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her. She certainly couldn’t have sat there with them and run double books. And condolences-wise, she wouldn’t have limped in with a text, days after the fact, either. It would’ve been bringing a bottle and a box of pastries, and swearing, like a proper friend.

      Delia avoided looking round the house, and bolted up the stairs. She heaved the largest trolley case out of the wardrobe, the dark blue one with the hummingbirds on it that Paul complained made him look unmanly in the arrivals and departures hall. A notional unmanliness, as they never went abroad. Parsnip’s infirmity and the pub were powerful draws to stay home.

      What should she pack? Delia started flinging underwear and clothes into the case. Had she really left her job? Had the Paul shock made her manic? Was she going against the advice she’d heard more than once, about not making any major decisions in the first six months after a life-changing event?

      The front door banged and gave her a thunderclap of the heart. Paul was home, chatting to Parsnip. She heard their dog yap and do his usual three revolutions, chasing his own tail, before settling in his basket. Parsnip didn’t so much sit down as let his legs collapse underneath him.

      Delia paused over the suitcase. She knew Paul was staring at her discarded pink coat.

      ‘Delia? Dee?’ he shouted up the stairs.

      She zipped the case and heaved it off the bed, her work bag on her shoulder. Along with everything she had in Hexham, this would do for now.

      She pulled it along the first-floor landing as Paul bounded halfway up the stairs.

      ‘Delia,’ he said, line of sight dropping to the suitcase as he eyed her through the banister spindles.

      He looked tired, with a shaving cut on his chin. He was wearing that grey John Smedley jumper that Delia bought him to match his grey eyes, but he wouldn’t win any brownie points because of it.

      ‘You’re going to Hexham for longer?’

      It was strange – Delia realised she hadn’t definitely decided, until that moment. Seeing Paul standing there, she knew she had to leave Newcastle. There were so few certainties now, Delia had to rely on the rare convictions she had. She surprised herself with her resolve.

      ‘I’m going to London.’

      ‘What? For the weekend?’

      ‘For the foreseeable future. I’m going to stay with Emma.’

      ‘How long have you got off work?’

      ‘I’ve left my job.’

      ‘What?’

      Paul’s aghast expression was sour satisfaction. She could do surprises too.

      ‘How come? Are you OK?’

      ‘Because I got told off for how I run social media and participate in team-building events, and I needed to leave anyway. I haven’t been OK since our anniversary.’

      Delia left her luggage trolley for the bathroom raid, filling a toiletry bag with jars and tubes. Paul and his confusion loitered behind her.

      ‘Do you not think we should talk before you move to the other end of the country indefinitely?’

      ‘Do you?’ Delia said. ‘Is there new information?’

      She zipped up the vinyl flowery wash bag, then did a mental inventory: favourite dresses, liquid eyeliner, laptop. Those were the can’t-live-without essentials, she could buy anything else.

      ‘We’ve been together ten years, yes, I think there is more to talk about.’

      ‘So, talk,’ Delia said. ‘I’m going to call a taxi.’

      She produced her mobile and booked one for ‘as soon as possible’ while Paul frowned.

      ‘Come downstairs while you wait for it?’ Paul said.

      Before she could stop him, he’d darted round, got hold of her trolley case and bumped it down the staircase, standing it upright in the hall.

      Delia followed him and bent down to pet Parsnip in his basket, making it quick so she didn’t cry. She kissed the top of his head, rubbed his ears and inhaled his biscuity smell. He blinked baleful chocolate eyes and did what passed for a wonky Parsnip smile, before resuming snoring. Paul would take good care of him in the interim, she still trusted him that much.

      ‘Are you leaving for good?’ Paul asked, once Delia had made it clear she wouldn’t be sitting down.

      ‘I’m leaving for a while. I don’t know how long,’ Delia said.

      ‘Does this mean you don’t want to stay together?’

      ‘All I know is, I can’t live here with you for the time being.’

      ‘… OK. Can I call you from time to time?’

      ‘You still have my number.’

      ‘You’ll be looking for work in London?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You’ll probably be there for a while, then.’

      Delia simply shrugged.

      ‘Can I ask you some questions?’ she said, after a short pause.

      Paul nodded.

      ‘When did you start seeing Celine?’

      Paul coloured, instantly. ‘As in a date …? I don’t know …’

      ‘You went on a date?’ Delia said, to increase the discomfort, folding her arms.

      ‘No. I mean as in, the day it started.’

      ‘Was it before February this year?’

      Paul frowned. ‘No …?’

      ‘Later, then?’

      ‘Yeah. Like I said, about three months ago.’

      ‘You bought a Valentine’s card. I saw it, and you never gave it to me.’

      Paul frowned. ‘You saw one before you were meant to, so I had to buy another one. You still got one.’

      ‘You never buy me Valentines’ cards.’

      ‘I know. It being the twentieth anniversary with my parents … it made me more sentimental than usual.’

      If he was invoking his parents’ death to get Delia to back down, it was the most craven gambit imaginable. If he wasn’t? Delia’s former feelings finally stirred.

      ‘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

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