“It has feelings,” I say. “And mould.”
“What if,” she continues, ignoring me completely, “you moved in with Geoff?”
I choke on air.
“No.”
“Christa.”
“No.”
“I’m not talking about romance,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m talking about logistics.”
Ah. There it is. The word people use when they’re about to suggest something that will absolutely ruin your emotional equilibrium.
“He has space,” Ivy says. “Large open plan living space. Two bedrooms. More than one bathroom… I think. And he wants to be involved. This would let him be fully involved. Appointments. Day-to-day stuff. Not just swooping in with ice cream like a Disney prince with lactose.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. It was a mistake to tell her about his ice cream rescue.
“That,” I say slowly, “sounds suspiciously like matchmaking.”
“It is not,” she replies at once. “This is not me trying to engineer anything.”
I wait.
She clears her throat. “Okay, it ismostlynot that.”
I snort. “Are you sure?”
“I’m just saying,” she presses on, “from a purely practical point of view, it makes sense. He’s already committed. He’s got the room. You’d save a fortune on rent. And he’d get to experience the pregnancy instead of hearing about it second-hand.”
I sink onto the edge of the sofa and stare at the floor.
“You realise,” I say, “that this is insane.”
“It’s unconventional,” Ivy counters. “There’s a difference.”
“He’s my baby’s father,” I say. “Not my partner.”
“I know.”
“And we’ve been very clear about that.”
“I know.”
“And you’re suggesting I move into his flat.”
“Yes.”
I let out a short laugh. “That’s not logic. That’s a romcom.”
She brightens. “Exactly.”
“Ivy.”
“Look,” she says, softer now. “I’m not saying you have to decide anything. I’m saying it’s an option. One that solves several problems at once.”
I picture it without meaning to. Space. Fewer stairs. Not doing mental gymnastics over rent every month. Geoff in the next room, learning the rhythm of this thing alongside me instead of orbiting it.
