The Two of Us (12 page)

‘William?’ says Eva.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, turning to Ivy’s mother, ‘I . . . I was . . .’

‘Boring you, were we?’ says Frank, laughing.

‘Sorry,’ I repeat, ‘long day.’

‘I was asking where you live, love?’ says Ivy’s mother.

I wasn’t prepared for this. And the thought of lying to this simple question throws a great big spanner into my speech centre.

‘In . . . a flat?’ I try.

‘Blimey,’ says Ivy’s dad. ‘Must’ve been a very bloody long day.’

‘Kenneth!’ chides Eva.

‘We moved in together,’ blurts Ivy, which is a departure from the agreed script.

Everyone goes quiet.

I avoid all eyes and stare into space with an inane smile glued onto my face.

‘That was quick,’ says Ken.

I take a large gulp of my wine.

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticks.

‘Well,’ says Ivy, ‘we thought we might as well, seeing as . . .’

I snap my head around, staring directly at Ivy:
No!

‘. . . seeing as how I’m pregnant!’ and she says these last five words in about nought-point-five seconds, on an ascending scale with each syllable twice as loud as the last,
so that by the time she hits ‘pregnant’, she’s shrieking.

And now, so is her mother. ‘Pregnant! With a baby?’

‘Twins!’ Ivy says.

‘Twins?’ shout Ken and Frank and Eva.

‘Twins,’ I say. And I pull the kind of face you might make if you were admitting some minor
faux pas
like walking mud into the hallway or breaking a garden gnome.

‘Blimey,’ says Ken, getting up and leaving the room.

Eva is crying, kissing Ivy and rubbing her belly.

‘Fast worker,’ says Frank, winking at me with what I hope is a form of fraternal affection.

I give him an imbecilic thumbs up.

When Ken returns he’s carrying five champagne glasses in one huge hand and a bottle of cava in the other.

‘You can have a teensy splash, can’t you, Flower?’ he says to Ivy.

‘Of course she can’t,’ Eva says, putting her arm around Ivy as if to protect her. ‘Silly.’

Ivy scrunches up her face. ‘I’ll pass.’

Ken rolls his eyes and pours for the rest of us. ‘To the twins,’ he says.

‘Needn’t have bothered making up the spare bed, hey?’ says Eva.

‘No use shutting the stable door after the horse has shot his bolt,’ says Ken, and whether it’s a slip of the tongue or the world’s worst joke, the effect is the same on
my complexion.

‘So, William,’ says Frank, ‘how long have you two been together?’

‘Oh, gosh, it must be . . . let me . . .’

‘Long enough, nosy-bonk,’ says Ivy.

‘Clearly,’ says Frank.

‘What do your mum and dad make of it all?’ asks Eva.

‘It’s only my dad, I’m afraid, but—’

‘Oh, darling, I am sorry, I—’ Eva puts a hand to her mouth.

‘It was a long time ago,’ I say. ‘It’s okay, honestly.’

‘Oh, William,’ she says. Then, after a pause where it looks like she’s trying to eat her own bottom lip: ‘So, what about your dad? What does he make of . . .’ she
mimes a big pregnant belly.

‘He doesn’t know yet,’ I tell her. ‘You’re pretty much the first.’

‘Right,’ says Ken, levering himself off the sofa. ‘We’ll put that straight right away.’ He picks up a cordless phone from its cradle. ‘What’s your
dad’s number?’

‘Excuse me?’

Frank grins, enjoying my discomfort.

‘Oh, Kenneth, put that thing down,’ says Eva half-heartedly.

I look to Ivy for help. She smiles, shrugs.

‘Number,’ demands Ken.

And that’s how Dad hears the news that he has two new grandchildren on the way – over speakerphone with three perfect strangers shouting excitedly in the background. And to give the
old man credit, he takes it like a champ. Unlike the Lees, Dad knows exactly how long Ivy and I have been together, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t blow my cover. Once the euphoria and
crossfire has died down, once two-dozen kisses have been blown down the telephone line, Ken and Eva start the business of getting acquainted with Dad, asking what I was like as a boy, do I have
sisters or brothers, how many grandchildren does he have, where does he work, and all the other stuff that’s so important to parents of grown-up children. Once we realize we’ve become
surplus to requirements, Frank, Ivy and I move through to the kitchen.

Frank opens another bottle of wine, despite me assuring him I don’t want anything else to drink.

‘Not going to let me drink alone, are you?’ he says. ‘We’re family now.’ And he pours two glasses.

‘So,’ Ivy says to Frank. ‘What’s going on?’

Frank sighs heavily, and it’s as if someone has opened a valve in the side of him. His shoulders sag, his head drops, he appears to shrink in his seat.

Frank, it turns out, is married, but not happily. The reasons why aren’t gone into; Ivy knows the story and it’s been going on for a long time. Frank and his wife, Lois, have talked,
fought, sought counselling and currently sleep under the same roof but in separate rooms. It seems that they both know the marriage is irreconcilable, but – mainly because of their 3-year-old
son – they haven’t yet constructively discussed the next phase. Ken and Eva know nothing about this. Frank, a dentist, has told his parents he’s in Bristol to attend a conference
on a new type of ceramic implant. And so, while Frank and Lois grope about for the courage to do what needs to be done, they spend alternate weekends visiting family or friends, telling lies, and
leaving their unhappy spouse in the marital home to think of new ways of becoming their child’s favourite parent.

It’s been a hell of a day – I’m drunk, hungover, tired, wired, happy, freaked and wrung out all at the same time.

‘Never get married,’ says Frank, heavy-eyed now with drink.

I look at Ivy; Ivy looks away. ‘How’s Freddy?’ she asks.

Frank nods:
fine
. ‘You two are lucky,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I know.’

‘Twins,’ he says, prodding his sister’s tummy. ‘At least if it goes tits up you get to keep one each. Ha ha!’

Peach.

Lemon.

Apple.

Avocado.

Onion.

Sweet potato . . .

‘How’s your better half?’ asks Joe.

At eighteen weeks, the babies are about the size of a pair of small sweet potatoes. Big enough that Ivy is now visibly pregnant. Two weeks ago she was offered a seat on the tube; telling me
about it that evening, she feigned all manner of offence, but her smile told me she had taken great pleasure in this small rite of passage.

The babies have distinct fingers and toes, their muscles are strengthening. They have taste buds and eyelashes. Fingernails. Three weeks ago, Ivy and I went to a bonfire on Wimbledon Common; the
twins have functioning ears now and they would have heard the fireworks exploding overhead. A normal – single baby – pregnancy tends to last thirty-nine weeks; twins come around two
weeks earlier, meaning we are now very nearly halfway to our April 11th due date.

‘All good,’ I say to Joe. ‘They’re the size of a pair of sweet potatoes.’

‘What?’ says Joe, miming a pair of breasts. ‘Her . . . thingummies?’

‘The twins, you pillock. The twins are the size of a couple of . . .
Christ
.’

‘And how about her . . . you know?’ and again with the cupped hands in front of his chest.

‘Bigger than a pair of sweet potatoes,’ I tell him.

Actually, they’re huge – well past the honeydew-melon stage. It was Ivy’s birthday one month ago, and I bought her underwear – a 36DD maternity bra that’s sexier
than I would previously have thought possible. But every time I try to get anywhere near her new and improved boobs, Ivy fends me off, complaining they’re too sore to touch. We haven’t
had sex since the day before we visited my dad more than three months ago – it’s torture.

But now isn’t the time and here isn’t the place. We’re in a darkened edit suite in Soho, working on the final cut of our loo roll commercial. Henry and Suzi from the agency are
sitting behind me somewhere in the gloom. Onscreen Mr Hoppity is dancing around a maypole with six children, each trailing a different coloured roll of Softex toilet tissue.

‘What do you think, Suzi?’ I ask.

‘What? About your girlfriend’s jubblies?’

‘No,’ I say, pointing at the monitor, ‘the edit.’

‘Joke,’ says Suzi.

‘Durr,’ says Joe.

‘I think it’s awesome,’ Suzi says. ‘Nothing else to add.’

‘Henry?’ I ask.

Henry looks up from her iPhone. ‘I was happy with it yesterday,’ she says a little tetchily. These places cost upwards of seven hundred quid a day, so of course she was happy with it
yesterday.

‘In that case,’ says Joe, clapping his hands together, ‘I declare this edit closed. Now, who’s going to buy me a pint? Fisher?’

‘Got to be somewhere, mate. Sorry.’

‘Where? Who with?’

‘Just somewhere.’

‘You’re meant to be my best man.’

‘This is an edit, Joseph, not your wedding.’

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Ladies?’

‘Sorry,’ says Suzi. ‘Got to be somewhere, too.’

Henry shrugs. ‘Twenty-two shopping days till Christmas,’ she says, stepping out of the room. ‘I like anything Chanel, by the way.’

‘Later,’ Suzi says, following Henry out of the room. She gives me a knowing smile, and then she, too, is gone.

‘Why do I bother?’ Joe asks. ‘Advertising? Might as well work in a bloody bank.’

‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ I say. ‘We’ll have a pint then.’

‘Here,’ he says, handing me a brown envelope. ‘Was going to give it you later, but seeing as how you have more important things to do.’

‘What is it?’ I say.

‘Your next mission.’

‘Script?’

Joe nods, and I take the envelope and transfer it directly into my bag.

‘Not going to read it, pull a face, kick up a stink?’

‘What’s it for?’

‘Cheese,’ says Joe.

‘Love it,’ I say. ‘When are we meeting the agency?’

‘A-S-A fucking P, buddy. Got to be in the can by Christmas.’

Which means another five-to-ten grand in my bank account shortly thereafter. And that’s got to be good for a few packets of nappies.

‘Set it up then.’

Joe looks at me incredulously. ‘Serious?’

‘I never joke about cheese,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll tell you what, William Fisher,’ he says, ruffling my hair. ‘Being up the duff suits you. Suits you very well indeed.’

The meeting isn’t exactly clandestine, but we are nevertheless in a bar that charges more for a small glass of wine than Joe would ever dream of paying for a bottle
– so it’s unlikely he’ll wander in and discover us. Also, it’s the first Monday of the month, which means Ivy will be at her book club until around nine, so I can get half
drunk with impunity.

‘So?’ says Suzi. ‘You read it?’ She fidgets nervously with her ring, a chunky silver band holding an oval turquoise stone, rotating it half a turn clockwise then back the
other way.

‘I have,’ I say, and I catch myself mirroring Suzi’s nervous fingerplay, swivelling my wine glass through half-turns on the table top.

‘And . . .?’

Suzi’s screenplay is a collection of nine interconnected stories. Three of them involve sex, and one of those involves a female protagonist with a penchant for autoerotic asphyxiation.
It’s not my thing, but each to her own, whatever floats your boat, blows your skirt up, or, as the case may be, turns your face blue. Far from being gratuitous, the sex in general and fetish
in particular do serve a purpose within the grand scheme of the plot. The problem I have with these scenes is how damned good they are – how inventive, how erotic, how . . . well, sexy. And
as I read these scenes, I couldn’t help picturing Suzi slap bang in the middle of them. After all, ‘write what you know’, don’t they always say? Take the character with a
thing for asphyxiation: when she clenches her slender hands around the throat of whomever it is she is simultaneously choking and fucking, the camera lingers on a ring she wears on the little
finger of her right hand. We see it when she’s throttling her lover, and we see it again when she is working, holding a stethoscope to one of her patients. It’s a device to connect and
contrast the different facets of this complex, unreliable, paradoxical character. Which is all fine and filmic. But the ring itself – a fat gold band holding an oval onyx stone – it
sounds a lot like the one Suzi can’t stop fidgeting with in the right here and now. And it’s making it extraordinarily difficult for me to not imagine her naked and gyrating on top of
some lucky guy’s lap.

‘I like it,’ I say. ‘I like it a lot.’

And even though I don’t intend any subtext, I blush.

‘The plot,’ I qualify. ‘Good stories, good characters.’

‘Only good?’ Suzi says, teasing, but she’s nowhere near as convincing as Ivy.

‘Good’s good,’ I tell her, and I wink involuntarily, reflexively.

‘Thank you,’ Suzi says, revolving the turquoise ring around her finger.

‘But . . .’ I say, and Suzi’s brow creases in a minuscule wince. She placed a good deal of trust in me when she asked for my opinion, and to lavish disingenuous praise on her
script now would be unfair. Cowardly, even. So I press on, ‘. . . it’s uneven,’ I tell her.

Suzi’s wince deepens, but I get the impression I’m not telling her anything she doesn’t know.

After a little more wine and waffling, I manage to articulate my criticism in more constructive terms. I mean it when I tell Suzi that a couple of her stories are outstanding. I mean it
literally, and explain that these standouts make the remaining plotlines feel flat or inconsequential by comparison.

‘What’s your favourite?’ Suzi asks.

‘Probably the one with the art student.’

Suzi nods in agreement, smiles. ‘Why?’

‘Well, good story,’ I tick this point off on one finger.

‘Always helps,’ Suzi says, and laughs. She holds eye contact while she sips her wine.

I move on to my second finger. ‘Interesting characters – I mean, the girl’s a bit of a bitch, but she’s a good character.’