The Two of Us

by Andy Jones

  I fake a quiet laugh, because I’m not sure how to interpret the comment. Suzi and I met around ten weeks ago and we’ve spent a lot of time together – not all of it talking about toilet paper or Jackson Pollock. We are amused, entertained and annoyed by the same things, we make each other laugh, and talk about our lives. This afternoon over lunch, Suzi told me she had split up with her boyfriend. He dumped her, it seems, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang – entirely unbidden – of happiness about it. I’ve never met the guy and know nothing about him, but the knowledge that Suzi is available appeals to something in my genetic code. She asked how Ivy and the twins were and I told her about our unresolved argument over where to spend Christmas. I told Suzi about Frank and the strain it’s placing on our domestic bliss.

  In the movie, the lawyers are somehow still fucking. They relocate onto a desk – as couples screwing in offices are wont to do – scattering Post-it notes and paperclips all over the carpet.

  I lean across to Suzi. ‘Sit on your hands,’ I tell her, and a twang of something primal thrums between my legs.

  Chapter 19

  Tonight is the Sprocket Hole Christmas party. I don’t want to be here, but Joe insisted. As well as being a chance to get stinking drunk and tell each other how wonderful we all are, the Christmas party is attended by numerous clients, and the more I schmooze the more I earn in the New Year. It’s past eleven now and the party is showing no signs of slowing down. I’m all out of schmooze and the drink is turning my stomach.

  Yesterday afternoon, after we left the cinema, Suzi and I went on to a wine bar and drank too much. Even so, I was home and in bed before Ivy came back from book club. I don’t know what time she came home, but she was sleeping beside me when I woke at five thirty with a hangover. I kissed her on the cheek, crept – as I so often do these days – out of bed, dressed in the hallway, then drove (probably still over the limit) across London to spend the next twelve hours shooting a commercial for tampons. It still took me six Panadol Extra, four Nurofen Express, one Lemsip and four litres of skinny latte to get me to the final shot and ‘it’s a wrap’. That was three hours ago now, and all I wanted to do was crawl home and pull a pillow over my head. But instead, I’m trapped inside a Christmas party. I’m hot with fatigue, my headache is still antagonizing me, I have a cloud of mizzly non-specific booze-induced guilt hovering over me and I miss Ivy.

  I summon my final grain of energy, haul myself to my feet and begin the long journey to the exit. Weaving a path of least resistance, detouring away from anyone I recognize, I’m three feet from the door when Suzi appears before me.

  I knew she was here, but Suzi is one of the last people I want to see tonight. We had a great time at the cinema and in the bar yesterday, we laughed, drank and flirted. And although I feel a little grubby about it, I can live with it. It’s more than that, though. I told Suzi things about Ivy I ought to have kept to myself – I bitched again about Frank and about Christmas, I told Suzi that Ivy is ten years older than me, I told her Ivy used the toilet with the door open and I told her we hadn’t had sex in four months. And that – these intimate revelations – feel like a betrayal. I woke up this morning with the memory of that indiscreet tittle-tattle fresh in my mind and it hurt more than my not insignificant hangover. Last night’s revelation that I had been chaste for four months tugged the conversation into dangerous waters. Sex, albeit in script format, has become a key theme between Suzi and me, and, inevitably, our exploration of the topic moved from speculation to revelation. We talked about our first times, our best times and worst times. We discussed appetites and skirted around preferences, and in the not uncomfortable silences in between we regarded each other appraisingly, a raised eyebrow, a pursed smile. I’ve been around enough to know when I’m getting a green light, and at any other time in my life last night would have ended with me and Suzi in bed or up against a wall in some dark alley. And that knowledge doesn’t make me feel particularly great about myself. We live at opposite ends of London, but I walked Suzi to her tube stop. Before we kissed good night, we looked at each other for a split second longer than necessary, assessing, maybe, just what kind of kiss we were puckering up for. Suzi initiated, landing a closed-mouthed kiss on my lips. Not a snog nor anything resembling one, but it was more than a kiss on the cheek. At several points during the day, as Suzi and I had regarded each other like kittens eyeing balls of wool, or like cats sizing up mice, I wondered not so much what Suzi would be like in bed (I’m confident she’d be a lot of fun), but what she might be like the morning after, and the morning after that and the day after that. When Suzi laughed and blushed and asked what was I thinking, I said ‘nothing’ in a way that suggested something. What I was thinking – the process influenced by alcohol and lust – was that Suzi and I would be great together.

  But as my own tube travelled south, I knew I was wrong. We would throw ourselves into each other, go to bars, meet the friends, maybe spend a weekend away near the sea. And then the novelty would fade. We would irritate each other, ignore the phone, make excuses and – after one too many goodbye-fucks – move on, with the manner of our break-up vandalizing all the good stuff that went before. I don’t know how I know, but I do; I’ve been there before and my (smarter) subconscious mind has recognized the signs: the forced laughter, perhaps; the tendency to egocentricity; the asymmetric ears. Whatever it is, it’s there, under the surface like a nascent zit. As the train approached Wimbledon, my thoughts veered into animosity. Suzi knows very fucking well that Ivy is pregnant with my twins, and for her to flirt with me the way she undeniably does, to waft the suggestion of sex under my nose . . . well, what does that really say about her? And the way I lapped it up and played the game and flirted back, what does that say about me?

  Ivy and I are squabbling more frequently and with, it seems, deeper irritation. More often than not the catalyst is trivial, and I can’t work out whether that diminishes or compounds the issue. Everything is out of sequence and it’s skewed my perspective. The business about where to spend Christmas, for example. It’s possible that if Ivy weren’t twenty-one weeks pregnant, I’d have no problem spending the holiday apart. But, like it or not, we’re a family now and how can you honestly know if you’re meant to be together when circumstance is dictating terms? And being with Suzi only seems to blur the distinction. So, yeah, she’s pretty much the last person I want to talk to tonight. But here she is, standing before me and blocking my exit from this festive free-for-all.

  ‘Sneaking off?’ she says.

  ‘Long day,’ I say.

  ‘How was the shoot?’

  ‘Uninspiring.’ And I’m not being truculent on purpose, but really, what else is there to say about it?

  Suzi looks a little unsettled by my demeanour. ‘Fair enough,’ she says, and passes me a small present wrapped in Jackson Pollock-style wrapping paper. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  And don’t I feel like a dick.

  ‘I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry. I’ve been . . . you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Suzi says. ‘It’s only a book.’ And she balances on tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, yeah.’

  ‘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.

  Chapter 20

  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.’