Free The Two of Us by Andy Jones Page A

it will help rekindle Ivy’s former passion.
    ‘What’s that smell?’ Ivy puts her arms around my waist and kisses me.
    ‘Our special dish,’ I say, lifting the lid on the bubbling casserole.
    ‘We have a special dish?’
    ‘Boeuf bourguignon. I cooked it the first night you came to my flat’
    ‘Oh,’ says Ivy with an expression that reveals this is a piece of trivia she had not retained. ‘It’s very sweet of you, babes, but I don’t know if I fancy something
so . . .
heavy
.’
    ‘It’s not
heavy
, it’s . . . it’s rich. Rich isn’t the same as heavy.’
    ‘To be honest, I’m not that hungry.’
    ‘The midwife said you should eat plenty of iron,’ I remind her. ‘Plenty of iron in beef. Well, there should be the price I paid for it.’
    ‘Would you mind putting a lid on it,’ Ivy says. ‘The smell’s making me feel a bit . . .’ She blows out her cheeks to suggest nausea.
    ‘Yeah, ’course. We can have it later.’
    Ivy opens a window, letting in a cool breath of autumn air. That’s another thing this place has on Brixton – if you open a window in my flat at this time of night, you can get high
off what wafts in.
    ‘What I really fancy,’ Ivy says, ‘is a bit of caesar salad, chicken caesar salad.’
    ‘Got a craving?’
    ‘No, just like caesar salad,’ says Ivy.
    I open the fridge but we have no chicken, no salad and no dressing.
    ‘Want me to go get the bits?’ I say.
    ‘Would you? And some pineapple? Sorry, babe, I’d go myself but I’m zonked.’
    It’s dark by the time we start eating our supper in front of some romantic comedy on the box. The salad is fine as far as salads go, but it’s a poor substitute for
boeuf bourguignon and my stomach is not happy about it. Ivy takes the dishes into the kitchen then comes back and curls up with her head in my lap.
    ‘Are you disappointed?’ she asks, and whether she’s referring to the film, the salad or the celibacy I don’t know, but the answer’s the same.
    ‘No,’ I say. ‘Why?’
    ‘You went to all that trouble, cooking.’
    ‘It’ll keep.’
    ‘I’ll take you for supper,’ she says. ‘Friday. Anywhere, you choose.’
    I kiss the parting in her hair.
    ‘How was Joe?’ Ivy asks.
    ‘Good,’ I tell her. ‘Sends his love.’
    ‘Liar.’
    ‘Well, he asked after you.’
    Ivy laughs.
    ‘He asked me to be his best man.’
    Ivy swivels her head around so she is facing me. ‘That’s nice of him. You going to do a speech?’
    ‘Have to,’ I say. ‘Part of the deal. You’re invited, by the way.’
    Ivy turns back to the TV. ‘Cool,’ she says, but it’s not very convincing. ‘What was the script?’
    ‘Loo roll.’
    ‘Loo roll as in
for
loo roll, or loo roll as in, it’s shit.’
    ‘Both,’ I tell her.
    ‘So long as you’re happy,’ Ivy says.
    Onscreen, the rom-couple have fallen out due to some hilariously crossed wires, but somehow I think everything will work out in the end. I have nothing against genre formula; I love it, in fact.
Good wins over evil, love conquers all, the world won’t end – and that’s all right by me. Wouldn’t have it any other way. What I do object to, is some Hollywood director
getting paid in the region of a million dollars to do nothing more than stand behind a camera: the set-pieces are clumsy, the editing is crude, the performances predictable; there’s no craft
or invention or, from where I’m sitting, any evidence of direction whatsoever. I could do that. I could do better than that. But instead, if I’m lucky, I get to shoot thirty seconds of
bog roll for less money than this chancer makes on his coffee break.
    ‘You think I should say no?’ I say to Ivy.
    Ivy doesn’t answer.
    ‘Obviously I could hold out for something better,’ I tell her. ‘But I have you two to think about now, don’t I?’ And I place my hand on Ivy’s tummy.
    Ivy makes a noise as if she’s about to speak, and then begins to snore.

Chapter 7
    Ivy is ten weeks pregnant