I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Sure, sounds great – oh wait. Sorry, I said I’d have dinner with Helen and Adam on Wednesday. Thursday?’

  ‘Yeah, OK. Gotta get back to work. See you then!’

  *

  The day of Helen and Adam’s dinner, I pick Grace up from school and bring her home to have a snack and get changed for her dad’s house. I have to get her there by five thirty and then get back in time for dinner. But now that I think about it . . . I have no idea when dinner is.

  ‘Grace, I’m popping over to Aunt Helen’s for a sec. I’ll just be in the hall. Don’t set fire to anything.’

  Helen is cleaning her flat like a woman possessed and doesn’t hear me knock the first three times. I stand and wait for the sound of the vacuum cleaner to stop before attempting a fourth.

  ‘Oh hello!’ she says. ‘Just a bit of tidying for tonight. You’re still OK for tonight, right?’

  Oh how I want to mess with her and send her spiralling into a panic, but I don’t have the time or the heart. Her make-up-free face and pulled-back hair tells me she means business. The smell of chicken wafts from the kitchen.

  ‘Helen, that smells amazing. Yes, I’m still coming. I just wondered what time . . . Hope you’re not doing all this for me. You know I’m not bothered if your house is untidy.’

  ‘Seven, and no, actually, it’s for Tom.’

  My heart sinks and my face takes on a look commonly known as I FUCKING KNEW IT.

  ‘Tom who? Helen, why is there suddenly a Tom coming for dinner, when last week there wasn’t?’

  ‘I only asked him this morning. He’s my new dentist. Handsome guy. English. Doesn’t know anyone here. Thought it might be nice if—’

  ‘If you sat him in front of me and tried to marry us off? Oh, Helen, I specifically asked you NOT to do this any more. You promised!’

  I’m raging inside. At dinner parties, I always end up doing all the talking and joke-cracking; it’s exhausting. Now I’m going to have to spend a whole evening . . . Oh. Hang on . . . I stop internally ranting and begin to smile.

  ‘Not everything is about you, Catriona. This was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Besides, I think you two will get on really well . . . why are you smiling?’

  ‘Am I?’ My grin grows wider. Helen has forgotten that I’m following the rules. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Did I say something funny?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m just really happy to be having dinner.’

  She’s trying to read my face but I’m giving nothing away. ‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘I’ll see you tonight at half seven.’

  I go back inside and tell Grace to get ready for her dad’s house while I get changed. Skimming through my wardrobe I find the patterned maxi-skirt I bought last year during my gypsy phase and match it up with a vest top and cropped cardigan. I don’t want to look like I’ve made too much of an effort, plus I refuse to get spruced up to the nines for some middle-aged dentist and my sister.

  Once we’re ready, I take Grace to Peter’s house, safe in the knowledge that with me following The Rules of Engagement to the letter at dinner, Helen’s little plan to set me up with yet another unsuitable and unstable suitor will be well and truly fucked. If I’m going to meet someone, it’ll be on my terms.

  I plug my phone into the radio and play songs for Grace on the way there. I’m singing along to Lorde when I feel a foot poking my lower back.

  ‘Don’t kick the chair, Grace. What is it?’

  ‘Mum, can you stop singing? I want to hear the song.’

  I smirk. ‘But I like singing. My singing is beautiful and perfect, Grace. I sing like an angel.’

  She giggles. ‘You kind of sing like a ghost.’

  I pull up outside Peter’s and let Grace out while I grab her schoolbag and empty packed lunchbox. She stops to say hello to the neighbour’s dog before ringing the doorbell. Emma answers.

  ‘Hi, Grace!’ she chirps. She’s wearing black gym trousers and a vest top that reveals her perfectly flat stomach – mine has never quite recovered from having eight pounds of baby kicking around in there. ‘Hi, Cat, how are you? Peter’s on his way back from work. I was just doing some yoga on the Wii board.’

  Ouija board more like, I think, because I really am a childish wanker. I kiss Grace and she trots off down the hall.

  ‘Hi, Emma. I’m good, thanks. No worries. I don’t need to speak to him anyway.’

  ‘Cool. You look nice. Off out?’

  I could explain that my sister is sneakily trying to make me eat dinner with someone I’ve never met because she finds it odd that I haven’t been in a relationship since Peter, but instead I blurt out: ‘Yes, I have a date! He’s a dentist. He’s very keen but I’m keeping him on his toes.’

  ‘Oh good for you!’ she replies, trying not to sound patronizing but failing miserably. I wonder if she can hear the little voice in my head shouting, ‘CAT, YOU LYING SHIT. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN MET HIM YET.’

  ‘Yep, so I’d better get off.’

  I make a gauche cheerio! hand gesture as she closes the door, then head home to meet my new imaginary fucking boyfriend. Please don’t let him be weird.

  *

  I can hear Helen laughing as I linger in the hallway outside her door; she’s using her ‘Isn’t everything fabulous!’ laugh, which she saves for social engagements, instead of the usual snorting chuckle I love so much. OK, here goes: this is my opportunity to really start doing the rules of engagement properly, no more messing about. No talking first, no flirting, no reasonless chattering, no giggling. Just smile, be cool, get this inevitably uncomfortable evening over with, and with any luck I’ll have plenty of material for this week’s column. It would be nice to try this stupid experiment on someone I fancied for once, but after my run of horrible luck with Helen’s previous set-ups, I completely expect to be sat across from a pearly-toothed hobgoblin.

  I smooth my hands down over my skirt and adjust my bra strap just as Helen pulls the door open and drags me inside.

  ‘Tom’s in the living room,’ she whispers. ‘He’s been here for ten minutes. Get in there and introduce yourself!’

  Here we go. I pause for a second, then say to Helen, ‘I do believe that would be considered too forward. Overly keen. If he wants to know who I am, he’ll ask.’

  It takes her a second to understand me. Then she remembers. She frowns, and her whisper turns into a low growl. ‘Cat, you are NOT following these rules tonight. I know you’ll just take the piss to annoy me, and you could end up ruining something very special!’ We’re still standing in the hallway, whispering furiously at each other.

  ‘I told you not to set me up again, Helen. Besides, this is my job. I have no choice.’

  She wants to throttle me, I can tell. If this had happened twenty-five years ago, I’d have a dead arm by now.

  ‘Don’t you ruin my dinner! I’ve spent ages preparing everything,’ she warns me as we march down her recently mopped hallway. ‘Tom is—’

  ‘A cat’s name?’

  ‘STOP IT. Tom is charming. When you see him, you’ll forget all about this column nonsense. Trust me.’

  She pushes open the living room door and trills, ‘She’s here everyone! Catriona, this is my dentist Tom Ward. Adam, can you help me with something in the kitchen?’

  ‘Smooth, Helen,’ I mutter under my breath, then follow it up with a generic ‘Hello!’ which applies to everyone and definitely not specifically to the man who’s sitting beside Adam. The man who has just made my face flush spontaneously. Holy fucking fuck, he’s handsome. Shit. No one looks like that in real life. I wasn’t prepared for this.

  The dentist stands up, smiles and shakes my hand, which gives me approximately four seconds to take in as much as possible before he finds me creepy (and I break the rules); dark blond hair with a hint of red, brown eyes, wide smile and, of course, perfect teeth. Oh my. Hello, Tom.<
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  ‘So, Catriona, you live across the hall?’ he asks, as I sit down on the couch opposite him.

  ‘I do!’ I reply, delighted that he initiated conversation and that therefore we don’t have to participate in a staring competition until one of us caves. He has a lovely voice, but I find his accent hard to place. South London, perhaps?

  ‘Helen says it’s just you and your daughter?’

  I wonder what other information Helen has been divulging from the dentist’s chair. Income? Bra size? Did she tell him that the meaning of my name is ‘pure’ or ‘chaste’, which at the moment is pretty fucking accurate?

  ‘Yes, just the two of us . . . oh, and our cat, Heisenberg.’

  Behind my smile, I’m singing Just the Two of Us by Bill Withers. Maybe someday this will be Tom and me. The man clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with.

  ‘Heisenberg? Really. After the physicist?’ He crosses his legs and I find myself briefly mesmerized by his left knee.

  ‘Ha, uh yeah, that’s what I tell my kid anyway. Better than saying her cat is named after a fictional meth dealer.’

  He smiles, but he isn’t laughing.

  Whoops. Don’t try to be funny. That’s his job. Oh Christ, not only am I not supposed to make jokes, he has no idea what I’m talking about. I have been set up with the only person on Earth who hasn’t seen Breaking Bad. What fresh hell is this? I momentarily forget myself and stare at him hard, then decide I’ll forgive him this one time. Fortunately at this moment Helen saves us both by telling us dinner is ready.

  The layout of my flat is identical to Helen’s, but unlike me, she has used her floor space wisely. In front of her living-room window she has a dining table, whereas I have a long white horizontal bookcase, which blocks out the light and is crammed full of books I’ll either never get round to reading or just can’t bear to throw away.

  I sit opposite Tom, a large roast chicken stuffed with haggis between us. Helen pours me a small chardonnay, which I elegantly sip, allowing everyone else to make small talk around me. We haven’t even started dinner before Adam is on my case:

  ‘Jesus, Cat, are you feeling all right? I don’t think you’ve ever stayed quiet this long. Saying that, you’re staring at the stuffed neck of a chicken. Quite unnerving.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, Adam, and the chicken looks great. Good job, Helen.’

  Tom agrees. ‘It looks wonderful. I’ve never had haggis. Are you a fan, Catriona?’

  If he wants to know something, he’ll ask. OK, Guy Wright – one point to you.

  ‘Aye,’ I reply casually. ‘It’s gorgeous with some whisky sauce.’

  Fucking hell, could I sound any more Scottish? Maybe later I’ll cross swords and pas-de-basque myself towards the nearest unicorn.

  Helen serves Tom first as Adam quizzes him about his job. Personally I want to quiz Adam about his own choice of horrible striped T-shirt, but I’m sure Helen will have beaten me to it.

  ‘So why did you decide to work up here, Tom? Surely the money’s better down south?’

  Tom nods. ‘It can be, but there’s more to life. After the divorce, I didn’t see the point in hanging around. Besides, commuting four hours every day was taking its toll on my sanity.’ He shrugs, a playful smile on his perfect face. ‘A former colleague of mine, Ameera, runs a practice and needed a partner –’

  We’re all staring at him. His ability to hold court is quite impressive – I can tell that even Adam is considering shagging him.

  ‘– and here I am.’ Tom laughs and continues eating, seemingly oblivious to the fact we’re all completely infatuated with him. He examines the haggis on his fork carefully before taking the plunge.

  ‘What do you do for work, Catriona?’ he asks.

  More questions. This is a good sign.

  ‘I’m a journalist. You like the haggis?’ Am I allowed to ask questions? Oh well, too late.

  ‘I do. Who do you write for? Newspapers? Magazines?’

  Oh God, stop asking me about my job. I might have to write about you.

  ‘Magazines,’ answers Helen. ‘She’s very talented. She writes—’

  ‘– whatever they want me to!’ I quickly interrupt. ‘Just a newspaper supplement, nothing exciting.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it is,’ Tom reassures me. ‘Though to be honest, I only read the Independent, if I read newspapers at all. I watch Fox News on cable, and occasionally BBC News.’

  Oh fuck, he thinks I’m a serious news journalist. I’m not even sure who the Prime Minister is. On the bright side, this means he won’t see what I’ve written about him in this week’s column. I’ll call him Mr X, just in case.

  ‘Oh, well, I mainly cover features, reviews . . . that kind of thing. No major world events, I’m afraid.’ I’m trying to play down my role at the Tribune. This is very unlike me. Sort of disconcerting, but bloody hell, I’m actually starting to like this guy AND I promised myself I wouldn’t cheat on the rules this evening.

  The rest of the meal goes well; profiteroles for dessert and a massive cheeseboard. I’m conscious of keeping my side of the conversation to a minimum. I’m reserved – ‘No more wine for me, Helen.’ Charming – ‘Did anyone see that documentary on the creator of Elmo from Sesame Street? It was delightful!’ And a liar – ‘Why, yes, I do enjoy the opera.’ (Must listen to some opera.) Maybe I’m not my usual, funny, giggly self but, amazingly, it seems to be working. At least I hope it is . . . I suppose it’s very possible that Tom just finds me endearing. As in, I’m sure the sheep that ended up as our haggis was endearing too – doesn’t mean he wants to date it.

  I help Adam clear away the dishes while Tom and Helen head over to the couch for coffee. The kitchen is a disgrace.

  ‘Bloody hell, Adam. Did Helen accidently cook a gren­ade? If Gordon Ramsay was here, he’d be shutting this place down.’

  Adam carefully sets down three expensive dinner plates and throws some napkins in the bin, which is already overflowing.

  ‘Now you decide to pipe up? Honestly, Cat, what the hell was with you tonight? That poor guy was doing everything to get your attention and you didn’t even seem to care.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, wondering if we were at the same dinner party. ‘He was not! He was just making conversation. Besides, you know I’m following these stupid rules. It’s like playing hard to get for the insane.’

  Adam fills the glass cafetière and places it on a gold tray beside some square-cut shortbread. He’s using the expensive coffee and it smells divine. ‘Cat. He’s into you, you know. I’m a guy, I can tell these things.’ And with that he winks at me and carries the tray through to the living room.

  Jesus, do all men consider themselves dating experts? I remain in the kitchen and take a moment to collect my thoughts, which are along the lines of, Oh, I hope he’s interested . . . But wait, if he is interested then he’s interested in a haggis-loving mute who lives across the hall from her sister, whose hobbies include nodding and smiling and apparently opera . . . but, but . . . he’s so attractive! I bet he won’t even think we’re compatible. Maybe we aren’t. I mean, I know that when I return home, I’ll be dancing around to the White Stripes in my underwear, while he’s definitely the type to be watching Newsnight fully clothed . . .

  Before people begin to wonder where I am, I return to the living room and see that Helen and Adam are sitting together on one couch, leaving me to sit next to Tom on the other. I catch the conversation halfway through – Tom is talking about his ‘good friend Kathryn’ –

  ‘It was an amicable split. Kathryn and I had been together fifteen years, just time to move on. We’re still very close.’

  ‘Not like you and Peter, eh, Cat?’ Adam smirks and sticks some shortbread in his big fat mouth.

  When you first start dating, don’t mention your past relationships. It might make you seem bitter or, worse, infatuated.

/>   ‘Perhaps not at first,’ I reply, trying hard to be diplomatic. If anyone else had been sitting beside me, I’d have been shouting, ‘THAT PRICK? NO CHANCE!’ but tonight I must act like a grown-up. ‘It’s a work in progress. We’ll get there.’ Translated this means, Eventually one of us will die.

  Helen has had the same grin plastered to her face since dinner, and I can tell that behind those bright blue eyes she’s still scheming and secretly wondering what style of hat she’ll buy for our wedding. The conversation lags a little and, though it’s painful to drag myself away from the handsome dentist, this is a sign that it’s time for me to go.

  ‘Well, it’s been a wonderful evening, but I have a pile of work to be getting on with.’ I place my cup on the table and smile at Tom. ‘Really lovely to meet you, Tom.’ I say this because it was lovely to meet him. It would have been even lovelier if he’d taken his shirt off . . . then his trousers . . . but fuck it, this will have to do.

  He shakes my outstretched hand. ‘And you, Cat. I should be leaving too actually. I have a patient coming in at eight a.m. for oral surgery.’

  Helen glowers at me – she knows I’m about two seconds away from making an ‘oral’ joke and ruining her life. I bite my tongue.

  Helen sees us both out, with Adam shouting his goodbyes from the living room. As she closes the door behind us, I breathe a sigh of relief and fumble through my bag for my keys. The evening went off without a hitch, I now have some material I can use for the –

  ‘Cat, would you like to have dinner on Friday?’ Tom’s voice echoes down the hallway, causing a thousand ­butterflies to take flight from the pit of my stomach. With my hand still inside my handbag, I turn my somewhat confused face towards him.

  ‘Dinner? With me?’

  ‘Yes. On Friday. Are you free?’ He’s standing very close to me.

  I hear a muffled squeal from the other side of Helen’s door.

  ‘Actually, no, I have a work thing that evening. I might be able to do Saturday though, if that suits?’ My voice is cool but inside I’m far from it. Inside I’m running down the street shouting, ‘A MAN ASKED ME OUT! I MIGHT GET TO HAVE SEX THIS YEAR!’ I feel my cheeks colour.