The Two of Us (27 page)

Today is the twenty-sixth day in December . . .

I love Christmas.

Papaya.

Mango.

Courgette.

Broccoli.

Aubergine.

Cantaloupe.

Cauliflower.

Acorn Squash . . .

Ivy is twenty-nine weeks pregnant, and if you didn’t know she was expecting twins you’d assume she was due in approximately ten seconds. Climbing the stairs is a
feat of epic determination now; getting off the sofa is a two-man job; and standing, Ivy appears to defy the laws of physics – remaining somehow upright, despite her asymmetric planetary
mass. She appears to be twice the size of the other women in the room.

There are eight couples in this chilly church hall, the men looking awkward as the women sit cowboy-style on their chairs. The instructor is teaching us how to massage our partners during
labour, pushing our thumbs into the hollows at the tops of their buttocks – the instructor, Julie, calls them the ‘Nodes of Venus’. Ivy’s bump is too big for her to sit
astride a chair like the other seven women, so she is kneeling on the floor, leaning forward over an inflatable gym ball.

After Ivy the person furthest along is a woman called Kath, who isn’t due until mid-May – a full five weeks after the twins have made their entrance. Kath, like every woman here
besides Ivy, is expecting a single baby, and there is a general sentiment of awe, fear, sympathy and admiration directed at my girlfriend and her stupendous bump. I’m fairly confident Ivy is
the oldest mum-to-be by a good half-dozen years, and she is the only one not wearing a wedding ring.

I push my thumbs into Ivy’s nodes, and resist the urge to kiss the back of her neck.

‘If you can’t get comfortable sitting on the chair,’ says Julie, ‘try leaning on a ball like Ivy. Or stand in front of a chair and lean on the back, like this.’

One of the women tries this, bending at the waist and gripping the back of the chair. From behind, her husband puts his hands on her hips and thrusts up against her.

‘Get it while you still can, boys,’ he guffaws, and a couple of the more polite guys laugh with him awkwardly.

Another guy, Steve, catches my attention and rolls his eyes; I nod subtly –
tosser.
Steve laughs. His wife and Ivy gravitated (in every sense) towards each other during the coffee
break, leaving Steve and me to make not entirely awkward small talk –
What team do you support? What do you drive? What did you do last night?

Last night was Valentine’s Night. Our first together. And the most expensive date of my life. We went to a drive-in at Alexandra Palace and watched
The Princess Bride.
It’s
not a sexy movie, but I’m pretty sure the couple in the adjacent car were doing more than just kissing. Tickets, popcorn and drinks came in at over fifty quid. Which is a drop in the ocean
compared to the eighteen grand we spent four hours earlier on a second-hand Volvo XC90. There is no question we need something more family friendly than Ivy’s two-seater van or El’s
tiny Fiat, but this thing is the size of a small tank. It’s very Wimbledon, though, and there’s enough room in the back to deliver twins should the necessity arise.

They do antenatal courses for couples expecting twins, but the next one is too close to our due date and too far from our front door; so here we are, the odd ones out with one extra baby and two
months fewer until our due date on April 11th. The course consists of two seven-hour sessions, of which this is the second, and after we leave today, we are, in theory, as prepared as we will ever
be for the arrival of our babies. We have covered breathing, breastfeeding, nappies, sleep, forceps, suction cups and Caesarean sections. We have talked about emergency scenarios, and what are the
best types of snacks to power us through labour. We have a list of items to pack in our hospital bag and a shopping list of essentials to buy from Boots.

It’s informative and exciting and scary, and I have four pages of notes and a laminated wallet-sized checklist to consult during labour. But if anything, I feel more nervous than I did one
week and seven hours ago. After the course we adjourn to a local pub for eight pints of beer and eight soft drinks. Squashed around three pushed-together tables, we form a large and conspicuous
group, and the other drinkers are amused by our presence, nudging their friends and glancing in our direction as if we are some novelty act due to start performing at any moment.

Apart from learning how to change a nappy, the other reason anyone goes to antenatal classes is to make friends that won’t be irritated by their incessant ‘they did the funniest
thing’ anecdotes. It’s a lottery and, looking around our group, I’m not planning on buying too many extra Christmas cards this year. The guy who was thrusting up against his wife
just two hours ago is called Keith, and he has appointed himself social secretary.

‘So,’ he says, addressing the group as if we were guests on his show. ‘What does everybody do? I’ll start, shall I? Lawyer, I’m afraid.’

There are, it transpires, three lawyers around the table, plus a wine importer, a property developer and two City types. Listening to the job descriptions, looking at the shoes, watches and
lethal engagement rings, it’s pretty clear that Ivy and I are the paupers in this group.

‘Hair and make-up,’ says Ivy, and all the women lean forward in their seats.

‘Work with anyone famous?’ asks Steve’s wife, a pretty woman called Carrie.

‘A few,’ says Ivy, smiling.

‘Who was the worst?’

‘Hmm, I don’t know about the worst, but . . . someone farted on me once.’

Carrie’s hands go to her cheeks in horror. ‘No!’

Ivy nods. ‘’fraid so. I was making a bite mark on his bum.’

‘She suffers for her art,’ I say.

Ivy shoots me a faux-withering glance. ‘Funny. It was a vampire film. I used a pair of false teeth and some red eyeliner.’

‘That’s her story,’ someone says.

Ivy winks. ‘And I’m sticking to it.’

‘Come on,’ says Steve, ‘we’re going to need a name.’

‘He . . . he was in
The Talented Mr Ripley
,’ says Ivy. ‘And that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Jude Law?’ says Kath. ‘I bet it was him.’

‘What’s that other one?’ says Keith, flapping his hand in mid-air. ‘Damon! Yeah, he looks like a farter. Definitely Damon.’

Ivy shakes her head. ‘My lips are sealed.’

‘I should hope so,’ says Steve, laughing.

‘So,’ says Keith, slapping his hands together and signalling the end of that story. ‘Fisher? How’d you earn your wonga?’

‘I’m a director,’ I say.

‘Of?’

‘Commercials.’

‘What, like adverts?’

I nod.

‘I like that one with the drumming gorilla,’ says Keith. ‘Did you do that one?’

‘Afraid not,’ I say, shaking my head.

Keith seems disappointed. ‘Or them meerkats? They’re funny.’

‘Nope,’ I admit.

‘What’s the last thing you did?’ asks one of the City types.

I wince involuntarily. ‘Nothing exciting.’

‘Come on, spill the beans.’

The irony of this last piece of phrasing is horribly appropriate. ‘Fastlax,’ I say.

‘What’s that? Laxatives?’

I nod. ‘Laxatives.’

‘With the woman in the courtroom? The judge?’

Again I nod, and it practically echoes in the deflated silence.

‘He did
Mr Bogeyman
,’ says Ivy. ‘Didn’t you, babes?’

‘I saw that!’ says Carrie. ‘When he goes to the funfair?’

‘Yes,’ I say, feeling an unexpected flush of pride.

‘Won an award,’ says Ivy, rubbing my shoulder.

‘Is that how you met?’ asks Steve.

‘Never seen it,’ says Keith, his bottom lip curling downward, dismissively.

‘Yes,’ I say to Steve. ‘But not on
Mr Bogeyman
. On a Wine Gums shoot.’

‘The one with the little vampire?’ says someone else.

‘I loved that,’ says Carrie. ‘The little girl was
soo
cute.’

I glance at Ivy and see that she, too, knows what’s coming next. And, wouldn’t you know it, it’s coming from Keith.

‘Hold on,’ he says. ‘They were on recently, weren’t they?’

‘Last summer,’ I say.

Keith looks at me through narrowed eyes, like a TV detective closing in on the killer. He looks at Ivy, at her enormous bump. ‘So . . . how long have you two been together?’

‘About twenty-nine weeks,’ says Ivy.

The background chatter amongst the group has died away. All eyes are on Ivy. She is blushing and it’s making her scars stand out against her cheek, neck and lips. Ivy’s hand goes to
the left side of her face, but she catches herself and continues the motion of her arm, brushing her hand over her hair.

‘And how pregnant are you?’ pushes Keith.

‘About twenty-nine weeks,’ says Ivy.

There is a beat of silence before everybody laughs. It’s good-natured laughter, though, and if anything it feels like our cachet has just risen.

‘You dirty dog,’ says Keith, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘You dirty, dirty dog.’

After the clamour and questions and awe die down, the group fragments and we find ourselves in a cosy foursome with Steve and Carrie.

‘Plans for the weekend?’ asks Steve.

‘Wedding,’ I say.

Carrie’s eyes widen.

‘I’m the best man,’ I say.

Carrie glances at Ivy’s naked ring finger.

‘Keep your eye on that bouquet,’ says Steve, winking.

And again, Ivy blushes to her hairline.

Week twenty-nine in the baby book marks the start of a new section: ‘Late Pregnancy’. The chapter opens with a description of the increasing physical discomfort the
mother may be experiencing. Her organs are pushed out of place by the growing babies. Her bladder is compressed, her stomach forced upward, she will feel increasingly tired and fatigued. As per the
book’s description, Ivy’s feet, ankles and hands are swollen with retained fluid. The book advises removing any rings and, not for the first time today, I am acutely aware of our
unmarried status.

We drive to the New Forest tomorrow for Joe’s wedding; I have polished my shoes, ironed my shirt, and – perks of living with a hair and make-up artist – Ivy has given me a
haircut. My best-man’s speech is written, rehearsed and reduced to five cue cards, now sitting on the bedside table. Ivy must have suffered through the three-minute monologue ten times or
more. There is a paragraph about love and soul mates, and whilst I’m sure Joe and Jen are indeed ‘made for each other’, I describe a passion and romance that I can’t in any
honesty claim to have witnessed first-hand. Ivy smiles whenever I read these sentences, she looks me in the eye and I am speaking these words directly to her. Twice, it has made her cry. And then I
move on to a bawdy anecdote, compliment the bride and invite the guests to raise their glasses. Ivy raises her invisible champagne flute, claps a small theatre clap and gives me notes on where I
can tighten the speech. And every time we do this, I feel one increment sadder that Ivy and I are not married, and one degree more convinced that we should be. But at least Ivy doesn’t have
any rings she needs to remove due to her ballooning fingers.

The book says we should have started attending antenatal classes by now, and I laugh a little because this must be the first time we have done anything with conventional timing. Ivy swapped
phone numbers with Carrie, and we both agree that she and Steve are the top candidates for the position of new best friends. They aren’t due until five weeks after us, but they live nearby
and don’t seem to be insurmountably more affluent than the Fisher-Lees.

An acorn squash is around 16 inches long and looks like a cross between a pepper and a pumpkin. I have never heard of an acorn squash before today, but the twins are now the size of this
strange-looking vegetable. Our babies are still active, the book informs us, but they will turn less frequently now as the womb becomes more cramped. Our babies’ eyes can focus, they can
blink, make out shapes and silhouettes through the membranes and skin and fat of Ivy’s stomach. If I fly a shadow bird across Ivy’s belly, the babies can see it. The babies are growing
by as much as one centimetre a week, laying down fat and flexing their muscles.
You may already have names for your new baby
, the book speculates. But all we have is a list of rejects.

‘I like Evan,’ says Ivy. ‘I think.’

‘Bit Welsh?’

‘That’s Evans, isn’t it?’

‘Both probably. What will they be – the twins – Fishers or Lees?’

‘Well, if we have an Evan it’ll need to be a Fisher.’

‘Why?’

Ivy looks at me as if this should be obvious. ‘Evan Lee?’

‘Wh— ah . . . as in all the Evan Lee angels, I see.’

‘Exactly,’ says Ivy. ‘Which, by the way, is another one.’

‘Another what?’

‘Lee, Zack Lee.’

‘God, I’m slow, so your mother is—’

‘Eva Lee, and my brother is Frank Lee.’

‘That’s mean. The other two don’t have daft names, do they?’

Ivy shakes her head. ‘Dad wanted to call Peter, Brock—’

‘Brock Lee . . .’

‘But Mum wouldn’t let him. Then Geoff was nearly a Sylvester.’

‘Don’t get it.’

‘Sly, Sly Lee. He wanted to call me Belle but, again, Mum with the veto. And then when poor old Frank came along, I think Mum either threw in the towel or was simply too distracted to
notice.’

‘So if they’re Fishers, can we have Brock?’

‘No.’

‘Sylvester? I like Sylvester.’

‘How about Dan, Danny?’

‘I like it. Good boy’s name.’

‘Or Danielle.’

I cup my hands against Ivy’s belly. ‘What do we think about Danny in there? Any take—’

‘Quick, look!’ Ivy lifts her T-shirt, revealing the bare dome of her stomach. For a moment nothing happens. Then the most weird and wonderful thing I have ever witnessed: a smooth
protrusion forms on the surface of Ivy’s belly. The blunt point – which I’m hoping is the knee or elbow of a twenty-nine-week-old baby – travels from north-west to
south-east on a curving trajectory then vanishes like a seal beneath the surface.