They both nodded and for a wonderful moment, Delia thought she’d dodged a bullet. Through someone else catching a knife. Adam wasn’t wrong about Marvyn’s lack of talent.
‘Delia, can I have a word outside, please?’
Delia’s breakfast omelette turned over.
Kurt rounded on her in the passageway outside, looking somewhat blotchy and stressed.
‘Did you leave with Adam West on Friday?’
Delia performed a mock-horror face.
‘No! Of course not.’
‘You sure? Someone saw you leaving together.’
Delia did a confused face while her pulse pounded.
‘He left with his girlfriend. That tall, thin girl from the Mirror? Freya?’
Kurt’s eyes narrowed.
‘She’s his girlfriend?’
‘Yes. Or I think so; she told me she was.’
‘I hope you’re telling me the truth, because consorting with Adam West is an employment-terminating offence at Twist & Shout.’
Delia said: ‘Ask her if you don’t believe me. She seemed quite possessive.’
Kurt’s shoulders relaxed: ‘My mistake. I was pretty wasted myself …’
‘Me too,’ Delia said, thinking, maybe here’s the place where you apologise for saying vastly inappropriate things to a woman who works for you.
Kurt gave Delia a shrewd look that said: then we will both pretend that conversation never happened.
‘You and Steph fancy a ShakeShack for lunch? If I can still eat after I’ve finished hearing about how this girl’s intestines have been turned into sushi by Marvyn.’
Delia realised that was as much of an apology as she would get.
‘A cheeseburger, yes please! Steph’s veggie though. I think they do beanburgers.’
‘Fuckin’ troublemakers. If God didn’t want us to eat animals, why did He make them out of meat?’
Kurt really was into his biblical study.
He stalked off and Delia breathed a sigh of relief. She had to admit, if Adam hadn’t forewarned her and prepared an alibi, that could’ve been considerably worse.
She’d like to carry on telling herself he needn’t have extracted her from the situation at the bar at all. But Delia knew she was in denial; she’d drunk her legs off.
And if it was a stark choice between Adam or Kurt carrying her to bed, Delia knew who’d she’d choose. Better the devil that doesn’t want to rump you.
Her phone pinged.
And? Did we squeak through? Ax
Just about. He might call Freya but he bought it. Dx
Praise be! You owe me, Delphine. Ax
Adam was right about Freya’s support coming at a cost: Delia was also recipient of a very sour text from her.
I don’t know what you’re playing at with Adam, but you’re out of your depth. Next time you throw yourself at him, you can find your own excuse. Freya CB
If Delia had ever wondered what kind of person would abbreviate their own double-barrelled surname in a text message, now she knew.
‘Delia,’ Steph said, hesitantly, once they’d settled to their morning’s work, ‘What was that about?’
Delia explained, leaving out the part where she in fact did go home with Adam West. Delia could see Steph was working up to talking about something that had troubled her.
‘You know Marvyn’s not in the Magic Circle?’ she said.
‘Isn’t he?’ Delia said. ‘I suppose that explains why he’s causing GBH.’
‘But we’ve said he is, on all the releases,’ Steph said, her look of anguish increasing.
‘You surprise me,’ Delia said.
She recalled Adam saying there was a time limit for how long the lying would work, and she wondered if they were reaching the end of it. Whilst Delia didn’t have long-term ambitions to stay in London, Steph certainly did – should she warn her?
‘I asked Kurt what we should do if a journalist finds out if he’s not in the Magic Circle. I mean, you can look it up online quite easily …’
Delia winced, knowing what was coming wasn’t good.
‘Kurt said if worst came to worst, we’d say Marvyn lied to us.’
Pause.
‘Did we advise Marvyn to say he was in the Magic Circle?’
‘Yep,’ Steph nodded.
‘Pheeeew,’ Delia exhaled.
‘Kurt said, we’ll say he’s a bit of a liar and a nutter and he’s said all sorts.’
‘We’d turn on the client and throw them overboard for taking our advice? We’d start briefing against them to journalists?’
Steph nodded.
‘What if they found out?’ she breathed.
Delia grimaced. She had the clearest sense yet that she and Steph were becoming more compromised every day. She resolved that the next time she met Adam West, she’d ask him to give it to her straight about Kurt. She needed to know once and for all what she’d got herself into. When they met in Hyde Park she still knew nothing, and they’d not managed a meeting since. Had he decided to let her off the hook?
‘I might go into the briefing notes and take it out. Kurt will never notice,’ Steph said.
Delia nodded.
A text a little later gave her another shiver.
FY to your I, Kurt has checked our story with Freya. Beautiful demonstration of trust in his employees, wouldn’t you say? Watch yourself. And stay away from Naughty Appletise. Ax
Half an hour later, Kurt marched in bearing piles of burgers, fries and malted milkshakes, and the news that Marvyn’s casualty was not seriously injured.
Delia had to smile, thank him, and try not to dwell on the metaphorical knife lodged between her shoulder blades.
It was a slow week for penning PR fictions and Delia was relieved. Everything seemed calmer, until a quietly spoken phone call from Paul on Thursday morning roundhouse-kicked her in the ribs.
‘Dee, it’s Parsnip,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to bother you until I knew what was happening, but I think he’s really ill.’
‘You think?’
‘They’re doing tests.’
Delia’s knees went wobbly and the phone felt slippery in her hand. She’d got as far as the passage outside the office and thundered up the stairs, past Joy the receptionist and out through the giant Hobbit front door into the street.
Paul was explaining Parsnip had been acting strangely, so he’d taken him to the vet’s the night before. Paul was returning later in the day for the verdict. Did Delia want to be there? Of course she did. She should never have left him.
Delia throbbed with guilt.
She’d abandoned Parsnip as a byproduct of punishing Paul, and without her, he’d sickened. It was possible she’d never see his silly wonky smile ever again. In truth, her self-reproach was as irrational as feeling you had to stay awake to ‘fly the plane’ but Delia felt it keenly all the same. Paul was busy blaming himself too.
‘I should’ve noticed earlier. He’s just such a nice lad he didn’t make any fuss. He must’ve been in so much pain …’ Paul’s voice wavered and there was a pause while he got himself under control.
‘They’ve warned me that he’s not in the first flush of youth and his heart’s not very strong, if he does need an operation.’ Delia knew what was coming and had to stare at a passing car’s number plate very hard to staunch the tears. ‘It doesn’t look good, Dee.’
There was a pause while Paul choked on his own tears and Delia swallowed and swallowed again and commanded herself: don’t cry don’t cry you’re at work don’t cry.
‘I’ll be there,’ she said, robotically.
‘… I feel terrible I didn’t tell you before so you had more notice. I wanted to have something definite to tell you, and I knew you wouldn’t sleep if I rang you last night.’
‘It’s fine, you did the right thing,’ Delia said, taking a deep breath. ‘What time is the appointment?’
‘Half four.’ Delia looked at her watch. She could make it.
‘I’m goin
g to come back.’
‘Are you sure? Your boss will let you?’
‘There are other jobs and only one Parsnip.’
She wasn’t letting her dog die thinking she’d left him. Kurt would have to fire her.
Delia called him immediately, ready for battle. When she’d explained she needed to use holiday days for personal reasons, Kurt said, emollient, ‘Sure, Red. Take it as sick leave. Hope it’s not life or death.’
‘My dog’s sick. He might die,’ she said, tremulously.
‘Aw shit. Take as long as you need. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
Having been braced for impact, Delia was weak with gratitude towards Kurt for this generosity.
Roger at the city council had a real thing about animals not being children and got very annoyed at their colleague Gavin having a day off when his boxer, The CEO, demised. Gavin came back to work and put his collar on his desk and did silent crying when he thought no one was looking.
Delia’s heart had gone out to him, even if he had called his dog The CEO.
She didn’t know quite how to feel about Kurt now. Why couldn’t people be one thing or another?
She rushed back to the flat, threw a case together and was on the train heading north inside an hour. Her phone sat on the flip-down table and she dreaded it buzzing with an unscheduled call from Paul.
She checked her emails instead.
Delia, I have some additional ideas about what you could do with The Fox site before you go live, if I don’t overstep the mark. Jx
Delia toyed with a few responses and couldn’t settle on one: she could meet with Joe if she was back in the city. She just didn’t know if she would be up to it.
Eventually she decided to explain the uncertainty, and Joe said nice things. It would be so strange to meet face to face, after such a long build up. A familiar friend, who was simultaneously a total stranger. Delia felt virtually certain there was no romance, despite her early flights of fancy. They’d settled into a groove that felt firmly matey. She’d purposefully mentioned Paul a few times to guide it away from those hopes, should they exist. Delia didn’t think they did: she felt no ‘build’ from Joe that could indicate infatuation, despite him thinking her pretty, or remembering buffet chat. Without being unkind to her former co-workers, the council wasn’t PR. It didn’t provide a smorgasbord of visual treats, and one gaily dressed ginger female could possibly be quite memorable. In fact, she recognised a lot of her brother Ralph in him – someone very happy to stay where they were comfortable, physically and psychically.
She couldn’t worry much about Joe thinking it was a date at the present time, though. Instead she thought about Parsnip in his cage at the vet’s and felt marginally better now that she was taking action, heading towards him.
Delia hadn’t thought about where she’d stay and decided it was best to sleep in the spare room in Heaton, rather than landing on her parents out of the blue, in an unsettled state.
Paul said he’d pick her up from the station.
As she pulled her trolley down the concourse in Newcastle, she saw him craning to see her face among the arrivals. Car keys swinging in one hand, khaki anorak, hems of jeans trailing over grimy white Adidas Gazelles. Delia had a lurch of old love so strong she nearly dropped the case and ran to him. She was home. Paul was her home.
But this wasn’t the time, or the reason.
‘You look well,’ Paul said to Delia as she reached him, and she saw something of what Emma had said about her departure having an effect. He was regarding her differently, as if she was a beguiling mystery to him again.
‘Let me take your case,’ he said and Delia demurred and said no, she’d manage.
In the drive in Paul’s old jalopy – the silver Golf, held together with duct tape and prayer – they fell back on discussing Parsnip practicalities. Like most beloved pets, Parsnip meant something to them that no one else could understand. Other people saw a raggedy, tattered old canine who bore an uncanny likeness to Dobby the House Elf, ready for the knacker’s yard. Paul and Delia saw the former stray who still couldn’t believe his dinner was for him, and stopped eating every three seconds to check if anyone was stealing up behind him. He was a dog who snored so loudly they had to turn up the TV. Who never stopped trying to make friends with the Pomeranian on the next street, despite her trying to attack him whenever Parsnip tried to say hello.
Other people had sleek pedigree greyhounds or noble Great Danes. They had bandy Parsnip, who had once drawn a crowd of small children in the park petting him, saying: ‘Ugwee dog, ugwee dog’ while he looked as pleased as punch.
They pulled up in the car park at the vet’s and the task ahead became real for Delia. Paul unbuckled his seat belt and held her awkwardly across the gearstick as she covered her eyes with her palm and sobbed.
‘Think of it as reassuring him, letting him know we’re here. He doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s us who are upset.’
Delia nodded.
‘You don’t have to go in.’
‘I want to. Well, I don’t want to …’
‘I know.’
Paul squeezed her hand. Delia reminded herself that a teenage Paul had to be a pallbearer for his dad’s coffin, and told herself to buck the hell up.
She crunched across the gravel to the waiting room, a step behind Paul. Inside, it sounded like a zoo even though they couldn’t see a single animal – the room was full of miaowing travel carriers and chirruping cages, and the smell of heavy-duty disinfectant. They were told to take a seat and wait.
Delia distracted herself by reading a memorial collage on the wall about the vet’s oldest and deceased feline patient, one Gloria Hambly. The oddly humanoid-titled Gloria was a very angry, imperious-looking apricot Persian who’d pottered on to the grand age of twenty-five. Delia could imagine the Grim Reaper had turned up a few times for the glowering orange Gloria, only to be told to fuck right off.
Eventually a kindly young veterinary surgeon in green scrubs appeared and called them through. They rose to their feet, Delia feeling slightly nauseous.
They were motioned to sit down in a room with a plastic floor, chairs and consulting bench. Delia saw a box of tissues and knew it wasn’t good.
Paul slid his arm round Delia and they listened as the young vet explained that the tumour they’d discovered causing the problems was considerable, and inoperable. Parsnip would be in terrible pain before the end if they let nature take its course.
‘How long would he have?’ Paul said in a thick voice, and Delia was so incredibly glad he was there. His arm tightened round her as he spoke.
‘It’s hard to say. But it wouldn’t be a good death. In this situation, we recommend putting him down.’
Tears filled Delia’s eyes, turning the scene in the room into a view from a car windscreen during a flash flood. The vet was a blur of brown, pink and green.
‘When can you …?’ Paul said, and then ‘Sorry,’ as he steadied himself and Delia knew he was crying too.
‘The practice manager isn’t here now, we can carry out the procedure tomorrow.’
In that second, Delia thought they could make all the intellectual arguments they liked, but her feelings rejected the idea of what they were doing entirely. They were murdering their pet. The creature that trusted them most in the world, they were handing them over, unwitting, to be killed.
She choked out an apology and scrambled from the room, fleeing past the staring faces in the waiting room and crashing out of the doors into the car park.
Delia heard great shattering, gasping sobs rip from her. She hadn’t accepted it was a goodbye until this moment and she wasn’t ready for it. Please, not now.
Amid so much uncertainty, the one certainty was that she was about to lose Parsnip, and that could never be fixed or undone.
Paul found Delia and wordlessly put his arms around her. She buried her face in his shirt and inhaled the warm, familiar Paulness as he kissed the top of her head an
d shushed her and murmured I know, I know. He was the only one who knew how she felt.
‘Why don’t we take him home tonight?’ Paul said. ‘One last hurrah for the lad?’
‘Isn’t he … doesn’t he need painkillers?’
‘He’s had an injection which has made him drowsy. The vet doesn’t think he’s in too much discomfort for the time being.’
‘How can we make him think he’s coming home, when tomorrow …?’ Delia lapsed back into more stomach-convulsing crying.
‘Listen, listen,’ Paul pulled back, brushed strands of Delia’s damp hair behind her ears and put steadying hands on her shoulders. ‘He’s not scared, or sad. Our job is to look after him right to the end. Wrap him in cotton wool and act normal. Don’t think about that moment until you have to. Think about how nice it’ll be to spend the next twenty-four hours with him. Do it for him. OK?’
Delia nodded and Paul disappeared off into the surgery. He reappeared with an unsteady Parsnip on his lead and Delia tried to staunch the tears at the sight of him, in case he could sense her distress.
She crouched down and kissed his wiry head and whispered ‘Hello, you!’ faux-brightly, putting her arms round his lumpy, barrel-like middle. She could hear him panting his happiness at seeing her. She looked up and this time it was Paul with tears on his cheeks.
‘Get ready, boyo. You’re going to have the time of your life,’ Paul said, roughly wiping under his eyes with the back of his hand.
Not so long ago, it would’ve taken wild horses to get Delia back into bed with Paul. It turned out she only needed a dying dog.
They slept that night with Parsnip lying like a bolster between them, wheezing and snuffling but clearly delighted to be granted special duvet-whiskering rights, lying with front and back legs thrown out in a ‘Paint me like one of your French girls’ pose.
He usually had his basket shut in the kitchen, due to his eagerness to get the day started at five a.m. Instead, Delia had cried so much and petted him for so long the previous evening that Parsnip was asleep at dawn, while she greeted it with swollen face, and a ‘nail gun in the temple’ headache. She lay with the grey-yellow light creeping round the curtains, experiencing the grotty sensation of knowing the chance to get any rest had passed.
It's Not Me, It's You Page 21