The Two of Us by Andy Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

that, she is simply searching for the right words to tell me
that as a lover I’m about as much fun as a week-old courgette.
    ‘I’ve been to the doctor,’ she says, which, when you think about the options – bad in bed, an STD, married, pregnant – only narrows things down to two.
    A waiter appears, as they tend to at moments like this. He asks if he can get us anything and we both tell him, No.
    Ivy places her hand on her stomach. ‘I’m . . . you . . . you’re . . . we . . .’ and she bursts into tears. She’s smiling, though; she’s smiling so much, in
fact, that it makes me cry, too. I get up from the table and squat beside Ivy’s chair, putting one arm around her shoulders and one around her waist – as embraces go, it’s a
clumsy effort and I have to put one knee down to steady myself. My knee feels suddenly cold and wet, and a downward glance confirms that I am kneeling in a dirty great puddle. There are a lot of
people milling about in Wimbledon Village at ten forty-five on a Friday morning, and most of them seem to be walking past our table. Maybe it looks like I’m proposing; I don’t know and
don’t care. I kiss Ivy’s jumper where it lies against her belly, and when she places a hand against the back of my head it feels like electricity.
    ‘I love you,’ I say, but as I do Ivy pulls my head tight against her stomach, crushing my face against her body and turning my declaration into nothing more than three muffled,
squashed-together syllables. But I mean every single one of them.

Chapter 4
    Appleseed.
    Garden pea.
    Blueberry.
    Kidney bean.
    Olive . . .

Chapter 5
    Ivy is puking in my bathroom; the sound carries as clearly as birdsong in an open meadow on a still summer’s day. ‘Fuck,’ she says, her voice echoing and
resonating from inside the porcelain bowl, and floating from bathroom to bedroom like a vapour. She spits, retches, spit, spit, spits. And flush. Ivy is an expansive and prolific puker, and before
I leave for the office I will now have to clean vomit from under the seat, off the tiles and wherever the hell else it has splashed. And I’m fine with it; she gets the morning sickness, I get
the Toilet Duck – it’s only fair.
    ‘You okay?’ I shout.
    ‘No,’ Ivy shouts back. ‘But I think it’s pas— oh, oh Jesus Chrargbeluurgh . . .’
    Me, I’m a door shutter; I mean, that’s kind of the point of doors, isn’t it? And don’t try telling me they’re there for opening; I have no time for that line of
logic. We could debate cause, effect, form, function all day long, but the simple truth is this – doors exist to keep some stuff in and other stuff out. You want stuff like wild animals,
burglars, serial killers, rain, noise and terrible smells on the outside. You want stuff like heat, romance, privacy and quiet on the inside. Well, I certainly do. Ivy doesn’t close doors,
not internal ones, not bathroom ones. And I suppose it’s quaint in an open, uninhibited, it’s-just-the-human-body kind of way, but there’s nothing quaint about watching the love
of your life sit through a nine-minute bowel movement – not that I actually watch, but it’s all on show through the open door if I choose to.
    It’s been quiet in the bathroom for a full minute, the toilet flushes and Ivy moves through to the kitchen, muttering various expletives and curses against nature.
    It’s been a month since Ivy told me she is pregnant. The way they date these things (from the day of your last period instead of from the date of conception) means that Ivy is close to ten
weeks pregnant. Which, bizarrely, is around ten days longer than Ivy and I have been together. Our pregnancy is older than our relationship. The way they measure these things, if you look at any
book or website – the baby’s development is measured in terms of food: poppyseed, blueberry, kumquat, apple, avocado, mango, cabbage, coconut, ruddy great watermelon. Right now, ours is
the size of a green