I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Well, I loved it. It was wonderfully written escapism and the closest I’ll get to living in Italy or Bali. Some of it could have been written specifically for me, what with my recent divorce. It made me ask myself some pretty deep questions. What did you think, Claudia?’ Divorced woman turns her head to look at the last member of the group, who’s been slowly stirring her frothy coffee since the discussion began.

  ‘Well, Louise, I thought it was awful.’

  Louise sighs. ‘Oh really. Honestly, the first book I pick and you’re all dismissing it. It’s sold over eight million copies! Would you care to expand, Claudia?’

  Claudia places her teaspoon on her saucer and smiles. ‘Yes, Lou, I would. Let me see . . . I got halfway through and began to question my own existence as it made me want to fucking kill myself because I’ll never be able to unread it. But then I remembered I’d have to come here and relive the whole pasta-eating, God-bothering, inner-peace-finding bullshit with you three! I actually typed “I WOULD LIKE TO DIE NOW” in capital letters on Bing. Not even Google. BING!’

  I actually liked that book, but now I like Claudia even more. The rest of the women are just staring at her. Louise looks annoyed. The woman in the scarlet top with the cappuccino moustache is grinning.

  Claudia redirects her rage towards the woman dressed in black. ‘You didn’t even read this, did you, Sarah? Come on – what did you read?’

  ‘I did read it!’ Sarah protests.

  Claudia narrows her eyes. ‘What did you read, Sarah?’

  ‘. . . Doctor Sleep.’

  ‘Oh, fuck this.’

  I’m transfixed. Even the waitress is pretending to clean the table next to me so she can listen in. Unfortunately however, from the way Claudia is gathering up her carrier bags, it looks like she’s decided to leave. She does, without saying a word to anyone. This is the best book group EVER. The rest of the women continue chatting like nothing has happened. I turn my attention back to my rapidly cooling coffee, wondering if anyone with an Adam’s apple is ever going to walk in, but they already have. In fact, while I was so busy pretending not to listen to Claudia’s hilarious meltdown, a man has come in, bought a coffee and is now sitting beside teapot lady. The right side of my brain tells me that it’s likely she knows him, but the left side is insisting that HE CHOSE HER OVER ME. Regardless, I’m not staying here any longer. Time to move on.

  I carry on down Byres Road, one sandalled foot in front of the other, shoulders back, determined to give this one last go before I get the tube back to where I’ve parked my car. I feel down but not out. Finally I’m making a real effort to meet men and I shall not be defeated. But unfortunately the weather has other plans. The gentle breeze that greeted me when I came off the train has now turned into a level-five hurricane, blowing my dress and hair in the same upwards direction, so I dart into the first pub I see and head for the ladies’.

  After washing my hands with bright green soap I glance in the mirror and laugh out loud. My hair is ridiculous; my look has gone from cafe crawl to saloon brawl. My once perfectly styled curls are now snake-like tangles – if this was ancient Greece, I’d expect to be beheaded by Perseus at some point soon. Opening my bag, I take my comb and try to salvage my hair, even attempting to smooth it under the geriatric hand dryer while hanging on to the crumbling wall to my right, but it’s too late. My heart and my hair are no longer up to the task of finding my soulmate. I sigh and head back into the bar.

  Downhearted, I order a small orange juice and sit by the window, waiting for the wind to die down. I’m intently watching a man chase his hat across the street when I’m tapped on the shoulder.

  ‘Penny for ’em?’

  A ruddy-faced man, early forties, with a pint in his hand, is towering over me. Christ, he’s tall – at least six foot five, built like a rugby player, and possibly three sheets to the wind.

  ‘I’m Harry,’ he announces, and without being asked, Half-cut Harry plonks himself in the seat beside me, exhaling loudly and blocking my view of the hat-chasing man. I stare at him in disbelief.

  I’m aware that I have two options. I can tell Harry that he hasn’t been invited to sit down and therefore off he must fuck, or I can take advantage of the fact that I have now been approached (albeit by an actual giant) and take this opportunity to practise some of Guy Wright’s rules for being aloof, mysterious and restrained. I decide on the latter; I’m determined this day won’t be an entire waste.

  ‘Have you got a name then?’ he asks, playing with a beer mat.

  ‘Catriona.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. I’d get you a drink, but you already have one.’

  I stretch out my fingers and inspect my nails. ‘It’s fine. I’m leaving after this one anyway.’

  Aloof badge earned.

  ‘Not working today? I’m on a half-day. I work in insurance. What about you?’ He lets out a long, beery belch.

  ‘No, I don’t work in insurance.’

  ‘No, I mean, what do you do for a living?’

  ‘This and that.’

  And the cagey-as-fuck award goes to . . .

  He takes a long drink from his pint and his hand wanders down to adjust his crotch. ‘Not very chatty, are you, sweetheart?’

  Call me sweetheart again and I will end you.

  ‘It appears not.’

  Oh sweet lord, this is just painful. Am I even doing it right? I’m actually grateful that the man of my dreams isn’t sat opposite me, because I’m coming across as a total arsehole. Luckily for me, I suspect giant Harry is an arsehole too so I’m not overly concerned with what he thinks. He unashamedly stares at my tits for a second, then leans in and says, ‘So what’s a decent-looking bird like you doing in here?’

  I refuse to put up with this shit. I need to cut this short, even if it means sabotaging my first proper rules-based encounter. He is just too vile. I finish my orange juice and politely tell Harry that I’m leaving, to which he replies, ‘Stuck-up cow.’ It’s then that I forfeit my medal for being restrained and raise my voice to a level known as ‘shouty’.

  ‘Listen, you sexist prick. For future reference – you don’t sit down at a table unless you’re invited, you don’t say sweetheart and penny for ’em unless you’re in a fucking Dickens novel, and if you’re going to chat someone up, make sure your nose is clean.’

  And with that I exit the pub and hail a taxi to take me back to my car. Today was a waste of time. Had I not been following this book, I’m pretty sure I’d have been able to use my eyes to spot potential single men and maybe even have been charming enough to get them to have coffee with me, possibly dinner at the weekend. Instead I’ve wasted an entire afternoon not looking directly at men, before being approached by huge Harry and his amazing interpersonal skills. Is it going to be like this every time I try to meet a guy? Women meet men every single day, going about their lives and behaving normally, not perched prettily on coffee-shop chairs waiting to be spotted by the opposite sex. I’m livid. Who the fuck does this author think he is? I cannot wait to write my column this evening and tell the world that Guy Wright is full of shit.

  Chapter Nine

  Having a lie-in is my favourite thing in the world, but not when it’s Monday morning and I’m supposed to be at work by nine. My cries of ‘SHIT!’ almost drown out the sound of the alarm I’ve obviously snoozed ten times as I scramble to get out of bed. Grace, who is awake and happily reading a comic, looks startled when I fly into her room at a hundred miles per hour.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ I wail, looking for anyone to blame but me.

  She shrugs. ‘You didn’t tell me to. Look at the wee puppy here, Mum. He’s eating a banana.’

  ‘No time for that, Grace-face. You’ll have to get changed for school at Aunt Helen’s. I’m running very late.’

  I hand her a uniform, grab her schoolbag and practic­ally hurl her across the
hallway into Helen’s house. ‘Can you get Grace organized?’ I plead. ‘I have about ten minutes to get ready.’

  I can see the look of disapproval on Helen’s face, but I don’t have time to convince her that I’m not the worst mother in the world.

  ‘Fine. Just make sure you’re not late for dinner on Wednesday.’

  ‘Of course not! I’ll be right on time!’ I reply, dashing back into my flat. It’s lucky she reminded me or I’d have completely forgotten.

  I throw on my suit, tie my hair back in a slick ponytail and brush my teeth while slipping on my shoes. I’ll do my make-up on the train.

  Unbelievably, I make the train with thirty-seven seconds to spare and even manage to get a seat. Just as I’m about to take out my make-up bag, I notice a pregnant woman standing near the doors. I count seven seated men who’ve spotted her and not one of them gets up for her. I’m liking men less and less these days. I close my bag again and catch her attention.

  ‘Please. Sit here,’ I say, and stand up. She smiles gratefully and squeezes past me to sit down.

  ‘Jesus, I feel a hippo,’ she says in a broad Belfast accent. ‘Thanks very much for this. I’m only one stop; you can have it back then.’

  ‘No worries. I’ve been there. When are you due?’

  ‘Last week. I just want it out now. I’m getting cranky. Seriously, look at the size of me, and yet still I appear invisible to some people.’

  I laugh, but she isn’t finished.

  ‘I mean, not one of these big strapping lads offered me a seat. What the fuck is wrong with the world?’

  The man to the right of me looks uncomfortable. He turns the page of his paper and carries on reading, but she’s spotted him.

  ‘Carrying around another person isn’t an easy job, you know!’ She raises her voice in his direction. ‘Your mammy would be ashamed of you. This wee girl is standing up now and you’re still sitting there! Where’s your manners?’

  He looks at me and I swear there are tears welling up in his eyes. I can tell he’s torn between telling her to piss off and being the dickhead who was mean to the pregnant lady, or caving in and offering me his seat. Lucky for him, her stop arrives and she pushes herself up off the seat.

  ‘There you go and thanks again.’ She glares one last time at the man shakily clutching his copy of the Metro and growls, ‘Have a nice day.’ And with that she’s gone and I’m back in my seat, which is now lovely and warm.

  Make-up complete and only slightly smudged, I dis­embark at Central, where the queues for coffee are miles long, so I decide to slum it and buy one at Greggs outside. The weather has turned shitty, as it often does in Glasgow, so I practically sprint towards the office.

  ‘I’ve received an invite to the reopening of the Filmhouse on Friday night,’ gloats Patrick before I’ve even taken my jacket off. He’s the only one in the office so far and his creased, dishevelled appearance makes it look as though he’s slept here. ‘I hear they’re planning to make it more art house; you know, independent films, world cinema, black-and-white oldies? The launch will be excellent: free food and drink and a chance to mingle . . . right up my street.’

  His pretentiousness nauseates me, but sadly his plan to make me envious is working. I love the Filmhouse, and the reopening is all anyone has been talking about for weeks. Such a great night will be wasted on a sad sack like him.

  ‘That’s nice, Patrick. Whatever are you going to wear?’ I mock and turn on my PC, which for once seems to be working.

  ‘Very funny, Catriona,’ he sighs. ‘I’m thinking def­initely nothing in that shade of green you’re wearing at the moment.’

  I open up my emails. Twelve new. The second one makes me happy to be alive.

  ‘Ouch. Touché, Patrick!’ I laugh. ‘OK, I’ll admit it, I am jealous . . . Well, I was until I received an invite too. Now I’m just happy. We should go together!’

  ‘What? You didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’ I smile winningly. ‘I’m guessing the whole office got one too. What fun!’

  He mumbles something unintelligible and stomps out, almost knocking Leanne over on the way. ‘What’s up with Patrick?’ she asks, rubbing the spot on her arm he barged into.

  ‘He’s just found out that he isn’t special. Best let him stew in the gents’ for a while. How was your weekend?’

  She opens a yogurt and licks the lid. ‘Good, thanks. Five-kilometre run and then dinner at my parents’ house. We’re off to Turkey on Thursday for two weeks, so I just had a chilled one to save some cash.’

  ‘Did you run to your parents’ house or are these things unrelated? Also, you can’t go to Turkey because we’re all invited to the reopening of the Filmhouse and Patrick really wants everyone to be seen there with him.’

  She chuckles. ‘So that’s why he’s sulking. Ha, remember that time Gordon got an invite to that gallery opening instead of him and he called the organizers to complain?’

  ‘God, I’d forgotten about that. Has he always been such an arsehole?’

  Leanne pulls a sad face. ‘Aww, he’s not that bad. You guys just clash. Give him your press award. That’ll cheer him up.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Listen, since you’re away next Friday, I’m going to use your invite for my mate – is that cool?’

  She nods and shovels a spoonful of Greek yogurt into her mouth, and I forward the email to Kerry to see if she fancies coming along. Free food and drink should convince her.

  *

  An hour later, I’m finishing up a telephone interview with an Edinburgh-based fashion designer who’s currently in high demand after designing the dress Kelly Macdonald wore to the Golden Globes.

  ‘Thanks, Megan, and congrats on your success! The article should be in this week, but I’ll let you know if that changes.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ she replies. ‘I love this magazine. Especially Glasgow Girl’s column – it’s hilarious!’

  I grin. Sometimes I’d like to be able to announce that it’s me, but Natasha advised against it early on –

  ‘You’re writing some really personal stuff here, I’d use a pseudonym . . . keep an air of mystery about you. You know what the online trolls are like – they’re brutal. Once you put a name and face to your words, you make it much easier for them to judge you. Let them judge “her” instead.’

  Very few people know it’s my column: only the office staff – who’ve been sworn to secrecy – and Kerry, Rose, Helen and Adam. When I won my press award, Natasha accepted it on my behalf. I just sat there and applauded myself.

  ‘– though my boyfriend thinks Glasgow Girl is unbearable. He calls her “The Bitch”. Does she work beside you? What’s she like?’

  I stop grinning. ‘I’ve never met her,’ I lie. ‘She just emails her column in. Unbearable? Why does he think that?’

  ‘I dunno!’ She laughs.

  Well, stop laughing and go and fucking ask him.

  ‘I’m sure she’s a really lovely person,’ I sigh, suddenly eager to end the call. ‘I’ll pass on your comments though! Thanks again, Megan. Take care.’

  We say goodbye and I hang up, feeling deflated.

  ‘I’m not unbearable, am I?’ I ask Leanne, back at my desk. ‘Megan Black’s boyfriend hates me and calls me “The Bitch”.’

  ‘Of course not!’ she answers immediately. ‘Although . . . never mind. No, you’re lovely.’

  ‘Although what?! Tell me.’

  ‘Well, you were really unkind to Guy Wright this week in your column.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t that bad.’

  She lifts a copy of Saturday’s mag from her desk, turns to my page and recites:

  If you purchased this book, the author is laughing at you. Despite the fact women have been successfully dating long before he piped up with this self-helpless shambles of a book, he’s clearly preying on single women who are on the
edge of a dating breakdown. When you’re desperate to meet someone, you’ll consider anything, and your £5.99 (minus the cut from his agent and publisher) means he gets to think he’s right until someone tells him he’s wrong. I look forward to being that person.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s a little harsh . . .’ I reluctantly agree. ‘But I was pissed off. Do you know, I wasted a whole day last week, ignoring and being ignored by men, except for one horror show who called me “stuck up”. I’m sorely tempted to give up.’

  ‘Aww, Cat. Never give up! You have to keep trying! Anyway, I was just pointing out that you can be quite . . . well, blunt about things.’

  I want to grab her by the cheeks and yell into her face, ‘BUT YOU JUST SAID I WAS LOVELY’ until I realize that perhaps these are the things that make me unbearable.

  ‘What I will say is that you have to change your attitude,’ she continues. ‘Stop taking the piss out of it. Once you start believing it’ll work, it will! I’m living proof.’

  ‘Fine, you’re right,’ I reply. ‘I’ve still got weeks of this utter sh— uh, compelling challenge left. I shall try to be a beacon of optimism from now on. In my column anyway.’

  ‘Good for you! You’ll meet someone. I just know it!’ She swivels back around in her chair and carries on typing, while I give her the invisible finger.

  *

  Rose texts me just as I’m leaving to tell me Grace is happily eating fishcakes and so not to rush picking her up. As I’m texting her back, a call comes through from Kerry:

  ‘So, this Filmhouse thing – is it going to be all arty folk who want to talk about experimental cinema and bore me into a coma?’

  ‘I have no idea actually. It might just be media folk who’re only there for the free booze. Either way, I have a spare invite and I insist you come. Otherwise I’ll be stuck with work bores all night.’ I smile over at Gordon who’s mouthing the words ‘Fuck you’.

  ‘OK, but only if I can borrow your long green mac. I’ll pop round on Wednesday to get it and we can catch up.’