I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘You can still aim high while you’re putting food on the table. You’re thirty-one now and competing with writers much younger than you, who will work for pennies. Maybe it’s time to do something else? You can always move in here with me and Adam and save on—’

  ‘Stop right there,’ I interrupt. ‘I love you both dearly, but Grace and I need our own space, however vile it is. And I’m well aware of my position on the food chain, thank you very much. I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Anyway, the offer is there. You really should consider it.’

  I nod, but there’s no way in hell I’m moving in with my sister. I didn’t get away from one control freak to move in with another.

  At quarter to two I leave Helen’s flat and make my way to Grace’s nursery school to collect her. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to Hillcross Family Centre, but the cold, unforgiving rain is stinging my face and making my jeans stick to my freezing thighs. It’s days like this when I miss my old blue Honda, but the five hundred pounds I sold it for came in handy for food and bills. I pull up my hood and keep my head down.

  Hillcross Family Centre is a charming council-run nursery, staffed entirely by women of various ages and temperaments, with the exception of John – a nursery nurse in his twenties who delights the children and confuses the parents, simply by being male. The head of the nursery, Mrs Woods, is a passionate woman with a penchant for ponchos, dancing and coral lipstick and has taken a particular shine to Grace, it seems.

  ‘Your daughter is wonderful, Cat: one of my favourites.’

  ‘That’s nice. Are you allowed to have favourites?’

  ‘Probably not, but I can’t help it. She’s a darling. Calls gravity “grabbity”, which actually makes sense when you think about it.’

  There’s already a group of mothers huddled at the doors as I arrive. I spot Rose hanging back from the pack, standing under a massive yellow umbrella, and head towards her for shelter.

  ‘Hi, Cat!’ She moves over and lets me under, being careful not to poke me in the face with the spokes. ‘I’m just standing here thinking how much I fucking hate everything.’

  I love Rose. She’s very funny, swears like a trooper and although she loves her son to death, she despises everything about motherhood. I met her on the first day of nursery and we instantly clicked.

  ‘Everything?!’ I grin.

  ‘Yeah, pretty much. I especially hate this routine. Same fucking thing every day. And Jason’s being so difficult at the moment; threw a fit last night at dinner because the peas on his plate were too small. THEY’RE FUCKING PEAS. I didn’t sign up for this shit. And he refused to come to nursery yesterday without his Barbie doll; went ape-shit when the teacher wouldn’t let him bring it into class, in case it got lost.’

  ‘Aww, they all have a thing at this age,’ I attempt to console her, desperately trying to think of something weird that Grace does, but my mind’s a blank. So I tell her the ‘grabbity’ story and hope for the best.

  ‘Ugh, your child is normal.’ Rose smirks. ‘Go and stand over there with the perfect parents.’

  I laugh and look over at the three flawlessly groomed women waiting impatiently at the main entrance. Janice, Patricia and Anne-Marie are the kind of mothers Rose dislikes with a passion, and I can see why. They’re mean, they’re pushy and, astonishingly, they’re actually far more judgemental than Rose and I combined.

  At last count they had at least twelve kids between them. They also have two Range Rovers, three sense-of-humour bypasses, a pug called Barnaby, at least one Weight Watchers Silver Star award and numerous ways of bragging how exceptional their completely average children are. Like on sports day. The leader of the little group, Anne-Marie’s son Ben, came third behind two girls in the egg-and-spoon race. Ben screamed. Then he threw a fit and his hard-boiled egg at his teacher. Anne-Marie wasn’t happy either.

  ‘That’s outrageous! Ben’s an excellent athlete – that race was entirely unfair. Ben’s egg was clearly bigger than everyone else’s. I’m not even sure it was a hen’s egg.’

  The nursery bell rings loudly, almost drowning out the sound of my phone. I scarper to the back of the queue to answer while they begin letting parents in. It’s the Scottish Tribune. My heart leaps into my mouth as I answer.

  ‘It’s Natasha here. We’d like to formally offer you the job.’

  Three minutes later, everyone else is inside but I’m still outside in the playground – punching the air like it’s 1985.

  *

  I finish my coffee just as Grace rushes through the door, back from her errand with Adam and swigging from a tiny bottle of fresh orange. The house instantly becomes alive when she’s here.

  ‘Hello, my darling! Did you get your pancakes this morning?’

  ‘Yup. Aunt Helen tried to make one that looked like Mickey Mouse, but I heard Uncle Adam say it looked like a willy, so she made me a normal round one instead.’

  ‘Oh . . . right then.’

  She pauses for a moment, tiny hands on tiny hips. ‘Why don’t girls have willies? Why do we have a bagina? Is it so we can sit down to pee?’

  ‘It’s a vagina, and it’s a bit early to be discussing bottoms and peeing, Grace. Can we talk about it after I’m dressed?’

  As I walk through to the bedroom and take off my dressing gown, I hear her shout, ‘Mum, Daddy sits down to pee sometimes. I saw him. He calls it a “sit-down-wee”.’

  ‘Tell him to close the door when he’s in the toilet,’ I reply, pulling on jeans that should have been thrown in the wash a week ago. ‘That’s a private thing.’

  Her little face appears round my bedroom door. ‘But I’ve seen you pee a gazillion times. And he does close the door but I go in anyway.’

  This is true. I haven’t been able to take a piss on my own since 2007. Or shower. These private moments seem to be when Grace invariably decides she wants to tell me something very important, or announce that she can’t find a toy or, y’know, just talk nonsense and show me some dance moves. Part of me is secretly pleased that Peter isn’t getting let off the hook either – that he might get a small insight into what it’s like to never get a minute to yourself.

  ‘OK, I’m getting dressed now. Why don’t you go and watch telly before we go to the farmers’ market? Grace, what are you laughing at?’

  ‘Your boobs are massive. Will I have the same ones when I’m older?’

  ‘Well, you’ll have your own boobs, but not these exact ones; they’re not heirlooms. Now go and play for ten minutes.’

  Mercifully she doesn’t ask what an heirloom is and skips back into the living room. I hear the opening credits to Monster High blasting out as I search for a pair of socks in the massive ironing pile that’s slowly taking over the corner of my bedroom, cursing my inability to successfully cope with any kind of household chore. In my twenties, I truly believed that by the time I hit thirty I’d be wealthy enough to pay someone to clean my house while I was at work. Now I just look forward to the day I can teach Grace to vacuum.

  Finally I’m dressed and Grace and I leave for the farmers’ market, held on the last Saturday of every month and responsible for my newfound love of sourdough bread. Before I had Grace, Saturday mornings were used to sleep off Friday night’s hangover. Now they’re spent admiring home-made jam and root veg, while my childless friends have morning sex and booze-induced amnesia. I can guarantee that, right now, Kerry won’t even be aware that it’s morning.

  We cross the street and walk along the side of the park, where tennis lessons have already begun, dogs are being walked and joggers look far too motivated for their own good.

  It’s quieter than usual this morning so I take my time sampling cheese and chutney from a woman in a shawl while Grace hops from one foot to the other, excitedly deciding which cake du jour looks worthy of her tiny mouth. Despite my occasional longing for a life less ­ordinary,
I only have to look at Grace to know that I have everything that matters right here: my amazing child and an artisan bread stall.

  ‘The fruit looks good, Grace. Why don’t you get some pears? You like pears.’

  ‘I do like pears Mum, but ONLY A CRAZY PERSON WOULD BUY PEARS WITH THEIR POCKET MONEY. I want a treat.’

  ‘Fruit is nature’s treat,’ I reply quietly, knowing that this battle has already been lost. She gives me a pity look and continues hopping. She’s right of course. Who the fuck would spend their pocket money on fruit? It’s the weekend. When did I become such a joyless bastard?

  Eventually she chooses some scones and jam to take to her dad’s house before spotting her friend Caron and running off towards the swings to play. I walk quickly behind, one eye on her and the other on anyone who looks like they might be a child-snatching nutcase.

  The park is quite busy so I sit on a bench and watch Grace and Caron play. She waves at me from the top of the climbing frame and I wave back, desperately trying not to be the lone overprotective mother who shrieks, ‘OH MY GOD! BE CAREFUL!! PEOPLE HAVE DIED FROM DOING CLIMBING!’ every time their kid climbs something higher than the kerb. I look elsewhere to distract myself.

  There are three dads at the park this morning, and I swiftly rate them in order of attractiveness. The guy attempting to climb on the see-saw with his daughter is immediately ruled out for wearing turquoise skinny jeans so tight he can barely lift his leg over the seat. The second dad has the most handsome face of the three but doesn’t make it to the top of my list; he’s far too clean cut and so is his son – you can tell they’ve both been dressed by his wife, who’s probably at home cleaning the house with undiluted bleach and a mouth full of Valium. So today’s winner is dad number three, a tall man with enough stubble to strike a match on and a lumberjack shirt that would look better on me. His baby daughter is wearing odd shoes though, which leads me to believe he’s either very tired or an idiot.

  Twenty minutes later, a rather rosy-faced Grace plonks herself down beside me on the bench and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Can we go now?’ She sniffs.

  ‘Do you need a tissue?’ I ask, rummaging around in my bag.

  ‘No, I’m fine now.’ The snot trail on her sleeve is making me gag.

  ‘Next time, get a tissue, please,’ I say, gathering up our market bags. ‘That’s really gross.’

  She grins. ‘It was an emergency. It was running down my face. Liam Kirk from school always has snotters running down his face and it’s disgusting. He also told the teacher she was the b-word.’

  ‘He sounds wonderful. Please stay away from him.’

  ‘I don’t play with him. He plays with Joseph McKenzie. Joseph’s the one who brought a dead bee to school and kept it in his pocket.’

  We walk back towards the house and she takes my hand as we cross the road. Apart from her cuddles, that’s my favourite thing in the whole world; I know she’s safe when her hand is in mine. It makes me sad that one day she’ll probably rather cut her own hand off than hold mine in public. Sometimes I wish she’d stay this age forever.

  At two I drive Grace over to Peter’s house, or rather our old house that Peter never left and which is now also home to Emma and her vast collection of black eyeliner, crushed velvet and New Rock boots. Their beady eyes met on the 7pm Edinburgh Waverly to Glasgow Central train and three months later she moved in. It still stuns me that she’s his type. Maybe she always was, and perhaps I was never his type in the first place. I ring the doorbell and kiss Grace goodbye just as the door opens, hoping for a quick escape.

  ‘See you tomorrow, honey. Have a great time!’

  ‘Bye, Mum. Hi, Dad, I brought scones!’ she chirps, and makes her way down the hall, which has recently been painted a delightful shade of brown, instead of the lovely ivory colour it used to be. But I don’t live there any more; they can do what they like. They can paint the entire house in glowing dog shit for all I care.

  I quickly focus back on Peter and pretend I haven’t noticed the hall or that he seems to be growing a goatee. A really patchy goatee. He’s starting to look like that character from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. What’s his name?

  ‘Don’t let her eat all of those scones.’ I laugh, not because it’s funny but BECAUSE OF THE BEARD. Oh, what’s that character’s name?!

  ‘I won’t,’ he replies. ‘I can’t guarantee the same for me though. How are you?’

  I’m always suspicious when he makes conversation that doesn’t start with the phrase ‘We’re concerned about . . .’

  ‘Um, I’m fine. Bye then. Have a nice evening.’

  (Got it! Tumnus. Mr Tumnus.)

  ‘We will. We’re taking Grace to the cinema later.’

  My mouth says, ‘How lovely,’ but my brain is shouting, ‘GET BACK IN THE FUCKING WARDROBE, TUMNUS!!’

  I’m now too far gone with thoughts of Narnia and ­Turkish-delight jokes so I mumble my final goodbyes and hurry back to the car. I wonder if he’ll shave his beard off for their wedding. I wonder when he’ll tell me he’s getting married.

  Chapter Four

  I get back to the house and throw myself down on the couch. On the weekends I try to catch up on housework, as when Grace is here with me she can destroy a room quicker than I can tidy it. Eventually I move my arse off the sofa, feed Heisenberg, open Grace’s window so he can go outside and then prepare to clean. If nothing else, it’ll help me forget that bloody awful date from last night.

  I shuffle the music tracks on my phone, put my headphones on and begin tidying up to the soothing sounds of the Chemical Brothers. I couldn’t endure the pain of housework without tunes. Helen regularly tells me my musical tastes are ridiculous:

  ‘You’re thirty-six and listening to dance music. You’re not Jo Whiley, you know.’

  ‘I listen to all sorts of music, Helen: pop, disco, dance . . . just because it’s not Michael bloody Bublé or whatever—’

  ‘Stop right there. Michael Bublé is a god. A GOD. I won’t hear a word against him.’

  ‘I have no idea how we’re related.’

  I start hoovering just as Donna Summer announcing that she ‘feels love’ is rudely interrupted by a call coming through on my phone. It’s Rose.

  ‘Jason is making me take him to soft play. Fancy bringing Grace? I cannot tolerate that fucking place alone.’

  ‘Ah shit, I’ve just dropped her at Peter’s house. Sorry, love – otherwise you know I would.’

  ‘DAMMIT, now I’m going to have to endure other ­people’s children by myself for two hours.’

  I feel for her. There’s nothing worse than other people’s children.

  ‘Take some trashy magazines, have a coffee and snarl at anyone who comes near you. Y’know – what you usually do.’

  She snorts. ‘I know. It’s just more fun when you’re there. What you up to anyway?’

  ‘Bugger all, but I’m fine with that. I’m exhausted.’

  ‘You should get out and about! You need a man. Preferably one who works away a lot and brings you diamonds when he comes back.’

  ‘Like Jason’s dad?’ I ask, knowing the answer already. ‘Two weeks on the rigs and two weeks at home?’

  ‘Ha, all Rob brings me back is washing. But he isn’t around long enough to get on my tits, so it works for me. Anyway, enjoy your weekend and see you next week!’

  She hangs up first and I get back to cleaning with her words swimming around in my skull – ‘You need a man.’ Technically I don’t need a man; I’m an independent single woman, successfully raising a very clever, witty child and paying my way in the world. That said, I’m pretty tired of living a passionless existence; I do crave company and laughter and impulsive sex and, well, any kind of sex really. I miss the kind of intimacy I haven’t had since Peter – the kind that feels like a security blanket that’s per­manently
wrapped around you. I miss knowing I’m loved.

  So, no, I don’t need a man . . . but sometimes I sure as fuck want one.

  *

  It’s nearly seven in the evening on Sunday by the time Peter brings Grace home. I see that she’s got pasta sauce on her chin, which means he’s already fed her. It saves me cooking an hour later than planned so I’m not complaining.

  ‘Did you have a nice time, my darling?’ I barely get my question out before—

  ‘I’M GOING TO BE A FLOWER GIRL!’ she screams at me, almost bursting with excitement. He’s told her.

  I look at Peter. I raise my eyebrows. He looks at the ground.

  I pretend I’m surprised, because Peter discovering I have inside knowledge of his life isn’t worth the hassle. I even smile, despite the fact that I feel numb about the whole thing.

  ‘That’s wonderful, darling. Why don’t you go inside while I have a quick word with Dad?’

  She skips into her room, saying hello to the cat, and I close the front door a little.

  ‘Congratulations, Peter.’ I smile unconvincingly. ‘Don’t you think you should have discussed this with me first? It’s a big deal for Grace too.’

  ‘I don’t have to discuss anything with you. I wanted to tell my daughter first.’

  ‘Our daughter, Pete – our daughter. Don’t pretend that you wouldn’t react the same way if the tables were turned.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  He looks like a nine-year-old who’s being told off, but like any nine-year-old he’s determined to remain defiant as fuck. He can never just admit when he’s wrong.

  ‘Look, I have to get inside. All I’m saying is a heads-up would have been nice. It’s a big deal.’

  ‘For Grace? Or for you? Feeling a little bit jealous?’

  ‘I’m not even dignifying that, you arrogant shit. Who do you think you are? Go away.’

  ‘Thought so,’ he says with a smirk.

  And with that he walks back down the path and gets into his car while I breathe the word ‘bastard’ after him. It still makes me sad that someone I once loved very much now feels nothing but contempt for me. The man I thought I’d spend my whole life with is now a stranger to me, and behind my anger I can’t help but feel wounded.