I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean him personally but, you know, physic­ally he’s my type. Blond. Tall. Toned. Looks good in tight trousers. Remember this for next time. Actually, fuck that, there won’t be a next time. I trust you both with my life, but to find me a boyfriend? Never again. You’re off the case.’

  I see Helen glance at Adam and I know that it’ll be a cold day in hell before she lets that happen. I quickly change the subject. ‘Shall I just leave Grace to sleep here then?’

  Helen nods. ‘She wanted to stay here anyway. We didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow. Go and have a nice evening and I’ll send her over after breakfast. Your cat is here, by the way.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Good. If he’s here, then he’s not hiding under my bed, waiting to attack my bare feet. I swear that cat hates me – actually he hates everyone, except Grace. He adores her.’

  ‘We all do.’ Helen smiles. ‘She’s a pleasure.’

  Grace is also very fond of both Helen and Adam, so I shouldn’t grumble as much as I do. They’re such a big help, but sometimes I wish that my very lovely flat wasn’t directly across the hall from theirs. Helen flounces in and out of my place whenever she feels like it – moving shit around and disturbing me when I’m trying to work – but whenever I need her to look after Grace, she’s there and I’m grateful. Peter would rather stick his cock in a blender than help me with additional babysitting.

  I place my cup in the sink and say my goodnights. It’s only quarter to ten, but I’m already planning a long, deep bath followed by a gin and tonic and a Hitchcock film. Before I leave, I quietly creep into Grace’s room. The sound of her contented breathing makes my horrendous evening feel much less grim. In the gloom, I see Heisenberg curled up in a white ball beside Grace’s head, guarding over her as he does every evening. I gently move him out of the way and he makes a low growling sound, to which I respond with a similarly hushed, ‘Shut your furry face.’ Sweeping her blonde curls from her face, I lightly kiss her cheek and breathe in her unique smell. She smells beautiful – I can’t help myself; I do it again. She stirs.

  ‘MUM. Stop it. I can feel your nose-breath on my ear . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Grace-face. Just wanted to kiss you goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, Mum. We’re making pancakes for breakfast.’

  ‘Amazing! Go back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m going to have jam on mine.’

  ‘Night night, Grace.’

  ‘If you could be any kind of bear, what would it be?’

  ‘A polar bear. Now go to sleep.’

  ‘Night, Mum. Oh, before you go, Uncle Adam farted in the living room and it smelled like doom.’

  ‘Go back to sleep!’ I laugh, and turn to leave.

  She giggles and pulls me back, throwing her arms around me before cuddling up to her teddy and falling back asleep in record time. I close the door behind me, throwing a last ‘fuck you’ look to the devil cat still staring at me through the dark, and then make my way back to my flat, grateful to have the rest of the evening to myself. Unlocking the heavy wooden door, I walk inside . . . followed by Helen.

  ‘I need a word,’ she whispers, pushing me into the living room.

  ‘What has Adam done now?’ I ask, draping my favourite green coat over a chair. ‘Is this about his farting?’

  She frowns. ‘This isn’t about Adam. It’s about Peter.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. I was winding you up when I said he was my type.’

  ‘You don’t still have feelings for him, do you?’

  ‘No way! He’s Grace’s dad. That’s all. I’m so over all that now.’

  ‘I really hope so, because he’s getting married.’

  I stared at her for a moment in disbelief. ‘What? Fuck off. How do you know this?’ I can feel my face begin to drain of what little colour it has, and my lip starts to tremble. Jesus, I think I’m going to cry.

  ‘Melanie at work is friends with Emma. She texted me a couple of hours ago.’

  I sit down on the arm of the couch and shrug. I’m determined to be grown-up about this. After all, Emma, Peter’s girlfriend, is a nice woman, and despite her ‘mistress of the dark’ exterior, she’s good with Grace. ‘Well, they’ve been together long enough. I guess it was just a matter of time. I wonder when he’ll tell me. He’s going to savour every bloody moment, isn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he is. Well, I’m surprised you’re taking this so well. I remember how gutted you were when you asked him to marry you and he said no.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for bringing that up.’

  ‘Don’t be so touchy. Look, are you sure you’re all right with this?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. Helen can tell it’s not the truth, but tonight at least she doesn’t make me admit it. She kisses me on the forehead instead and says, ‘Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Chin up.’

  ‘Oh, it’s up. My chin has been up since I left him. It’s so . . . up.’

  Neither of us is entirely sure where I’m going with this, but she smiles and backs out of the room, leaving me standing there mouthing the word ‘chin’ to myself.

  After a couple of minutes I decide that standing alone in my living room staring at the wall probably isn’t the best use of my time, so I run a bath and get undressed. I walk naked through to Grace’s room and grab her bunny iPod speakers, hoping that a few tracks from Regina Spektor will make everything all right again. I submerge myself in warm soapy water and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.

  By the time ‘Samson’ has finished, I want to fucking drown myself. Not only is he getting married, but he’s going to rub my lonely, single face right in it.

  By eleven, I’m wearing the panda onesie Grace gave me for Christmas, have chosen my film and am pouring myself a Baileys on ice in the kitchen. I saunter back through to the living room; drink in one hand, the other pulling at my onesie, which is riding up my arse at an alarming rate. I plonk myself down on the couch and hit Play on Netflix just as my phone starts to ring.

  Withheld number. I hate that.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. How did the date go?’

  ‘Kerry? Why is your number withheld? I nearly didn’t answer.’

  ‘I’m being fucking mysterious. And on Kieran’s phone. He’s gone to bed so I’m using his phone and drinking all his beer. Tell me how it went.’

  My friend Kerry met graphic designer Kieran Nelson in Kelvingrove Art Gallery six years ago when she spotted him wandering around with his fly open and light-­heartedly threatened to call security. They’ve been together ever since, and if she wasn’t my very best friend in the whole world I’d challenge her to a duel for his hand in marriage.

  ‘The date? I’m already trying to forget it. Not only was he insanely unattractive and sweaty, but he was also rude, pompous and probably a Tory.’

  ‘Oh dear God. Sorry to hear that. I was hoping you’d at least have found someone shag-worthy.’ I hear her take a swig from her beer bottle and then softly burp.

  ‘Yeah, that would have been nice. The last time I had sex, science wasn’t even a real thing.’ I laugh, feeling nothing but self-pity and contempt for my own, dust-gathering vagina.

  ‘So when was the last time?’

  ‘On the floor of my living room with engaged Kevin.’ I throw a look of disgust at my laminate flooring. ‘Not particularly memorable.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replies. ‘You shagged that guy after your work Christmas party . . . What was his name?’

  One of the worst sexual encounters of my life flashes before my eyes. I flinch.

  ‘Jesus, don’t you forget anything I do? Ugh. Chris.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘Kerry, being jackhammered by someone with a small cock who works on the fish counter at Asda doesn’t count as a shag.’
/>   ‘OK, well what about the solicitor who finger—’

  ‘Kerry! There’s a reason I mentally delete these events and I’d advise you to do the same.’

  ‘Never. When you eventually get married, I’ll need some stories for my maid-of-honour speech. You want to come over and help me finish this beer? Or bring more?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m just out the bath. I have Baileys and I’m in a rotten mood. And speaking of marriage, Peter’s taking the plunge.’

  I hear her splutter on her beer.

  ‘WHAT? Married?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’

  ‘To “Elvira”? When?’

  ‘I have no idea when the big day is. Helen found out – he hasn’t told me yet.’

  ‘TWAT.’

  ‘Isn’t he just? He better tell me first. This is a big deal for Grace, whether she realizes it yet or not. She’s going to have a fucking stepmum.’

  We both remain silent for a moment and I finish my drink. I can feel my sadness rising again and I sigh loudly.

  ‘You OK?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Are you shaking your head?’

  I nod. I want to punch the wall but I’m afraid it’ll hurt, so I whack a scatter cushion before demanding, ‘How is this remotely fair? He’s found someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and I’m still alone?’

  ‘Listen, don’t let him get to you, and don’t get bitter about this. I’ve known you since Primary Three – you’re better than that. It’s not a competition. You’ll meet someone. I promise.’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘There is no “what if”. He’s getting married and you’re on a different path right now. Just take a moment to feel sorry for Emma. Bow your head in sympathy for the woman who will be legally bound to Peter Anderson until death or an expensive divorce.’

  I laugh and start to feel better about everything – well, except this onesie, which now seems to have entered my colon. ‘You’re right. I’m going to watch Rear Window and forget about this for the evening.’

  ‘You should watch The Corpse Bride. Remind you of anyone?’

  ‘Ha, I’m going now. Speak soon.’ I continue laughing after she hangs up, then refill my drink and settle down on my white corner couch, glaring at the massive chocolate stain that Grace obviously made and failed to tell me about.

  Dear God, I hope it’s chocolate.

  Chapter Three

  I wake up at half past eight to the sound of Grace and Adam heading out to the shops. I hear Grace chuckle when Adam asks her if she wants to drive, then the front door closes with the kind of bang only a hyper child can produce. The sun streams directly into my eyes like laser beams through my Ikea blinds and I snuggle back down, pulling my lemon-yellow covers over my head, promising myself some new blackout curtains when I get paid. And maybe a blackout room. I need my sleep.

  Knowing I have at least half an hour before Grace is back and all hell breaks loose, I let my hand wander between my legs, grateful to have some me time, but then Chris the fish man pops into my head and my hand retreats like my pubic region is on fire. Bugger, now I’m reliving every bad one-night stand, including the DJ who dribbled on my face in 1998 and the lawyer who sniffed my dirty underwear when he thought I wasn’t looking. I try and shake the images off and start again, but once my phone starts to ring it’s clear that my ménage à une is ruined for good. I don’t have to check who it’s from; there’s only one person whose assigned ringtone is ‘Loser’ by Beck. I grab my phone off my bedside table. Better get this over with.

  ‘Hello, Peter.’

  ‘Hi, Catriona. I wanted to have a quick word.’

  When we were together he called me Cat. Now he uses my full name like a disapproving parent. ‘OK . . .’ I reply, knowing full well that he’s calling to tell me he’s getting married. I prop myself up on my pillow, take a deep breath and close my eyes.

  ‘It’s about Grace. We’ve noticed she seems to be very tired when she’s here. At bedtime she’s exhausted.’

  I exhale. ‘. . . What?’

  ‘I said that we’ve noticed—’

  ‘You’re calling to tell me that Grace gets tired at bed-time?’

  No mention of the engagement.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. Wait – no, not like that. We’ve just noticed she seems unusually tired when you bring her round to us.’

  I pause and roll my eyes so far back in my head I can practically see my own brain cells depleting with frustration. Why does he insist on doing this? He calls up for no fucking reason, asking pointless things that could easily be discussed when I drop Grace off. I sigh heavily. ‘Interesting. Maybe I’m working her too hard, but that chimney won’t clean itself!’

  ‘Now you’re just being facetious.’

  ‘Peter, unless she’s coming down with something, I’m guessing she’s tired because she goes at a million miles an hour all day.’

  ‘Maybe, but we’ve noticed this a couple of times and we’re concerned.’

  I start to giggle. Since Peter got together with Emma, he’s seemingly become unable to think for himself. Every­thing is ‘we’, and I’m sure it’s his way of reminding me that I now have two fuckwits to contend with instead of just one. To be honest though, I have no beef with Emma, despite the fact she’s stupidly tall with black hair and Goth make-up, the complete opposite of my five-foot three-inch blondeness. I try to avoid black, unless it’s for an evening dress or underwear. I’ll never understand all that Gothic nonsense – YOU WATCHED THE CRAFT AS A TEENAGER. WE GET IT. Put some blusher on and cheer the fuck up. I guess she probably feels the same about my taste for retro clothing (but she’d be wrong).

  I decide to end the call as quickly as possible. It’s too early for this shit and I’m peeved that my tiny window for self-love has been slammed shut. So I pretend that I have another call coming in. ‘Grace is fine, Peter. I have someone else on the line, so I have to go. I’ll drop her across at two this afternoon as usual. Anything else you need to tell me?’

  ‘No. We’ll see Grace at two’.

  He doesn’t know I’m giving him the middle finger as he hangs up, but it makes me feel better anyway. I throw my phone on the bedside table and pull the covers over my face to muffle my screams of annoyance. Quite frankly, I’d rather start my day being water-boarded than engage in an early-morning conversation with Peter.

  I lie in bed for ten more minutes until I hear the paperboy shredding the weekend Tribune through the main-door letter box. It’s clear that the universe is conspiring against my downtime. Admitting defeat, I get up and yawn like a Munch painting.

  Plonking myself down at my dressing table, I tie my hair back with one of Grace’s pink scrunchies before carefully examining my face for signs of decomposition. It appears to be wrinkle free, but I’m at the age now where random lines sometimes creep up on me while I sleep, and this scares the shit out of me. My skincare regime is pretty standard: cleanse, tone and moisturize with whatever is on offer at Boots. It takes me five minutes while my coffee machine makes my morning cup of conscious, and this morning is no different. Two cups later, I’m dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with a copy of the Scottish Tribune in front of me and a croissant shoved sideways into my mouth. Putting the main paper to one side, I open the Lowdown magazine and scan my Glasgow Girl column:

  Recently I’ve been considering online dating, but it all seems rather bleak. After I’ve placed my advert stating that I have unruly hair, enjoy short walks into oncoming traffic and that I’m looking for a man who owns a tank and knows all the lyrics to ‘The Safety Dance’, what then? If someone miraculously responds to my pathetic need for human contact and affection, we’ll probably arrange to meet up and I’ll have to pray that he looks like his photographs. But in reality he won’t – no one ever does.

  I skim down the rest of t
he column, then check that my editorial on stupidly expensive face creams and my interview with David Tennant are also present and correct before closing the pages, feeling entirely smug that I actually get paid for doing this. Things could have been very different.

  2010

  ‘Any news on the job front yet? Your redundancy pay must be running low by now.’

  I glance over at Helen and shake my head. Sometimes she sounds more like Mum than Mum ever did. ‘Nope. That magazine said they’d let me know, but that was two weeks ago.’

  ‘What magazine?’

  ‘The new weekend magazine that’s starting . . . remember? Part of the Scottish Tribune?’

  Helen’s looking at me like this is brand-new information. In fact, she’s looking at me like she isn’t quite sure who I am or why I’m in her house.

  ‘Editor wanted fresh new voices . . . had the interview last week . . . you drove me there . . . seriously? You don’t remember?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replies, but it’s clear she doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about, so she changes the subject. ‘By the way, Cat, they’re looking for someone at the university. Canteen staff. Don’t think the pay is great, but it’s something and you’d get the school holidays off. Want me to get you an application form?’

  My heart sinks, but I nod and tell her that would be great. As much as I’d kill for that job at the Tribune, I’m aware that my experience is limited; I was only at the South Side News for a year before it closed, so my chances of getting this are slim at best . . . but I’m a good writer! I’m sure of this. I try to imagine myself serving chips and cheese to booze-soaked students at the same university I once studied at to get my journalism degree and I want to have a little cry.

  Helen frowns. I see her dark brown eyes narrow as she tries to second-guess what I’m thinking. ‘There’s nothing wrong with canteen work, Catriona. A job’s a job.’

  ‘Jesus, Helen, I didn’t say there was! I know I can’t afford to be too selective about where my income comes from, but unless I start making some decent money, I’m never going to be able to move out of my shitty rented flat. I need to aim high!’