It’s Not Me, It’s You

‘So, what date did you get together with Celine? I find it hard to believe that it wouldn’t stick out in your memory.’

Paul ruffled his hair, shifted from foot to foot.

‘Late March,’ he said, gruffly.

‘You know that, how?’

As with the text, Delia had the sense that Paul was trying to edit his reply to filter out sensitive content, but had no time.

‘It was Mother’s Day, the next day.’

‘You said you never even noticed when it was Mother’s Day. Did you go to the graves after all?’

She and Paul had a whole conversation about how he never celebrated Mothering Sunday when his mum was alive, so it had no particular meaning for him. They’d planned to do something for the anniversary of the crash, in November, though it had been fraught, discussing it with his brother. Michael felt differently about that date: he saw marking it as according importance to a senseless, horrible event.

Delia didn’t know how it felt to lose your parents but suspected you never get to choose which dates in life are significant for you, bar your wedding.

‘No. We talked about it. She asked if I had got my mum a gift.’

Ah. Now Delia got it. Paul’s emotive orphaning had got Celine into bed? The idea that Paul might’ve seduced Celine occurred for the first time, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t properly considered it before.

‘Where did it happen, the first time? The store cupboard? It’s your happy place.’

‘No, I told you. I’d never … do that, in the pub. It was at hers.’

‘She said, fancy a nightcap?’

‘Not exactly. I was locking up on my own after that … and she came back. I was outside.’

‘You went home with her, that easy?’

‘It had been building up. Then there she was.’

‘I need the words. I need to know what was said.’

Paul cast his eyes heavenwards and ground his teeth. ‘Dee, I get this is the grimmest thing. Why torture yourself with the details? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.’

‘It matters, because it’s the only way I can start getting my head around how you could do this. It’s such a mystery to me, I need to know how you went from “I don’t shag twenty-four-year-olds I meet in my bar” to, “yeah sounds fun, whereabouts in Jesmond?”’

Delia hated how bitter he’d made her sound.

‘She came up and said she couldn’t stop thinking about me and we should do something about what was going on between us. She said you only live once.’ He rattled it out.

Delia sensed what wasn’t being said.

‘She used your parents’ deaths as an argument for why you should cheat on me? I assume she knew there was a me.’

‘Yeah, not much, but she knew.’

‘That is …’ Delia shook her head, ‘Tasteless isn’t even the word, is it?’

‘It sounds worse than it was. Pissed people talking nonsense …’

‘Nonsense that was good enough to see you going back with her.’

‘Yes.’

Paul looked beat. Not much hope of gilding the lily.

‘And that was enough, what she said?’

‘In that moment, yes. It was a take the red pill, follow this thing and see where it leads. It was about risk taking, I guess.’

‘Was it monkey sex?’

‘What?’

Paul looked befuddled.

‘Was it wild? Give me some idea of what you did.’

‘It was sex. Plain, average sex.’

‘Who on top?’

Paul’s jaw tightened further.

‘Her on top.’

Delia’s stomach contracted.

‘Lights on? Off?’

‘Off. Well, she had some of those lights on a string, they were on.’

Delia felt the triumphant sizzle of being proven right.

‘Why did Aled say he talked you out of a trip to Paris?’

‘I honestly have no idea,’ Paul said, visibly relieved at being allowed his own anger at last. ‘I’d already finished with Celine by the time I spoke to him about it. If he ever answered my calls, believe me, we’d have words.’

Outside, there was the roll of a car’s engine and a beep.

‘Look, Delia …’

‘What’s Celine’s last name?’ Delia said, to cut Paul off.

‘Roscoe. Why?’