I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  Well, Natasha, that would be none. Zero fucking ideas.

  ‘Hmm, let me see.’ I open my notepad and flick through, hoping that something will jump out at me. There’s the number Rose gave me for a painter and decorator, a reminder to buy Grace new pants and something scrawled in what looks like Farsi . . . Shit. I’m going to have to think on my feet.

  ‘There’s a new dating website for single parents. I thought that—’

  ‘Lead time too long.’

  ‘OK, well, I could talk about past boyfriends and compare—’

  ‘Boring.’

  Rude. ‘Or I could discuss pornography and—’

  ‘You did the whole porn debate when Cameron decided to bring in the new parental control filters. Anything else? You know that the Standard have that new columnist now. Her stuff isn’t as funny as yours used to be, but it’s doing well.’

  USED TO BE? I stare blankly at my notebook and hear her give a big sigh. Oh fuck, I hate it when she sighs. Think, Cat, THINK! I could infiltrate a neo-Nazi gang? I could dabble in tantric sex . . . but I’d need a partner for that. Unlikely. Argh! I need to come up with something right now, before she sighs again. In my panic, I hold up The Rules of Engagement.

  ‘OR I could do this book. I could do a weekly column where I follow these rules.’

  Oh NO! Stop talking. What am I saying? Maybe she didn’t hear me. Maybe she’ll hate the idea. Maybe—

  ‘I love that idea! “I Followed the Rules”. It has a nice ring to it.’

  Fuck. Just. Fuck.

  She stands up and smiles. ‘Great idea, Cat. Be funny, be enthusiastic and please be ready with a seven-­hundred-word intro piece by Thursday to replace that bloody cat dirge.’

  Seven hundred? That’s double my usual word count. I want to argue but I have nothing to bargain with, so I bite my tongue and agree this one time. As I return to my desk, I try not to make eye contact with Leanne, who’s bursting to know what happened.

  ‘Is everything OK, Cat?’

  ‘Not really. I’m now following these rules for my column and IT WAS MY IDEA. How did this happen?’

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea!’

  ‘I blame you.’

  She laughs. ‘I can live with that. Who knows – you might even meet someone.’

  ‘Anyway, I have seven hundred words to write for this week, so I’m ignoring you now, Leanne.’ I take a deep breath, open the book and start reading:

  RULE 1 – Stand Out from the Crowd

  There are millions of women in the world he could have; what makes you so special?

  One line in and I already hate this man. I continue down the page.

  Let’s get one thing straight. Men notice women. We’re not blind, but we are picky. We notice everything about you, from your hair to your glasses to your breasts, all the way down to your shoes. We don’t all have the same type, and naturally what one man considers ugly another will consider beautiful. This isn’t a book that will tell you that you have to look like a certain stereotype or cliché; this is a book that will empower you to stop acting like one. This book will also encourage you to forget everything you thought you knew about dating and men and relationships. You’ll be the one in control; he just won’t realize it.

  When it comes to getting serious about a woman, we’re looking for something unique. We want to date someone who exudes a quiet confidence, who stands out from the crowd. For example, there are millions of thin, blonde women wearing fake tan and clothes from Topshop. Or you geeky girls with the thick glasses and 1940s dress sense – you’re hardly original any more; what makes you special? And don’t start going on about personality – first visual impressions are everything. If we’re not attracted to you, we won’t ask you out and we’ll never know how smart and funny you might be.

  His tips, which will apparently help me stand out from the crowd, include: avoiding being one of those tittering, vacant girls; exploiting my femininity through hair flipping and skirt wearing and, most importantly, maintaining an air of aloofness but without being a prick about it. Never at any point does he say, ‘Hey, be yourself!’ because apparently being yourself is the reason you’re still single – a comforting thought.

  I move on to Rule 2, which is subtly called ‘If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get’. This must be what Leanne was going on about.

  If you ask a guy out and he has nothing better to do, chances are he’ll say yes. This doesn’t mean that he actually wanted to go out with you; it just means he’s not busy. But if you let him do the chasing, you can be confident that this man is completely interested in you and not just passing the time until someone better comes along.

  As stated previously, men will notice you – it’s up to you how this happens. I don’t advise making it obvious that you want to be noticed – nothing screams desperation more than a woman staring at a man like it’s dinnertime. Make your presence known, but if he doesn’t approach you, he’s either not available or he’s not interested. Learn this truth quickly and your life will be a lot easier.

  Bemused, I close the book.

  I find it hard to believe that this stuff actually works, but after a bit of research I seem to be the only one who doubts its effectiveness: of 2312 reviews on Amazon, 2300 are ‘four star or above’, with comments like, ‘Good 4 single ladiez!’, ‘Arrived just in time’ and ‘Finally something that works!’

  There are some one-star cynics, to which of course I’m naturally drawn: ‘Utter nonsense’, ‘The author of this book should be shot’ and ‘FORGET FEMINISM, ABANDON COMMON SENSE AND BE PREPARED TO LOSE YOUR DIGNITY.’

  But, horrifyingly, the general consensus is that the majority of readers are now happily attached thanks to The Rules of Engagement.

  For now, I decide to keep an open mind. That said, when it comes to writing my column, I know I’m going to find it very hard to keep my snark in check.

  The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 11 October 2014

  Can dating books really change your love life?

  Glasgow Girl’s about to find out . . .

  I FOLLOWED THE RULES

  Chapter Six

  Kerry buries her face in the magazine and laughs loudly. We’re having a rare Saturday lunch together and she’s insisting on reading my column aloud, as if I don’t already know what it says.

  The Scottish author using the cringeworthy pseudonym ‘Guy Wright’ explains that there are certain rules I should be sticking to when attempting to find a man who’s also in the market for live music, romantic strolls and eventual genital contact, followed by fighting, marriage, apathy, hair loss and death.

  ‘Oh my God, this is so wrong. How are you ever going to manage this? One rule per week, or what?’

  ‘Well, there are ten rules and each applies to certain points in the relationship, so I guess I’ll just hope the first few work, then wing it.’

  She stops at a point halfway down the page. ‘“Be unique”? What the fuck does that even mean? You’d better not become one of those pricks who knits their own pubes into a hat and sells it on Etsy.’

  ‘It means I have to “stand out from the crowd” so that I can be noticed by one of the seventeen single men who still fucking exist in Glasgow—’

  ‘Sixteen,’ Kerry interrupts. ‘Masood from my work just started seeing someone.’

  ‘I don’t even know who that is, but I feel cheated.’

  Kerry snorts and continues reading.

  Making eye contact is a no-no. This isn’t a job interview. I’m supposed to look anywhere and everywhere else, ensuring my gaze doesn’t meet his, otherwise he’ll assume I’m desperate to have his babies and drag him down the aisle, brazenly eyeballing him as I do so.

  She looks genuinely confused. ‘So how will you know if he’s noticed you?’

  ‘Because he’ll approach me and propose right there and
then. Besides, I plan to set my limbs on fire and do star jumps – it’ll be impossible not to notice me.’

  Finally she closes the magazine. ‘I have no idea how you’re going to do this with a straight face, but it’s going to be HILARIOUS. I cannot wait to read the next one.’

  If Kerry of all people is reacting like this, then I imagine a lot of readers are. Natasha will be thrilled.

  I get up from her brand-new cream John Lewis kitchen table and switch on the kettle. The flat Kerry shares with Kieran isn’t huge, but you can tell it’s owned by two people who really have their shit together. Everything matches, everything is clean and nothing is out of place. You can also tell that it’s not inhabited by any children; otherwise this beautiful kitchen table would be covered in snot and crayon stickmen.

  ‘Well, following the rules of engagement can’t be worse than whatever I’m unsuccessfully doing at the moment,’ I say, taking a mug from the draining board. ‘You want coffee?’

  ‘No, ta, but you can grab me a Diet Coke from the fridge. Maybe it’ll actually work. Maybe this time next year you’ll be happily attached and shamefully pregnant out of wedlock.’

  ‘Well, one can dream.’

  She smiles and glances at her wrist. ‘Shit, it’s quarter past three. I’m going to have to throw you out soon. I’m getting my hair coloured at four.’

  ‘That’s OK; Peter’s bringing Grace back to mine anyway. Are you staying brown or changing it to something weirder?’ Kerry’s hair has been every shade imaginable, including some colours that don’t technically exist.

  ‘I’m keeping the brown for now. As much as I’m tempted to get bright white streaks, I think I’m getting a bit old for all that now.’

  ‘I don’t think many accountants have fashion colours in their hair anyway.’

  She glares at me. ‘I work in finance; this does not make me an accountant. And the correct answer is: “You’re not old, Kerry. You can have fun hair if you like, Kerry. I LOVE YOU, KERRY.”’

  I pour my tea, then hand her an ice-cold Coke from the fridge. ‘Of course you’re not old! Thirty-five is the new twenty-five. We’re both in our prime.’

  ‘Really? So how come you’re so set in your ways? When was the last time you went a bit wild?’

  I think for a moment. ‘I slept naked the other night. Totally in the buff. Does that count?’

  ‘Not if you were alone, no.’

  ‘Look, I’m raising a child on my own. If I get wild, social services gets called in. Anyway, I thrive on my strict routine; it’s the only thing keeping me sane. I’ll consider getting a life when Grace leaves home.’ God, I hope Grace never leaves home, but I’m not admitting that to someone who has made it clear on several occasions that she doesn’t understand the need for children.

  We leave at quarter to four and I drop Kerry at ‘Logan and Cross’, the only salon in Glasgow she considers worthy to touch her hair. I carry on home, all the time wondering how on earth I’m going to successfully follow this book.

  A quick stop at Tesco for snacks and I’m home. I open a packet of pistachio nuts and sit silently on the couch, shelling them one by one while staring at the black cover with the gold lettering. Finally I open the book and read Rules 1 and 2 again. The main points seem to be: don’t be too forward, eager, giggly or chatty. Basically, be restrained. If the author isn’t secretly a presenter from a 1940s ­public-information film, I’ll be surprised.

  My darling daughter arrives home at five with tales of swimming pools and ladybirds, but Peter remains quiet, barely making eye contact. Maybe he’s following the fucking rules of engagement too.

  Grace eats some cold tuna pasta for dinner and we spend the evening watching a film about talking dogs before she falls asleep on my lap. Really, someone should warn you that you’ll be forced to watch some of the worst films ever made when you become a parent.

  I help her through to my bed and carefully put on her nightdress, hoping she won’t suddenly spring back into life and demand to stay up. She doesn’t. She snuggles under the covers and I lie down beside her, hoping to have five minutes of calm without the pressure of planning what I’m going to do about these bloody rules. It doesn’t work. The dark room is soothing but the words ‘Stop making the first move’ fizz around in my head, until a realization comes to me. In every single long-term relationship I’ve had, I’ve been the one who made the first move. And not one of them has lasted. Lewis – the boy from university, who used to kiss my neck and make me feel like I was floating, dumped me for a girl with huge tits; Michael – the man who could never commit to anything; and finally Peter – the man who broke my heart the hardest but who helped me create the most incredible little girl. I met them, I approached them, I loved them and I lost them. Would I still be in a relationship if I’d waited to be asked out? Would I have had any relationships at all? Is the author on to something with this?

  Feelings of failure begin to rise and I get up and march back through to the kitchen. I stand at the fridge, drink some orange juice directly from the carton and attempt to pull myself together, reminding myself that the ramblings of some lunatic writer aren’t true just because he and several thousand others said so.

  Although I’m too young to remember him, Mum always said that Dad pursued her for ages. She said that he was very handsome, but handsome men weren’t to be trusted and it was weeks before she finally agreed to go out with him. They got married one cold October day at a registry office after she found out she was pregnant with Helen. Four years later, I came along. Then, on my first birthday, he went to work and never came home. We haven’t seen him since, but Helen did some digging and apparently he now lives in Spain with his third wife, Jennifer. He never had any more children, probably because he didn’t even want the ones he already had.

  If anything, this proves that most relationships fail anyway, regardless of who makes the first move. I rarely think about my dad – it makes me think of how hard Mum’s life was, and although it’s been ten years since her accident, I still miss her terribly. I know she would have loved Grace.

  I place the orange juice back in the fridge and wipe a tear from my cheek. Fuck night-time; I’m never this morose during the day. I’ll think about this rule thing tomorrow. It’s only ten thirty but I’m exhausted, so I pull on an old T-shirt and climb back in beside Grace, who is now starfishing the bed and snoring soundly. I kiss her forehead and cuddle in, ignoring the sound of the text message coming through on my phone. Right now there’s nothing I need more than this cuddle.

  *

  We get up at eight and she dances bare-arsed to ‘YMCA’ on Wii Party while I make us some eggs and toast. I draw smiley faces on the boiled eggs and cut the toast into soldiers, feeling like a shining example of motherhood. Setting the table, I call her through to eat.

  ‘Aren’t you going to put some pants on?’

  She nods. ‘Someday. I want breakfast first. You don’t need pants for breakfast. Or for Sundays.’

  ‘Which egg do you want?’

  She carefully examines each face before pointing to the one on the right. ‘That one. The one that looks like Dad.’

  ‘Does it?’ I turn it around and, true enough, staring back at me, is a small, soft-boiled Peter. I examine the other one. It looks like Clint Eastwood. I have no idea what goes on in my head sometimes.

  ‘Good choice,’ I reply, and watch with a strange delight as she scalps it.

  After breakfast I dump the dishes in the sink and take my tea over to the couch to check my phone while Grace plays. There are two texts from last night, both from Rose:

  22.45: Want to take the kids to the park tomorrow?

  23.20: Y U NO ANSWER ME?

  I giggle and press the green Call button. There’s a sleepy ‘Hello?’ from the other end.

  ‘Hi, Rose. I went to bed early. I wasn’t ignoring you.’

  ‘I fig
ured. You up for the park? I need some company.’

  ‘Yeah, why don’t we take some lunch and head to Rouken Glen? I’ll drive.’

  I arrange to pick them up at noon and tell Grace that we’re spending the afternoon at the park.

  ‘Do we have to go with Jason?’ she asks, scrunching up her face. ‘He says I’m a crybaby. He’s the crybaby. I cried because I hurt my knee. He cried when the lunch lady gave him peas.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of his pea phobia. Boys can be silly at this age, Grace; it does get better. And you like him most of the time. Just try and play nicely.’

  She sighs and continues dancing while I get her clothes from her bedroom, feeling bad that I just lied to her. Boys don’t get better with age; they just get taller.

  After arriving at Rouken Glen and then driving around for ten minutes, we finally manage to park near the exit. We make our way towards the swing park, and while the kids play we try to find a picnic table, but it seems every person on the south side of Glasgow has decided to spend their Sunday here too. Eventually we spy a nice spot near a tree and lay out the blanket Rose has thankfully thought to bring. She’s also brought crustless sandwiches, cucumber slices, dips, olives, snacks, water and cups. Me? I’ve brought three Kinder Eggs, a bottle of something that resembles piss, a multipack of beef Monster Munch, some brown bananas and one napkin for the four of us.

  ‘Should we call them over?’ I ask Rose, stuffing a Monster Munch in my mouth.

  ‘They can see where we are. They’ll be over when they’re hungry.’

  We stretch out on the blanket, soaking up the sun like two pasty sponges. Rose sits up and nudges me, lowering her sunglasses.

  ‘Do you see that man playing football with his kid?’

  I look around. There are quite a few dads playing football with their kids. ‘Narrow it down, Rose.’