It’s Not Me, It’s You. Mhairi McFarlane

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СКАЧАТЬ Aled added: ‘The Paris trip is incredibly stupid, I told him that.’

      ‘The what?’ Delia said, flat with dread.

      ‘Some plan, Cel— she – wanted him to go to Paris, to get over this. You have to talk to Paul about it. I’m sorry.’

      Aled sounded as if he’d have given anything not to have had this conversation now. How did he think Delia felt?

      Delia could only make a ‘Nmmm, hmmm, yep, bye’ sound before she ran to the undergrowth in the gardens by the office and retched black coffee and bile into the earth, hearing birds tweeting around her and the odd murmur from an onlooker.

      Somewhere behind her, a middle-aged woman said, ‘Monday afternoon! The amount students drink these days is disgusting, Stanley.’

      ‘I’ve got gastric flu, actually,’ Delia said, turning round, eyes pink, but the woman was shaking her head and walking away.

      Delia briefly contemplated pulling a sickie – she looked bad enough for even Ann to give her the afternoon off – then imagined going home and staring at four walls in her old box bedroom in Hexham. With her worried parents knowing she was psychically, not physically, ill.

      Delia repaired the damage as best she could, squinting into her compact with the sunlight behind her, and rootling out an Extra Strong mint to combat the vomit smell. She drifted back into the office like a pale wraith.

      Paul was going to Paris? Did he mean what he’d said about ending it, or did he simply feel he had to say it was her he wanted, when confronted?

      Delia had to now admit something else to herself. She’d always sensed she didn’t quite have his full attention. She doubted that Paul would have picked her out, or fought for her, or even been too cut up if she’d wobbled on her way in those red shoes, a few months down the line.

      Deciding to propose fitted a pattern she’d not wanted to examine until now. She had built a life around Paul, but he hadn’t moved an inch. The decorating told the story in microcosm: he was happy for her to get on with it, but that wasn’t the same as properly participating.

      He was a showman and a show off, and he was a little more in love with himself than he was with her.

      It would take something fairly startling to concentrate Delia’s mind on her work: a bomb scare, or Ann being pleasant. However, at not long after five o’clock, she got something startling enough. An email so strange, she started in her seat, and turned to scan the room behind her.

      From: [email protected]

       Are you looking for me?

       Ten

      It was one thing to search for someone who used the phrase ‘womble’s toboggan’ – Delia had to consult the Viz Profanisaurus on that one – in comments on newspaper message boards.

      It was entirely another thing to suddenly find yourself in the crosshairs of some sort of omniscient online troublemaker. The back of Delia’s neck grew cold and she shivered.

      She couldn’t think of any possible way this man (was it a man?) had found her. Yes, she’d been in the café, but how had he known she was looking for him? She’d not committed a single keystroke to discussing him online, so even if he’d hacked her email (and how would he do that?) there was no smoking gun. And how would s/he recognise her anyway?

      The principle of Occam’s Razor, Delia told herself; the simplest answer was usually the right one.

      So the Naan could be one of her colleagues, who’d overheard the briefing with Roger?

      Only thing was, there was surely no one in this office of long-servers and clocker-offers who had anything approaching that level of disrespect for their salary.

      I mean, was it polite Gavin, forty-three, who liked Dire Straits, wakeboarding, his kids, and hated his wife? Nope. Or maybe Jules, fifty-one – married, no kids, saving for a Greek Island hopping month off to celebrate her thirtieth wedding anniversary soon? Hardly.

      The idea they were firing up private email in office hours to endanger their income stream was downright crazy. And they certainly weren’t Viz readers.

      And yet. Peshwari Naan’s words glowed stark black and white in front of her. Delia could go straight to Roger with this email address evidence, and say ‘Voila, here’s a way to talk to him.’ But something stopped her, and she wasn’t sure what. Possibly pride. A little longer, and she might solve this mystery and produce a stellar result.

      After fifteen minutes internal debate, Delia opened a reply.

       Yes I am. How did you know I was looking for you?

      No reply, though she nervily hit refresh on her inbox every two minutes until it was time to go home. Home to Hexham.

      Her phone rang mere minutes after she left the office, and she realised Paul was watching the clock, anticipating her being free. She answered. They had to speak some time.

      ‘Delia, at last.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘To see if we can meet up.’

      ‘I don’t want to. We haven’t got anything to discuss.’

      ‘I understand how angry you are but I don’t agree that we don’t have anything to talk about.’

      ‘Like Paris, you mean?’

      There was a rewarding moment of stunned silence, then Paul muttered:

      ‘Jesus, Aled, you absolute twat.’ Louder: ‘Yes, Paris, we can talk about that. How I’m not going. I’ve finished with Celine.’

      ‘Sorry to hear. Hope you’re both OK. Hugs.’

      Paul sounded shocked, and Delia wondered how small a mouse she must’ve been in this relationship for him to not expect this depth of fury and hurt at him sleeping with another woman. Did he think she’d sling the Le Creuset set about a bit, sob, and then eventually allow him to put his strong arms around her? She felt more like committing a blunt trauma head injury with the cast-iron casserole dish.

      ‘I know you need time. I’m here if you want to talk,’ Paul said.

      ‘You seem to assume I’m coming back, one time or another.’

      ‘I’m not assuming anything! I’m letting you know what’s happened and where I stand. Glad I did, given Aled’s obviously not a reliable go-between.’

      So winning, so plausible, so very Paul. The Paul who’d lied through his teeth. What had Aled said? ‘I told him Paris was a stupid idea.’ It sounded as if Paul had initially told Aled he’d considered going, even if he’d rejected it later.

      ‘Aled said he’d had to talk you out of it.’

      ‘That’s … ! What? I’m so angry at Aled for this. I can only think he blurted and then СКАЧАТЬ