Très glam.’

  ‘H. . . h. . . hardly.’

  ‘Took the words from my mouth,’ I say.