“Okay,” Ivy says slowly. “I’m with you so far.”
“There’s also… Geoff,” I add.
There it is. Saying his name changes the temperature slightly, even down a phone line.
“He’s said he’ll help financially with the baby,” I say. “Which I appreciate. And it matters. But I don’t want to rely on that completely.”
“Of course not,” Ivy says. “Independence is your love language.”
I smile faintly. “Exactly.”
“The big cost is still my flat though,” I add, and glance around at it. The sofa-bed. The kitchenette. The heroic lack of storage.
Ivy laughs. “Come on. Your broom cupboard can’t cost that much.”
“Nine hundred,” I say.
She makes a noise that sounds like choking.
“Pounds,” I add, helpfully.
“Oh my God,” she splutters. “Forthat… cubbyhole?”
“Location, allegedly,” I say. “And the luxury of not sharing a fridge.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
Ivy goes very quiet.
Which is never a good sign.
“…I have an idea,” she says.
I straighten immediately. “No.”
“I haven’t even said it yet.”
“I can hear it forming,” I say. “And I don’t like it.”
“Just hear me out,” she says, far too brightly.
I narrow my eyes at the wall. “This is one of those ideas that changes my life, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Then, innocently, “Maybe.”
I close my eyes.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
She sighs, long and theatrical. “I am being sensible.”
This is never true.
“Okay,” she says, all reason now. “Hear me out. What if you didn’t stay in the broom cupboard?”
