It's Not Me, It's You

by Mhairi McFarlane

  Paul once told her that after his parents died, he’d stayed up into the night playing records until he fell asleep through exhaustion, dreading sleep because every time he woke he remembered his reality afresh.

  Delia looked over at his sleeping form, one arm slung over Parsnip. Her family had fallen apart. It was hard not to see Celine as a tumour, only without anyone to tell them if it was possible to remove her and leave what remained in decent working condition.

  Not that she could fault Paul at the present moment. He was being a rock for them both, and if he was doing any of it with the ulterior motive of winning her back, Delia was too vulnerable to care. He joked about how he’d always said Parsnip looked like Martina Navratilova, he mock-grumbled about the lack of space on the bed. He kept up a stream of fuss and chatter that soothed Delia’s spirits.

  Despite thinking it was impossible, Delia lost consciousness somewhere between very early and an early start, and awoke to find Paul standing over her, dressed, showered and brandishing a bag full of what looked like pork scratchings.

  ‘C’mon sleepyhead. We’re taking Parsnip to the park. I’ve been to Pets At Home and got him those gross pigs’ ears.’

  Delia dragged clothes on and pressed a cold flannel to her face, painting her liquid eyeliner on puffy eyes, colouring pallid cheeks with blush and imagining it looked quite What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? grotesque.

  They walked Parsnip to his favourite picnicking spot and Paul threw out the blanket. The three of them settled down. Parsnip was perfectly peaceful and content, nibbling a pig ear, and Delia was glad of the warmth of the sun on her tired body. The sadness came in waves; her body didn’t have the energy to sustain the grief as a constant. It meant she could enjoy the moment.

  ‘You were right,’ she said to Paul, ‘I’m glad we did this.’

  He put his hand on her leg. ‘You have to say goodbye properly, however much it hurts.’

  ‘He seems so well …’ Delia had to say it: ‘Are we sure it’s the right thing to do? If he could have quality of life for a bit longer … I’d stay home with him …’

  ‘I asked the vet that stuff when I went back in. I said, give us more of the painkillers and we’ll see how he goes. But she told me it’s cruel to stagger on. He’s an animal, he’ll be in horrible pain and he won’t be able to tell us when it’s too much. We can’t let him suffer to make us feel better, Dee. We have to carry the responsibility so he has the best end possible. That was the job we took on. The good, and the bad.’

  Delia nodded without speaking, so that she didn’t cry. Paul was a good person. With flaws, yes, but this was the man she had loved. That’s what people like Adam West didn’t get, when they reduced her decision to a box-ticking, binary exercise. Is this acceptable behaviour? Y/N.

  A few yards away, children were playing on the grass with plastic swords and Delia felt the strange cognitive dissonance of seeing other peoples’ lives carrying on when your own was falling apart, as if you were watching them on television in a war zone.

  ‘Ralph loves Parsnip. Should I give him the chance to come over and say goodbye? I don’t think his shift starts until this evening,’ she said.

  Paul agreed and volunteered to pick Ralph up, and Delia was impressed he didn’t want to dodge the awkwardness of seeing her family.

  It also meant she got time alone with her dog. Back at the house, she wrapped Parsnip in his favourite blanket and cuddled him on the sofa and told him how happy she was to have known him. He nudged her with his nose and blinked his watery eyes.

  She whispered choked apologies for what they were going to do and asked for his forgiveness. She tried to take in everything about him, because pets were personalities with habits and quirks and aromas that were utterly unique, and only you and others who’d loved them would remember.

  Paul walked back in, bent his head and pecked Delia on the cheek, whispering, ‘We came via ASDA,’ to her, which seemed odd spy code.

  She understood when Ralph followed him, bearing a large cake box with a cellophane window, the sort you get in supermarkets. It had PARSNIP on it in wormy twirls of lime green, a Halloween colour combination with its taramosalata-pink marzipan.

  ‘Ralph,’ said Delia, restraining the astonishment in her voice so she didn’t sound ungrateful, ‘what’s that, a Happy Death Day cake?’

  ‘No, it’s like, an occasion, isn’t it? You still have food after a funeral.’

  Paul winked at Delia.

  ‘It’s a piece of genius,’ Paul said.

  Her brother’s innocent goodwill made sarcasm inappropriate. Delia was very glad to see him. She pushed her arms round his circumference, mumbling ‘Thank you’ into his somewhat musty Guardians of the Galaxy t-shirt.

  ‘Here, boy!’

  Ralph set the cake down and slid it out on its foam circle. Delia stifled a reflexive remark about too much sugar not being good for Parsnip.

  Parsnip yelped and slithered down from his seat on the sofa, and started licking the icing while Ralph patted his back.

  ‘Strawberry’s your favourite, Uncle Ralph knows.’

  Paul grinned at Delia. ‘Interesting insight into the babysitting that went on. No wonder Parsnip liked his visits to Hexham, eh.’

  Ralph was a tonic. He played with Parsnip, he chatted to him easily, he took photos on his phone of the two of them together. Delia had shrunk from doing this as she wasn’t sure she’d ever want to look back on his last day, so she was glad now she had the mementoes safe with Ralph. When it came time for Paul to drive him back, he shook Parsnip’s paw and said: ‘Very nice knowing you, Mr Parsnip,’ and wiped a tear away. ‘Enjoy dog heaven and all those cakes.’

  Paul and Delia would’ve carried on allowing Parsnip such wanton gluttony throughout the afternoon, yet it was obvious he was uncharacteristically full, and fading, only wanting to nap. Selfishly, Delia was glad at some concrete evidence of his illness.

  Finally, after an hour’s innocent sleep for Parsnip, it was time. Delia shut down and measured the process in achievable steps. Get Parsnip to the car. Get to the surgery. Walk into the consulting room, assemble selves, each holding one of Parsnip’s scrawny, bony front paws. Kiss him on the cheek, hard, and say goodbye into his nearest ear. Hold him tight and don’t look as the needle goes in, even if it means you can feel the last slowing throbs of his bird-weak heart and smell the sugar of the farewell cake on his ratty old ears.

  Disentangle your sweaty limbs, hold Paul and both weep openly. Finally: try not to look at the now-lifeless form of a beloved animal on the table.

  The vet discussed further business with Paul in hushed tones. They’d discussed burial and Paul wasn’t keen.

  ‘You move house and leave them behind,’ he said. Delia wondered if it was connected to Paul’s dislike of visiting his parents’ graves. (‘They’re not there,’ he always said, vehemently, in one of the rare moments he showed anger about it.)

  Also, you needed to dig deep when preparing the grave, Paul pointed out. He and his brother Michael’s childhood guinea pigs – Ant and Dec – had made a macabre reappearance during a rainstorm, surfing the turf. Cremation it was, and Paul would collect the ashes in a few days.

  Home in an empty car, both too broken by Parsnip’s gigantic absence to speak.

  Eating dinner wasn’t possible. Inevitably, they sat in their Parsnip-less house and drank too much red wine to blur the sharp edges of their feelings, and ended up in each other’s arms. There was no risk of it going further; neither of them were currently capable.

  ‘Delia, you know this is home, don’t you? Always. Whatever else. This is your home and no one else’s,’ Paul said hotly and drunkenly, into her hair.

  Delia said yes, she did, and it was.

  And with that, without even saying it in so many words, they were back together.

  Day one of a Parsnip-free house, a Saturday, and Delia wanted to be out of it. Paul had his escape, the usual one. The pub had been left for two days and it needed a
ttention.

  He was so effusive in his apologies about having to work, Delia wondered if he expected her to make some swipe about him putting the pub first.

  After an aimless hour, she messaged Joe to meet up, and they agreed Brewz and Beanz at one.

  She was strangely nervous as she dressed, choosing a scoop-necked clinging black top and favourite washed-out pink skirt, making up her weary face with particular care. He did think she was pretty: the pressure was on. She hoped the easy, breezy tenor of their electronic exchanges transferred, face to face.

  She guessed all internet friendships came to this point eventually: you had to make it or break it in the real world.

  Delia claimed a table in the window, thinking he’d like that witty nod to their history, and waited. And waited some more. By half past one she’d gone beyond itchy anticipation and into resigned boredom. She opened a text.

  Did I get the right place / time? I’m here! Dx

  Ten minutes passed.

  Delia, I’m so sorry but something’s come up and I can’t make it. Apologies for messing you around. Joe x

  Unless his roof had fallen in, he’d stood her up. Was he worried about Paul seeing them? Had he misrepresented himself in some way in their conversations? Was meeting face to face more Delia than he wanted to let himself in for?

  She’d not mentioned Parsnip’s fate and she was glad; she didn’t want the pity vote.

  Giving it up as a bad job, she decided to console herself with some fancy Wolford tights from Fenwicks. Then a coffee and a sandwich on her own, preferably while staring at the Tyne and starting a new book.

  As she set off through the streets, she was glad to be home, to not feel an interloper like she still did in London.

  Hosiery purchased, she wandered the aisles full of colourful cosmetics and their rash promises, absently squirting fruity perfume testers on her wrists until she smelled like a packet of boiled sweets.

  Delia was coating herself with something citrusy from Miller Harris when an arrangement of features, half glimpsed over a display of glossily bright toiletry bags, gave her a fright.

  They were unknown and known to her at the same time, and for a second Delia was frozen, tester bottle held above exposed inside wrist.

  Celine brushed her fine dark hair behind her ear and wandered off towards the cafeteria, and without consciously deciding that she was going to do it, Delia followed her.

  Celine headed out the doors and into the street outside, Delia in quickstep pursuit. Celine was wearing a floaty royal-blue dress with camisole straps and a jagged hem, in triangles like bunting, showing off nut-brown, toothbrush-width legs, and gladiator sandals. Delia felt instantly blowsy and matronly by comparison.

  Delia trailed Celine down through the shopping centre, losing her here and there, but each time managing to pick up a glimpse of the back of her head again. She didn’t ask herself why she was doing it, or when she’d stop. It wasn’t as if Celine was likely to be meeting with Paul, on a weekend when Delia was home.

  Having headed south into quieter streets, down past Grainger Market, Celine stopped and looked in a window, forcing Delia to also stop and pretend to be transfixed by the contents of a pound shop.

  After a minute or so, Delia sensed something wasn’t right. You either looked and went in, or looked and moved on. Celine had been standing there too long.

  Delia glanced at her and Celine’s head turned. She looked directly at her.

  ‘Delia?’

  Delia was speechless with shock. Of course – Celine had looked her up online, too.

  She was rumbled, caught out trailing her sexual nemesis through the streets like some Mrs Rochester mad wife, let loose from the attic. There was nothing to say, or do, other than to turn on her heel and march off, gathering what was left of her dignity, which was very little. But something glued her to the spot.

  Celine pushed her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand.

  ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

  If Celine hadn’t looked so terrified, and Delia hadn’t felt so foolish, she would’ve said no.

  They were near one of Delia’s very favourite cafés, The Singing Kettle. While she didn’t much want to sully it by using it as a venue for this particular occasion, there was no way they were making polite conversation in step all the way to an anonymous Caffè Nero.

  The Singing Kettle was tiny and charming: Gaggia coffee machine, scones under a glass dome by the till, cluttered, clattery, windows steamy. And thankfully, nearly full with a gaggle of chattering day-trippers, so Delia and Celine didn’t have to worry about being overheard.

  They both ordered flat whites, their creaky awkwardness at odds with the merry manner of the order taker.

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ Celine said. She was well-spoken, with no Newcastle accent, and Delia remembered she was here as a student.

  ‘I’m not sure what it is we’re doing,’ she said, neutrally, holding her coffee cup in two hands. Was Celine going to issue a Look, we’re together now, it’s me he wants, let him go sort of caution? It didn’t feel like it.

  ‘I want to say sorry for everything that’s happened,’ Celine said.

  In 3D, her face wasn’t as glacially intimidating as the image Delia had constructed in her mind. Celine was beautiful, but she also had typically twenty-something spot-prone skin, and teeth that were slightly too big for her head.

  Delia noted this dispassionately, not cruelly. She had been suckered in by social media’s bleachily lit, pouty photographs that are carefully selected to fit your internalised, idealised self-image. The highlights reel – or ‘sizzle reel’, as Kurt called it.

  Delia wondered which of her other ideas about Celine might be wrong.

  Celine was trembling with adrenaline, her jaw juddering when she cast her eyes down at the table. Delia felt the fear too, but with nothing to feel guilty about, she was steadier.

  ‘I didn’t think of myself as the kind of person who’d do this sort of thing,’ Celine said, again doing her hair-tucking tic. She hadn’t touched her coffee.

  ‘Paul said the same thing,’ Delia was impressed her voice worked so well. ‘Maybe the people who do these things never think they’d do this sort of thing. Maybe that’s how they can do it.’

  She said this without spite but Celine looked terrified nonetheless.

  ‘It was like it wasn’t real when it was happening. I mean, I know it was real …’

  ‘Did you know about me from the start?’

  Celine nodded.

  ‘Other people told me Paul lived with his girlfriend when I met him. When we … got on well, I didn’t think about it. I told myself you must have problems for him to be with me …’

  Celine’s head jerked at what she’d said and she obviously feared Delia might slap her.

  Instead, Delia found grudging respect for Celine. She was displaying stark and difficult honesty, a quality in short supply around these parts lately. Delia nodded.

  ‘Did Paul tell you we had problems?’

  Celine shook her head.

  ‘Not … no. He sometimes said you’d drifted apart a bit, but that was when I was asking about you, for my benefit. He didn’t want to talk about you. I knew he’d never leave you. When he told me you were getting married, I felt sick. I realised what I’d done – what we’d done – and it wasn’t this separate bubble any more.’

  ‘But you asked him to go to Paris?’

  Celine blushed fiercely. ‘I didn’t know if getting married was what he wanted. I said we could talk, go away until it blew over …’

  Blew over? Delia chalked this turn of phrase up to being twenty-four, but Celine had just used up a credit.

  ‘… Paul said no and he was getting married.’

  ‘Hah. Well he isn’t, now.’

  Tears rolled down Celine’s cheeks and Delia had no idea what she was meant to do. Comfort her? Gloat? Deliver a sermon?

  Celine wiped her tears away and rolled her eyes to the ceiling
until she’d got herself under control, doing the ‘drying nail polish’ finger-waving movement at her face.

  ‘It was so stupid,’ she said, her voice so thick it made her words difficult to distinguish. ‘I thought Oh, it’s only some fun, but it’s not fun to mess with people’s lives and I should never have done it.’

  ‘Did he make you think he was going to leave me?’

  ‘No.’ Celine shook her head, without hesitation. ‘He always said I should find someone my own age. He was never going to leave you for me.’

  ‘Did you want him to?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Celine said, dabbing under her eyes with the back of her wrist, nose running.

  Celine opened her fake quilted Chanel bag and rummaged for tissues, her iPhone with silly chocolate bar case tumbling out, along with her Vaseline tin lip balm. She suddenly looked so terribly young to Delia, and she felt a surge of anger at Paul for hurting two people like this.

  The very last thing Delia would’ve said she wanted to do was a sit down with Celine. And yet, it had helped. Celine didn’t frighten her. In fact, Delia was impressed with herself; she’d faced the worst and coped. The pain at the thought of Paul and Celine together had begun to reduce to a dull ache.

  ‘I’m so, so, sorry,’ Celine said. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am. It’s such a rancid thing to have done. I’m not that girl, you know?’

  Delia didn’t react, wanting to choose her words carefully.

  ‘I’m not saying that sleeping with someone’s boyfriend is right, but it was Paul’s fault more than yours,’ she said.

  Celine nodded.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you for throwing that drink in my face. I would if I was you.’

  Delia smiled.

  ‘You don’t know how you’ll feel until it happens, I’ve learned.’

  She didn’t say so, but Delia suddenly realised she could’ve been a Celine herself, in the right circumstances. If she’d met a confident older man when she was Celine’s age; if she’d fallen for him hard, and he obligingly kept the girlfriend out of focus? She would’ve probably rationalised it was his responsibility.