‘Well, it depends, Helen – dinner with you or dinner with someone you’re secretly trying to set me up with?’
‘Just me and Adam. Thought it might be nice! No set-ups.’ Her mouth is saying one thing, but her face is telling a different story: the story of a woman who is lying through her fucking teeth. But it’s now nearly eleven, and if I don’t get some planning done I’ll be behind schedule. I unenthusiastically agree to dinner and usher her out of the door, knowing full well that next Wednesday I’ll be sitting opposite the next serial killer my sister thinks would be perfect for me.
I tear a sheet of paper from my notepad, open The Rules of Engagement and scribble some notes on how I’m going to approach this. It’s tough – most of the rules only apply if I actually have a man to use them on – so I’m still stuck at square one.
I finish around midnight and crawl into bed. Although I’m completely exhausted, my brain is working overtime. I have three days to come up with something on the rules of engagement for Saturday’s column, which means I’m just going to have to suck it up and get my arse out there, however embarrassing. I could make something up . . . but Natasha can spot a bullshit story a mile off. It’s hard enough meeting men when you have all the time in the world; how the fuck am I supposed to do it on a deadline?
*
The next evening I find myself staring blankly into my fridge, wondering what the hell to make us for dinner. I watch Masterchef religiously, I should be able to do this shit but I’m clueless.
Grace has already decided that pizza is the only food she will eat this evening and after surveying the limited options on offer (tomato puree, two eggs, three slices of ham, margarine and a garlic bulb that’s been there for at least a year), I have to agree with her. I call Domino’s for a medium pepperoni and a side of wedges, insisting they use low-fat cheese like it actually makes any difference. I then set the table and begin to write a shopping list entitled ‘Healthy as Fuck’, to make up for the shit I’m about to let my child shovel into her mouth.
I tip the pizza girl – her car looks as if it’s being held together by rust and hope – while Grace runs through with the pizza and starts without me.
She’s already peeling back the lid of the free dip when I sit down beside her. ‘Do you have homework tonight?’ I ask, watching her rearrange the pepperoni into a face.
‘Just reading.’
I wipe my mouth on some kitchen roll. ‘Do you need any help with it?’
‘Can Dad do it? He helped me last time. He did a really funny reading voice. Maybe I’ll just keep it for tomorrow, when I see him.’
Stuff like this kills me. When Grace was born, I never thought that one day Peter’s help would be conditional, depending on which day of the week it was. Why couldn’t we get our shit together long enough to give her a normal family life?
‘That’s fine, honey,’ I say, taking my plate to the sink. ‘Listen, if you don’t have anything else to do, why don’t we go and get some shopping?’
‘No way. I’d rather die.’
‘Don’t say that. Well, I need to go, and I can’t leave you here.’
‘I’ll go to Aunt Helen’s. Anywhere but the shops.’
I call to make sure Helen’s home, then send Grace over with the last of the pizza, promising to pick up some prawns for Adam and a magazine for Grace.
As I drive towards the supermarket a thought occurs to me: single men have to eat too. I could use my food shop as an opportunity to be seen by men, who will no doubt be overcome with desire as I wheel around my shopping trolley and seductively compare the prices of loo rolls. This could work.
I park near the entrance and take a look at myself in the mirror, immediately wishing that I hadn’t bothered: skin dry and pale, mascara crumbling, pores open. All I need is a bed and a priest standing over me shouting, ‘THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!’
Applying the emergency lipstick I keep in the glove compartment, I pinch my cheeks, hoping to look less like a corpse, and head towards the trolley park. Naturally I grab the wonkiest trolley and push it into Sainsbury’s, going over the main rules of engagement in my head (Be confident. Make sure they notice me) and casually saunter into the fruit-and-vegetable section.
Feeling like some sort of predator, I stalk slowly up and down the aisle, trying to spot any lone men. I have a sudden vision of my future self, spying on men through bunches of bananas and tell myself to get a grip before I’m spotted by security. Even though it’s seven thirty on a Tuesday evening, the only men I see are two pensioners and one tired-looking, wedding-ring-wearing dad with three unhappy children; the youngest is stupidly cute and my ovaries do a little happy dance. I remember what Grace was like at that age. I miss that.
I leave my broodiness beside the iceberg lettuce and move on to the chilled goods, where I spot an attractive man lifting a vat of milk with one strong arm. I wheel myself closer for a better look, but then remember that I’m supposed to be inconspicuous. I turn to the side, but now all I can see is cheese. My internal shouting voice becomes louder. HOW IS IT POSSIBLE TO SEE THINGS I’M NOT LOOKING DIRECTLY AT? I’m not a fucking bird.
So I decide to just walk past him. Twice. My rapid side-eye captures enough to let me know that he’s mid-thirties, slightly greying and fit as hell. Of course, I have no idea if he’s also seen me, and now I’m a woman walking back and forth near some cheese. He heads off to the checkout and I return to my trolley, feeling like an absolute maniac but strangely proud of myself for sticking to the plan.
I continue making my way up and down each aisle pretending to shop, occasionally stopping next to men who, unsurprisingly, don’t ask me out there and then. I flip my hair. Nothing. I resist the urge to corner them all with my trolley and shout, ‘I HAVE FLIPPED MY FUCKING HAIR. WHAT MORE DO YOU MEN WANT?’ It has become apparent that these men either find me hideous, are already seeing someone . . . or perhaps just don’t think it’s appropriate to pick women up in supermarkets.
I’ve had enough. I throw some prawns in my trolley, grab the first magazine I see with a free toy and walk towards the checkouts, bumping trolleys with a striking man in a dark blue suit. I smile at him and say sorry. But before he can reply, I tut loudly, abandon my trolley and storm off – I’ve just broken a rule (no speaking first) and ruined any chance I had of marrying him.
I return home empty-handed and tell Helen and Grace that the shop was closed. A stern glare lets Helen know not to question this obvious lie.
Back in the flat, I turn on some music, throw myself face first into a pillow and scream. I’m so frustrated. Not only do I still not have anything funny to say in my column, but I also don’t have any fucking food in the fridge. I feel sorry for women who follow these stupid rules for months on end while the author, Guy Wright, lies back and makes cash angels on massive piles of money. What kind of lazy pseudonym is that anyway? That in itself is reason enough not to take the man seriously.
*
On Wednesday I spend the afternoon finishing off some articles for the Lowdown and a freelance blog post for a property website (‘How to make moving day run smoothly’), as well as being ignored by everyone who works for Gerard Butler and shouting at Heisenberg when he tries to claw my sofa to death. The only thing left to write is my dating column, and I have no idea what to say. I wonder if perhaps I should have buckled down and made more of a serious go at doing these stupid rules. As it is, I’m deleting words as fast as I can write them:
Things haven’t gone very well this week . . .
This week I set out to find my true love . . .
Glasgow Girl thinks Guy Wright is a little scrote . . .
This is useless. I shut my laptop, rest my head on the back of the couch and stare at my overpriced pink-and-silver butterfly lampshade from Debenhams, the one Peter wouldn’t let me get because he said it was childish and weird. Of course it was the first thing I boug
ht to furnish the flat after we split because, well, fuck him. To be honest, I haven’t really looked at it properly in years and I can kind of see his point, but I’d never tell him that. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so stubborn, but not half as much as I wish that my neighbour upstairs would take her fucking shoes off before walking around.
*
The Wednesday-evening schedule runs smoothly – Grace goes to Peter’s house, I take the car to the car wash, successfully purchase our weekly shopping (not a man in sight) and watch a little television before applying my new Clinique night cream and going to bed. I might be soft and fragrance-free, but I’m bored as fuck. If Helen hadn’t been busy tonight, I know I could have at least gone over and shared a bottle of wine. But no, I’ve chosen to stay in and be the old fart I swore I’d never become. My boring, ordinary routine is starting to make me ordinary too. I bet Emo Emma’s not ordinary . . . Maybe she’s the extraordinary type Guy Wright was referring to. I bet she’s a pungi-playing, cock-charming high priestess with a fucking magical vagina. Ugh, piss off, Wednesday evening and your quest to take me to the dark side. I’m not playing. I turn off the light and try not to panic at the fact I still have no column for the weekend. I really do need to start making things happen.
Chapter Eight
‘I’m going to spend today being noticed. I’m going to look nice and smell nice and just walk around Glasgow, letting my enigmatic yet approachable vibes wash over all who notice me. Kerry? Are you there?’
It’s 8 a.m. and I’ve woken Kerry up on her day off to take my very important call. I can picture her talking to me with her eyes half shut and her hair covering most of her face.
‘I’m here,’ she replies, before yawning loudly in my ear on purpose. ‘Kieran is too – in fact he’s waving at you with his middle finger as we speak.’
‘Yes, I’m aware it’s early. I just had to tell someone my plan so that I’d actually go through with it and not bottle it in favour of watching Criminal Minds.’
‘Right. So where are you going to be noticed?’
‘Does it matter?’
She snorts. ‘Course it does. There are areas in Glasgow where you do not want to be noticed, Cat. If I were you, I’d stick to the Southside or the West End.’
‘You’re such a snob!’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think you’re going to meet the man of your dreams outside Poundworld on Sauchiehall Street. And won’t most men worth dating be at work on a Friday afternoon?’
She has a point. ‘Fine, I’ll jump on the underground to Byres Road and do a cafe crawl at lunchtime. Men have to leave their desks to have lunch. I’ll get them when they’re hungry.’
There’s no reply. I’m pretty sure she’s gone back to sleep, but I hold on for a second, just to make sure.
‘Kerry?’
Still nothing.
I hang up the phone and shrug.
I lay out a pretty yet understated summer dress and yellow cardigan, then take a long, hot shower. The radio on the windowsill plays the censored version of ‘Starships’ by Nicki Minaj, but I add in the swear words with as much delight as if I was fourteen years old. After I’ve dried and curled the ends of my hair, I copy a Jennifer Aniston make-up tutorial on YouTube. Not my proudest moment, but the results are pretty good, and with that I’m ready to go. I feel like I’ve spent all morning excitedly getting ready for a date I haven’t been invited on yet. I decide that after my half-arsed attempts in both the park and the supermarket, I’ll give it one more chance before I declare the entire experiment a waste of time and invite women of the world to publicly burn this book.
Following The Rules of Engagement on the underground is extremely easy, as I never make eye contact anyway. It’s just not tube etiquette. As I sit down, I catch a glimpse of the man sitting across from me and kick myself for picking a seat opposite a man with the coolest afro I’ve ever seen. Afros make me happy. I want to look at it. And touch it. And then congratulate him on his amazing hair. I so want to fucking smile at him using all of my face, but I don’t because he’s a man and Guy Wright specifically forbids the disgusting forwardness of women smiling at men. I continue staring at the advertising banners above his head, and two stops later he (and his hair) walk out of my life forever.
Emerging from Hillhead underground, I resist the urge to acknowledge a guy walking past with his baby in a papoose. Instead I lower my eyes and grin at the baby like a hormonal loon. The baby notices me. Ha, I’m fucking brilliant at this. The baby starts to cry. I speedily set off in the direction of anywhere that wailing baby can’t see me.
My plan is to start at Ashton Lane, one of the trendier spots in Glasgow, then work my way down Byres Road, all the way to the next station on Dumbarton Road, with a stream of men following me like I’m the Pied Piper. That, or I’ll have consumed too much coffee and it will be a stream of piss and shame trailing behind me.
I wobble up the cobbled backstreet of Ashton Lane, regretting my choice of wedged sandals, and head into Jinty McGinty’s Bar. I figure I’ll order a cappuccino, sit down and hopefully attract the attention of someone who isn’t a nineteen-year-old student from the nearby university, which might be a long shot. It’s an older crowd inside – small groups in booths and geriatric regulars – propping up the bar, so I take my coffee outside to the huge beer garden around the back of the pub. It’s lunchtime and it’s mobbed with people who all look younger than me. I spot a couple leaving and grab their table, thankful that I won’t have to stand there in front of everyone, awkwardly holding a hot cup or, worse, trying to sit gracefully on the grass.
I take out my phone; a missed call from Kerry and a text from Peter, which I feel obligated to look at in case something’s wrong:
Where is that purple dress we bought Grace last year?
I was right to check – something is wrong: Grace’s dad has finally lost the plot. Last year? He seems to forget that, unlike him, children are unable to wear an item of clothing from the previous year, what with all the growing they selfishly do. Maybe he thinks I sold it to pay for Botox. Maybe Emma wants to wear it for the wedding. Maybe he does? Who knows?
I calmly reply: I’m guessing it stopped fitting her and went to live in a charity shop. Before you ask, I don’t have the shoes you bought her in 2008 either. Busy. See Grace at 5.
I turn my phone off and try to relax. I’m here to meet someone new, not be reminded that I once thought I was compatible with a dress-hunting pharmacist who sits down to pee.
I drink my coffee slowly – I’m aware that getting up to order something else from the bar will result in the loss of my table – but I spend so long nursing it, it goes cold and I’m forced to push it to one side. Moments later I see a man walking towards me and nonchalantly look somewhere else so he doesn’t think I give a crap (even though I do). He’s coming right towards me; I can feel him looking at me. Oh fuck, is this rules of engagement shit actually working?
Be calm, Cat. Act like this sort of thing happens all the time. WAH, HE’S STANDING BESIDE ME.
‘Hi. Is this seat taken?’ His strong Geordie accent is rather charming.
I glance at him (nice jeans, dodgy belt, yuck – T-shirt tucked in, but when he loves me I’ll tell him to stop doing that) and then at the wooden stool before casually replying, ‘No. It’s free.’ I run my hand through my hair, waiting for him to sit down.
He utters a quick, ‘Thank you,’ lifts the stool and takes it over to a table where his girlfriend is already sitting. Oh fucking hell! Now I’m just the woman on her own, with a cold coffee and no extra seat. I feel like walking over, giving them my handbag and yelling – ‘TAKE IT. NOW I HAVE NOTHING. ARE YOU HAPPY?’
I decide to move on from Jinty’s and try somewhere else, away from Ashton Lane. It’s only T-shirt-tucking wankers that go there anyway.
I head back to Byres Road and spot my next cafe across the street. I carefully cros
s the busy road – being pulled from under the wheels of a bus is not the type of attention I’m after.
As soon as I step foot in the first cafe, my heart sinks. It’s full of women – specifically four middle-class women huddled in a booth to my left, each clutching a paperback copy of Eat, Pray, Love. It’s an afternoon book group. Who the fuck has a book group in the middle of a weekday afternoon?
To the right of me there are four tables, one occupied by a woman who’s having a pot of tea alone but is dressed to impress in navy and white. I fear we might both be on the same pointless dating quest. I peek around the side of the counter to see if there’s a hidden back room, but no, just three more empty tables, a large rubber plant and the door to the gents’ toilets. I consider looking in there, but before I take that drastic step, a server asks what she can get me.
‘White coffee, please.’
‘Sure. Large?’
‘No, just a regular, thanks.’
‘Can I get you any cookies, cakes or pastries?’
Oh, sure. In fact, give me all of them and I’ll be the girl sitting alone stuffing her fat face while teapot lady remains elegantly cake-less and crumb-free.
‘No, thanks, just the coffee.’
‘I’ll bring it over.’
Common sense tells me to take my coffee to go, but I hesitate. What if my next boyfriend walks in and I’m not here to dazzle him? I make a point of sitting where I’m plainly visible to everyone (men) who walks in, but it’s still close enough to the book group to hear their discussion on Eat, Pray, Love, which means I get coffee and free entertainment. I lean in to listen:
‘I’d seen the movie before I read it, and to be honest I don’t remember Julia Roberts being so self-absorbed in the movie,’ says the one in the scarlet top. She has cappuccino foam on her lip and no one has told her.
‘I agree,’ replies the woman in black next to her. The rest wait expectantly, but she doesn’t say anything else; instead she clears her throat and folds her napkin into the shape of (amazingly) a much smaller napkin. The third woman chimes in.
I Followed the Rules Page 7
