Free The Two of Us by Andy Jones Page B

today, and all of a sudden the pregnancy feels significantly more real than it did when I last saw her thirty-one hours ago. Yesterday and today Ivy
is working on a promo for a new band all the hip kids are into. The shoot didn’t wrap until late last night and she had an early call today, so we spent a rare night apart. When I woke this
morning there was a picture message waiting for me on my phone.
    The picture is a close-up shot of soft female stomach – the faint scar travelling from top to bottom of the image confirms that this soft female stomach belongs to Ivy. Using what
I’m guessing is a lipstick, she has drawn a voice bubble emerging from her belly button. It contains the message:
10 weeks preg today! Xxx
    And just like that, this thing has approximately ten times the gravity it had yesterday. I called Ivy straight away, but it went through to voicemail. I wrote and deleted five different
responses before settling on a roman numeral joke –
X!
– which surely came off as nothing more than an apathetic kiss. I wrote an explanation, but it seemed hugely patronizing
so I deleted that too.
    Joe and I just spent an hour and a half discussing the loo roll commercial with the ad agency. I think it went well but I found it hard to concentrate. The ad involves a giant bunny, and the
notion kept snapping me back to Ivy’s message –
10 weeks preg today
. I found the knowledge heavily isolating. Everybody getting excited about costumes and casting and bad gags,
and me wanting to tap the side of my mug with a teaspoon and announce:
Guess what, everyone? I’m having a baby!
But Ivy and I are keeping the news to ourselves until we’ve had
the twelve-week scan a fortnight from now. So I pretended to listen and take notes, and when everyone else laughed, I joined right in. It seemed to do the trick, though, and Joe is convinced
we’ve got the gig. Travelling back to Brixton on the Victoria Line, I’m a mixed sack of emotions. It’s a two-day shoot and I’m paid by the day, so it’s a good amount
of cash for the increasingly-imminent-family fund. On the other hand, it’s still a commercial for toilet paper.
    More than that, though, something has been scratching at my subconscious all day and I can’t quite get hold of it. I think it has something to do with underwear. Ivy is taking me for
supper tonight; she’ll bring a bag with a change of clothes in it, and maybe she’ll stay for the weekend or maybe we’ll decamp to Wimbledon. It seems neither of us goes anywhere
lately without a pair of underpants in our pocket – and half of the time those underpants need a wash. It’s never occurred to me to ask for a drawer in Ivy’s flat or to offer her
one in mine – maybe because it feels like a pretty flimsy offer considering our situation.
    Walking back to my flat I pass a key-cutters, and all of a sudden I know what I need to do. Or maybe I’ve known since this morning, when I walked past the same kiosk on my way to the
tube.
    Next stop is a cheap jewellers where my request to purchase an empty ring box is met with stark incomprehension.
    ‘It’s a surprise for my girlfriend,’ I explain.
    The girl behind the counter wears three gold hoops in one ear, four in the other and a stud through her top lip. ‘What, an empty box?’
    ‘Yes, no, I’m going to put something in it.’
    ‘Wot?’
    ‘A key.’
    ‘Wot?’
    ‘For my flat, you see. I want to put it in a box – the key, for a surprise.’
    ‘We don’t sell boxes.’
    I do my most endearing smile. ‘Is there any chance you could just give me one?’
    ‘I shouldn’t fink so.’
    ‘Well, what’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?’
    The stud in her top lip slides forward and back in its piercing. ‘She got her ears pierced?’
    ‘Why, how much are the earrings?’
    ‘Fourteen ninety-nine.’
    ‘Perfect.’
    The girl opens a drawer beneath the counter, selects a pair of silver earrings and drops them into a purple, faux-suede,