It's Not Me, It's You

by Mhairi McFarlane

  Delia left the room, feeling as if her nerves were on the outside of her body and she’d been turned inside out, like balling a sock.

  She fled past the kitchen, where Dougie was beating drums along to the radio with a spatula on the sideboard, the sound of a frying pan spitting and sizzling on the hob as percussion.

  ‘Hey Delia! How’s life?’

  ‘Good,’ Delia said, blankly, at a loss for what else to say, and not knowing if she was telling the truth or not.

  Delia was home again. She sailed through the streets as if she owned the place on her red bicycle, chatting to people in local shops, her accent becoming a shade stronger. The colder air up here had started to smell like autumn was on its way.

  She cleaned her house from top to bottom, she cooked using her own pans. She pulled dresses she’d not worn for months from her wardrobe, she did her eyeliner looking in her old 50s-style dressing table with the oval mirror.

  She went for drinks with Paul at their local, they had takeaway curries in front of the television, she drank coffee from her favourite mug. Things were still different between them, it was a tentative re-coupledom. Delia told herself that it was a fresh start, which meant they were dating again, finding their way back into it. There would be an evening soon when it’d click and make sense; you couldn’t rush it.

  She and Paul scattered Parsnip’s ashes in the Tyne, holding hands.

  ‘I miss him,’ Delia said. They agreed they weren’t anywhere near ready for another dog, they only wanted Parsnip. Could they be ready for other things though? As they walked away, wiping their eyes, a young father was wrestling a squealy toddler who was demanding a wee by a wall on Dean Street. They looked at each other and grinned. A moment of understanding passed between them.

  A few days later, Paul asked Delia to come to the pub at the end of service. She found the lights still on and everyone gone. There was a sign up saying they were closing early due to ‘Personal Reasons.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’ she said, worried.

  She saw two flutes on the bar, and a bottle of pink Laurent-Perrier next to them, a vast bouquet of her favourite pink peonies next to that. Delia’s hero David Bowie came over the sound system – ‘Be My Wife’ – and Paul came out from behind the bar, holding a small velvet box.

  He went down on one knee and slid the ring on to Delia’s finger while she found herself unable to stop laughing uncontrollably, feeling as if they were playing a grown-up’s game. They got woozy on drink, discussing wedding plans in his deserted pub with the drip trays piled in the sink and the tills turned off. That night they consummated their reunion.

  Delia told herself that this was what she wanted, and moving forward was essential: the moment of happy certainty where her feelings fell into place was somewhere on the horizon: strive for it.

  The next day she went through job adverts and highlighted ones she could do, made a list, an agenda for action. She wasn’t worried about getting another job. She’d survived Twist & Shout, so anything was possible. It felt different now she had resurrected her part-time passion of The Fox. Who knew, maybe eventually it would grow into a full-time passion? It was a comforting thought.

  Delia tried not to think about things that hurt her to recall, things that didn’t help, about someone far away. He’d get over it. He said he’d hurt other people. He’d have hurt her the same way, very probably, if she’d hung around long enough and let herself start to believe in it. She tried not to think about him, but he crept into her thoughts constantly, like spreading ink on paper. She kept making mental notes, observations for anecdotes and conversations she’d never have with him, except in her head.

  Most of all she tried not to notice that she no longer got the urge to throw her arms around Paul and kiss him. It’d come back. It was on its way. Delia had made her choice.

  Delia used the silver jalopy to go to Hexham and show her politely wary parents the ring. (‘Not a big wedding,’ Delia reassured them, and they smiled the fixed smiles of people who thought any wedding wouldn’t be small enough for them. Delia never needed to wonder where she got her homebody urges from.)

  Flashing the ring wasn’t why she looked forward to her first visit. She’d also brought her laptop. She got Ralph on his own, through the pretext of being interested in his latest game.

  ‘You know you told me The Fox was good?’ she said, peeling the wrapper from a yellow French Fancy, as Ralph played his latest game. ‘I put it online. People seem to really like it. So I sent it to some publishers. You know, like small indie ones. I’ve got a meeting with one about it, in Leeds. They might publish it.’

  She flipped open her laptop and showed Ralph the Fantastic Miss Fox site.

  ‘In a book?’ Ralph said, entranced by the pictures on the screen. ‘A book you could buy?’

  Delia nodded, swallowing icing. ‘All because of what you said to me in this room a few months ago. I wouldn’t have dared to do it otherwise.’

  Ralph looked gratified. ‘Cool. I was only telling you the truth.’

  ‘I know, you always tell the truth,’ Delia said. ‘If it’s published, I will dedicate it to you. Is that helicopter going to crash?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ralph said, re-tasking himself to the game and picking up the console again. ‘It’s OK, it’s not us. We shot it down.’

  ‘I was thinking. I’ve been through things since then that I never thought I could get through. Having the break-up with Paul. Moving to London. Doing a scary job. Meeting scary people. Stopping a scary person doing bad things. It made me realise – Mum and Dad, they’re great. But I think they made us love home a little bit too much. We both get scared of the world outside, sometimes?’

  Ralph seemed to be listening, as well as driving the onscreen action. Delia had no idea how this was going across.

  ‘I did get through it all though, Ralph, and I’m better for it. Like you said to me about The Fox – you’re in charge. You’re in charge too. You don’t have to stay at the chippy, or stay at home. If you’re scared, it’s alright. Because you’re scared doesn’t mean you’ll fail. If there’s anything you want to do, tell me. I want to help you in return.’

  Ralph scratched his mop of ginger hair. ‘I thought about reviewing games.’ He looked at Delia, uneasily. ‘On YouTube. But you know, loads of people do it. No one would want to watch me, I don’t think.’

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Ralph, you should do that! You’re really entertaining when you talk about games. I love listening to you. You’d be a cult hit.’

  ‘I do have some good opinions. This regular in the shop, John, he always asks me what I think and we had some really good talks, until the boss complained. Now John has haddock instead of saveloys. We cook them fresh and it gives us longer to chat.’

  Delia beamed at her brother.

  Ralph turned back to the screen. ‘I don’t know I’d make anything worth watching.’

  Delia’s mind whirred. ‘What could help? Someone who could help you make the videos and start a following? Like they did for me and The Fox site?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘Ralph, I know someone! Just the person.’

  She knew Ralph would be wary of presenting his idea to a stranger, so she rattled on: ‘He’s got a phobia of meeting new people though. Well, more socialising. But he can talk on Skype. He could tell you about the things he helped me with, it was uh-may-zing. He cracked a super-tough encryption code and everything. Can I introduce you? Only on my laptop.’

  Ralph’s eyes widened at ‘cracking code’ and Delia knew she had him. Also, a fellow bedroom ghost would intimidate him a lot less.

  Minutes later, with his permission, she’d made the call and Joe in his garage was present in Ralph’s bedroom in Hexham.

  ‘Hello!’ Joe said tucking hair behind ears. ‘There’s two of you. Red flags.’

  They were soon chatting like fast friends, as Delia encouraged Joe to relate the V&A yarn. They exchanged details and Joe pledged that not o
nly would he help Ralph, he’d hugely enjoy it.

  Delia left Hexham with a skip to her step, practically hugging herself. She’d known Joe and she met for a reason, so they could help each other. Now perhaps, she’d incepted a fruitful relationship that would benefit her brother and the Naan.

  Well, it was either the start of a beautiful friendship, or they’d fall down the rabbit hole of endless gaming together and end up with castaway beards and curly toenails.

  In keeping with her resolve never to let them drift again, Delia had booked a week’s holiday in Barcelona with Emma. The plan was a riot of tapas, sherry and Gaudí.

  ‘I miss you being down here so much,’ Emma said, when she called to confirm the flights were booked. ‘I’ve been looking at Rightmove. What if I DID move back to Newcastle? Would I cramp your style? Could I set up my own firm? I’m picturing that bit in Sliding Doors when Gwyneth Paltrow starts a successful PR company just by asking a bank for some money, doing some roller painting and then having a sexy launch party with flowers in her hair.’

  ‘It will be exactly like that,’ Delia said, laughing. ‘Apart from a bank giving you any money. That film’s quite old.’

  ‘You’ve inspired me, Deels. You came down here and absolutely kicked arse. It makes me think I can do anything, too.’

  ‘I inspired you?’

  ‘Yes. You’re Fantastic Miss Fox.’

  Delia’s eyes welled up. She’d mothballed The Fox because she thought it was frivolous and childish. Instead it was always telling her what she needed most: courage.

  Delia had been back in Newcastle for three weeks when she sifted through the mail alone on a Saturday morning.

  She almost missed the thin, creased envelope, addressed to her in unfamiliar handwriting, and it very nearly died a quick, unceremonious death, slung in the recycling, sandwiched between a Land’s End catalogue and the offer of 4.8% APR credit. She fished it back out and tore the envelope.

  It was a card with a print from the Tate Gallery, a painting of a young woman with shining titian hair. Delia opened it. Both sides full of close written black biro.

  Dear Delia,

  Hello again. I didn’t say much last time I saw you. Sorry about that. Those words were all my jealous heart could bear. I’m going to manage a few more here. This doesn’t need a reply, I should stress. It’s a gesture from me, to you, because I can’t leave things the way they ended.

  First of all, I miss you. My God, do I miss you. Like the colour’s leached out of the film. I am sick and tired and bored and sad about walking into rooms that don’t have Delia in, but it looks like I’ll have to get used to that happening for the rest of my life.

  Secondly, I’m in love with you. Did you know I fell in love with you? Probably not. I didn’t exactly give off strong and consistent ‘I’m in love with you’ signals.

  And you thought I was only after something casual. I don’t blame you for thinking that, given who I was before I met you.

  I wasn’t. I already knew I was head over heels and trying to work out how best to let you know how serious I was, without completely freaking you out with the extent of my adoration.

  I mean, take things I’d always thought weren’t for me: marriage, babies, domesticity. Add ‘with Delia’ to the equation and suddenly they looked incredibly appealing. I finally got it. All those times laughing at people who told me when The One turned up, I’d just know, then there you were, and I did.

  I wanted arguments over shelving units in Ikea, Christmas dinner in paper hats with your parents, Boxing Day playing video games with Ralph, and our names to always be used as a pair. (Like Hepburn and Tracy. Or Cannon and Ball.)

  Also, while I’m not making it a competition – I’d never sleep with another woman behind your back. (I’m making it a competition.)

  Once you told me you were leaving for Paul, I thought, why admit any of this? Why wound my pride further?

  Then I realised, it does matter. You should know how much feeling you inspired, and I should have the courage to tell you. Even when there’s no hope of it changing anything. Even when it wasn’t mutual.

  None of this is intended to, or should, make you feel guilty, by the way. You can no more help who you’re in love with than I can.

  Part of me wishes so hard I’d said this to your face, in the hope it might’ve changed things. I thought it was too soon. I was going to try to get away with mumbling a lot of it in the darkness at three in the morning, further along the line. But there was no further along the line, and I think deep down I always knew there wouldn’t be.

  Dearest, wonderful, best, funniest Delia, with that lovely voice I’ll never hear again – goodbye. I will always be a little bit lonelier without you.

  Please take care of yourself, so I can think of you happy. And if he ever makes you sad again, I will feed him ladlefuls of his own boiling blood.

  Adam x

  Delia read and re-read the words first in disbelief, then in joy, then in an ecstatic sort of pain, until they warped and blurred through her hot tears. It was astonishing to think these passionate words were about her, that she’d unconsciously managed to make someone feel this strongly.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said in a choke-sob-laugh aloud, to the card.

  He was in love with her? Adam was meant to be a fling. She didn’t belong in his world, nor he in hers. Why did nothing make sense? Why did her chest feel like it was burning, her legs like liquid? Her stomach seemed to have disappeared entirely.

  If nothing else, Adam had proved that money didn’t give you life’s most valuable things. This card had cost next to nothing, other than Adam’s pride.

  It meant the world to her.

  Delia walked from room to room in a daze, holding her card, re-reading it. Eventually, with a goitre-sized lump in her throat, she called Emma.

  ‘Oh, Em. I don’t know what to do. Adam sent me this incredible … I feel stupid saying love letter, but it was. Card. Telling me he was mad about me and wanted this whole life together and never got the chance to tell me. That he’s in love with me.’

  ‘Wow! Really? He actually used the L-word?’

  ‘Yes, he used lots of words. He said he wanted to settle down with me.’ Delia’s body hummed with so many emotions: delight, gratitude, regret, incredulity, happiness, sadness. Guilt.

  ‘You had no idea before? He never said?’

  ‘Not exactly. He was hinting at liking me a lot, he told me he didn’t want a one-night stand and wanted to start seeing each other. We slept together and then if you remember, Paul came back the very next day.’

  ‘Oof. One night with you and he’s turned into a love-letter writer. You must have an incredible pelvic floor.’

  ‘I’m feeling sick with the need to see him. I thought it would go away, but it hasn’t. It’s got worse. What do I do?’

  ‘Do? Is there something to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Emma paused.

  ‘OK. You know I think he’s a fierce piece of arse. Part of me wants to say go for it. Like “Just drive!” at the end of Thelma and Louise. But, let’s not forget they drove into the Grand Canyon.’

  Delia laughed, weakly.

  ‘I’m going to be the best friend I can be,’ Emma said. ‘By being sensible about this. However hard it is, have a glass of wine and a weep and put that card somewhere that Paul won’t find it. Or somewhere he will find it, as it might remind him how lucky he is. And move on.’

  ‘You don’t think Adam means it?’

  ‘I think he means it. However, I think there’s a difference between meaning it and it working out between you.’

  ‘We’re too different?’

  Emma blew out a breath.

  ‘Not exactly. I think it’s a huge gamble. You want a family, and you know the deal with Paul.’

  ‘I thought I did before, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s promised you he’s sorted himself out, or you wouldn’t have gone back. Adam’s an unknown q
uantity. I mean, are we sure that this isn’t an extreme reaction because he isn’t used to women dumping him? Not that I’m saying he can’t simply be smitten with you. This is about his nature.’

  Delia thought this was a fair point, if a little ego-denting. Without intending to, she had turned the tables. It might be quite a novel experience for him.

  ‘What’s his relationship history? Much monogamy? Or high body count and trail of devastation and grieving people behind him, like a serial killer?’

  ‘Sketchy, I think. He told me he’d never been in love. And yes, he’s been around …’

  ‘It’s a brave-slash-foolish woman who trusts she’s going to be the game changer, Deels. Believe me, I’ve been that woman. Eventually you realise the women before you thought they were that woman too.’

  I thought I was in love a couple of times, got embroiled, realised I wasn’t in love, or not enough. Caused hurt …

  ‘Though Adam’s obviously besotted. You know I spotted that before you did,’ Emma said. ‘He can be entirely sincere and still not a safe bet.’

  ‘Hah – Adam said Paul would never be a safe bet. That his type of cheating would happen again.’

  ‘Did he say this around the time when he was trying to go to bed with you, by any chance?’

  Delia had to admit it had broadly coincided.

  ‘You want to be in Newcastle, too?’

  Delia murmured agreement. She appreciated she was asking for a gear shift from Emma, when not so long ago, her best friend was congratulating her on her engagement as ‘the way the world should be: with Paul and Delia together’.

  ‘Bottom line, I think throwing your lot in to be with Adam is the most massive risk,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve seen you go through so much and come through it. I’d hate for it to go wrong a second time. He’s gorgeous, I know. That means he gets plenty of female attention. Would you honestly want to spend your life fending other Emmas off?’

  Delia laughed.

  ‘He’d never lie to me,’ Delia said. She meant it. For all Adam could be mistaken for glib, there was something very nailed-down about him. If a truth was ugly, he’d still give it to her. And a few things besides … argh, don’t be consumed in a fug of lust, she thought. Great sex doesn’t make it a great idea. Although it makes a bit of a great idea, a voice said. She and Paul hadn’t been very lively in bed since she moved back in. Delia was still fearful of thinking of him with Celine, in the act. Was it also fear of something else?