to taking the sting away, to being all the family Paul needed.
‘Ah, it was a shitty thing. No question,’ Paul always said whenever it came up, rubbing his eye, looking down, partly embarrassed in the face of Delia’s lavish emotion, partly playing the wounded hero.
‘Who’s written lyrics like Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” in the last ten years?’ Paul continued now, still on modern music in the present day.
‘What’s the one about “that isn’t my name”? Na na na, they call me DYE-ANNE, that’s not my name …’
Paul made a sad face, and a gesture to the waiter for the bill.
‘You love playing the codger, despite being the biggest child I know,’ Delia said, and Paul rolled his eyes and patted her hand across the table. Kids. She imagined Paul as a father, and her heart gave a little squeeze.
They settled up and stepped out into the brisk chill of an early Newcastle summer evening.
‘Nightcap?’ Paul said, offering her the crook of his arm.
‘Can we go for a walk first?’ Delia said, taking it.
‘A walk?’ Paul said. ‘We’re not in one of those films you like with the parasols and people poking the fire. We’re going to walk to the pub.’
‘Come on! It’s our ten-year anniversary. Just onto the bridge and back.’
‘Oh no, c’mon. It’s too late. Another time.’
‘It won’t take long,’ she said, forcibly manoeuvring him onward, as Paul exhaled windily.
They set off in silence – Paul possibly resentful, Delia twanging with nerves as she wondered if this surprise was such a good idea after all.
‘What are we going to do when we get there?’ Paul said, with both humour and irritation in his voice.
‘Share a moment.’
‘I could be sharing the moment of being in a warm pub with a nice pint.’
Paul didn’t do showy romance or I love yous. (Delia had to ask him, months into their relationship. He blanked. ‘Why else did I ask you to move in?’ Because my lease was up on the other place? Delia had thought.)
Simple, self-evident, uncomplicated affection was all Delia needed, usually. Solidity and companionship mattered much more to her than bouquets or jewellery. Paul was her best friend – and that was more romantic than anything.
And she loved this city, with its handsome blocks of sandstone buildings, low skies, rich voices and friendly embrace. As she tottered down the steep street to the Quayside, breathing the fresher air near the river, clutching Paul’s arm to steady her, she knew she was in the right place, with the right person.
The sodium orange and yellow lights from the city tiger-striped the oil-black water of the Tyne as they arrived at the mouth of the Millennium Bridge. The thin bow, pulsing with different colour illuminations, was glowing red.
It felt like a sign. Red shoes, red hair, red bicycle. For some reason, the phrase date with destiny came into her head, which sounded like an Agatha Christie novel. There weren’t many people about, but enough that they weren’t alone. Whoops, why hadn’t Delia thought of that? All they needed was some persistent hanger-abouters and this plan would be sunk. But in this temperature, loitering on bridges at pushing nine o’clock was not a particularly popular choice.
She felt her heartbeat in her throat as they approached the midway point. The moment was arriving.
‘Do we have to walk the whole way or will this do?’ Paul said.
‘This’ll do,’ Delia said, disentangling herself from his arm. ‘Doesn’t the city look great from here?’
Paul scanned the view and smiled.
‘How pissed are you? Hang on, it’s not the time of the month? You’re not going to cry about that lame beggar seagull with one eye and one leg again? I told you, all seagulls are beggars.’
Delia laughed.
‘He was probably faking.’ Paul squeezed one eye closed and bent a leg behind him, speaking in a squeaky pitch. ‘Please give chips genewously to a disabled see-gal, lubbly lady. Mah situation is mos pitiable.’
Delia laughed harder. ‘What voice was that?’
‘A scam artist seagull voice.’
‘A Japanese scam artist seagull?’
‘Racist.’
They were both laughing. OK, he’d perked up. Deep breath. Go. It was stupid of her to be nervous, Delia thought: she and Paul had discussed the future. They’d lived together for nine years. It wasn’t like she was up the Eiffel Tower and out on a limb with a preening commitment-phobe, after a whirlwind courtship.
Paul started to grumble about the brass bollocks temperature and Delia needed to interrupt.
‘Paul,’ she said, turning to face him fully. ‘It’s our ten-year anniversary.’
‘Yes …?’ Paul said, for the first time noticing her sense of intent.
‘I love you. And you love me, I hope. We’re a great team …’
‘Yeah?’ Now he looked outright wary.
‘We’ve said we want to spend our lives together. So. Will you marry me?’
Pause. Paul, hands thrust in pockets, squinted over his coat collar.
‘Are you joking?’
Bad start.
‘No. I, Delia Moss, am asking you, Paul Rafferty, to marry me. Officially and formally.’
Paul looked … discomfited. That was the only word for it.
‘Aren’t I meant to ask you?’
‘Traditionally. But we’re not very traditional, and it’s the twenty-first century. We’re equal. Who made the rules? Why can’t I ask you?’
‘Shouldn’t you have a ring?’
Delia could see a stag-do group approaching over Paul’s shoulder, dressed as Gitmo inmates in orange jumpsuits. They wouldn’t have this privacy for long.
‘I know you don’t like wearing them so I thought I’d let you off that part. I’m going to get a ring though. I might’ve already chosen one. We can be so modern that I’ll pay for it!’
There was a small silence and Delia already knew this was not what she’d hoped or wanted it to be.
Paul stared
