It’s Not Me, It’s You

She was lost in re-reading The Fox’s adventures until her mum, who’d somehow returned home without Delia noticing, called up the stairs to ask if she should put the spaghetti on.

After dinner, Delia picked up a pen and tentatively began a fresh page of The Fox. It came to her immediately, like mouthing the lyrics to an old song you’d not heard in years, and yet instinctively knowing the next line.

Twelve (#ulink_1b096d54-12c9-5440-87c2-4dcb49cf1a1d)

Had Delia not told Roger about Peshwari Naan’s surprise appearance in her inbox because the search was a welcome distraction from her misery?

The thought only occurred to her as she turned her computer on the next morning, and felt a shiver of excitement wash up and down her arms. It was an analgesic for the pain of thinking about Paul.

Sure enough, she had a Naan e-communiqué waiting for her, from a Peshwari Naan Gmail address.

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

Why are you looking for me?

Delia typed:

From: Delia Moss

You didn’t answer my question! Quid pro quo.

Would she have to wait another day for the response? That would be deeply frustrating. No, she had it within ten minutes. Another thought: the Naan had an office job. The log-off time yesterday had been consistent with that.

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

I knew because I am quite good at this ‘computers’ thing. Now you …?

Delia wasn’t supposed to be hiding her intent, she supposed. She’d better chuck in an emoticon to keep everything friendly.

From: Delia Moss

That’s not really an answer, is it?

I want to discuss why you’re so negative about the council. A lot of your comments on the Chronicle site are pretty scathing! (assuming there isn’t another potty-mouthed, fruity Naan out there) (why ARE you called Peshwari Naan?)

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

I’m not negative, really. I post things that make me laugh. (It’s the most troublesome of the Naans. Why put fruit in it? I know you’ll be with me on this.)

From: Delia Moss

OK, but … they don’t always make other people laugh. Some of the councillors have got quite upset. (Yep, agree on the Peshwari wrongness. Chilli and/or garlic, every time. Coriander for a curveball.)

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

That’s because they’re hairy old cornflakes who wouldn’t know humour if it dry-pumped them from behind with a strap-on while grunting their name. (I also like cheese, and keema.)

Delia did a small bark-laugh at her desk, and Ann, busy see-sawing a bent big toe with her special chiropractic elastic band, looked over suspiciously.

‘Something on Buzzfeed,’ Delia mumbled, while typing a reply.

From: Delia Moss

Whether that’s true or not … would you consider toning it down?

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

Is there any reason why I should?

Delia drummed her fingers on the desk.

From: Delia Moss

As a favour to me? I’ve been tasked with getting you to stop. It’d hugely help me if you did. Or minded your manners a bit more. My boss would be happier.

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

Maybe your boss should grow a bigger pair of plums and tell these councillors to get a sense of perspective. I’m entertaining people and adding to the sum of bliss in the universe.

From: Delia Moss

You can be entertaining and not go so far as to suggest Councillor Hammond told the AGM he bleaches his bumhole.

From: peshwari.naan@gmail.com

That one wasn’t a lie. Check the meeting minutes. He described it as looking as fresh as a grapefruit half afterwards.

Delia nearly guffawed at her desk and stifled it in time, as Ann’s eyes slid towards her again.

Delia reckoned she could talk this Naan round. She’d established a rapport, now to see if she could gently dissuade him from Viz-quoting anarchy.

The mystery remained: how the hell did he find her? That part was spooky and baffling.

Her mobile pinged with a text; Emma.

I will be calling you in five mins. I have an idea. Move to a secure area and open your mind to incoming magnificence. E X

Delia smiled to herself and slipped the phone into the pocket of her chambray pinafore dress, making her way to the gardens outside. Park, if you were being fancy: a strip of green between the council and the rest of the world.

As Delia kicked her heels, she thought how she’d forgotten – to her chagrin – how much she and Emma meant to each other.

Something in Delia’s good-humoured unfussiness matched up very well with Emma’s ebullient smarts. Delia was all about home, Emma was all about work, yet they equally enjoyed sitting around giggling at stupid things while wearing loose pyjama trousers. They found the bitchier shades of female gatherings hard to take. They weren’t snipy, or competitive with each other, and neither of them ever gave the other grief for a lapse in correspondence. They instinctively got each other, in the way of great friendships. In their differences, they learned from each other.

So while Delia was wilting and fading in the face of Paul’s loss, Emma wasn’t saying poor you and plumping her cushions and making chicken soup. She was right there in the sinking boat, trying to bale the water out.

It occurred to Delia that she was also part of another long-term double act, a still-devoted couple, and the thought comforted her.

Nevertheless, Delia did worry what scheme this might be. No matter what worked for Emma in resolving a dispute, she was not going to host an air-clearing round table summit with Paul and Celine.