I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  Good lord, he looks so delightfully sexy. I want to drag him by the tie into my flat and insist that he . . . I don’t, of course. I just smile back; hand still in my bag.

  ‘Saturday’s fine with me. Can I have your number?’

  ‘Sure, it’s 0783—’

  ‘Oh, shit. Sorry, Cat, my mobile is in the car. I can give you mine?’

  Guy Wright’s words scroll in front of my eyes like the opening scene from Star Wars.

  Let him take your number but don’t take his. Women have no boundaries when it comes to texting. Before he knows it, you’ll be sending him 170 smiley-faced texts a day and crying when he doesn’t respond quickly enough.

  ‘That’s OK, I’ll write mine down.’ My hand stops looking for my keys and reroutes into the zipped pocket of my bag where I keep my notebook. I flip through to a blank page, scribble my mobile number down, then tear it off and hand to him, like a fucking BOSS. I’m getting the hang of this.

  He examines the number before slipping it into his right pocket. ‘Great. Well, I’ll text you and we can sort the details?’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply. I want to kiss him. Goddammit, I want to invite him in. I want to point to the left and explain that my bedroom is literally just through that wall and it hasn’t seen any action in months. Then I remember that my bedroom is a mess, there are dirty dishes piling up in the sink and Grace has probably forgotten to flush the toilet again, leaving me to exclaim, ‘That’s not mine!’

  ‘OK, well. Goodnight then, Cat.’ He leans in and we do cheek-kissing before he walks away with my phone number, promising again to call. I count to four before Helen flings open her front door and peers at me with a face like a Disney villain.

  ‘Things going according to your evil plan?’ I ask. ‘Will you be taking my voice in payment?’

  She quietly closes the door behind her. ‘Actually, I thought you’d blown it with your one-word answers and complete lack of interest, but your silly rules seem to have worked. With my help, of course.’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself here. He might not even call, and I’m certainly not going to be sitting by the phone. I doubt I’m his type.’

  Helen throws her head back and laughs. ‘Just this once, can you think outside the box, Cat? You know what they say – opposites attract!’

  ‘But you’re missing the point, dear sister. Tom thinks I’m quiet – reserved even! Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally into him – for once you were right . . . but what happens to his opinion of me when the real me tumbles out, wild-eyed and swearing? I can’t keep her hidden forever.’

  ‘I know.’ She laughs. ‘He’ll run a mile. You’d better make sure you at least shag him before that happens.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Did you see his—’

  Adam’s stubbly face appears around the door. ‘Is anyone going to help me clear away these dishes?’

  Helen sighs and about-turns. ‘OK, grumpy. Night, Cat. Let me know when he calls you!’

  ‘Night, guys . . . I’M NOT HOLDING MY BREATH, YOU KNOW!’

  Moments later, I’m inside my flat, pouring myself a Baileys and doing my best not to check my phone. He probably hasn’t even made it home yet.

  At quarter past twelve, I turn off the television and get ready for bed. Face washed and teeth brushed, I slip under the sheets and turn off the light. I enjoy the silence, letting my mind drift off for an impressive twenty-two minutes before I bring my phone through to the bedroom and check for a message. I could easily continue checking for the next three hours, but instead I turn it off and close my eyes, refusing to be the kind of woman Guy Wright blames for her own singledom.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday arrives with a whimper. The anticipation of this date with Tom is weighing heavily on my mind and it’s a distraction I don’t need as I still have this week’s column to write.

  I throw on some jeans and direct my car towards the nearest drive-through Costa but not even a toasted teacake and latte is enough to make me the slightest bit perky.

  I greedily scoff my buttery teacake on the drive home while my latte cools, and by nine thirty-five I’m on the couch with my laptop and my reference copy of The Rules of Engagement. I begin to type:

  This week I met someone. Imagine a cross between Ewan McGregor and Jude Law – I’ll wait while you finish hating my good fortune.

  I pause for a moment and recall Tom’s face. It’s a happy moment. I keep typing.

  Fifty words in and I’m already referring to the book to read up on what will be required of me on what will technically be our second date. The book advises that I shouldn’t read too much into the fact that this man wants to see me again, and I certainly shouldn’t become overly excited by this:

  Most women turn up on dates hoping to be swept off their feet, but the majority of men are just ­planning to eat dinner and maybe get laid.

  Temporarily forgetting about my column, I read on. Who cares if the rules worked on Tom that one time; this man is a MONSTER. The book’s basic message is essentially ‘fuck romance’. He’s telling women that there is no Prince Charming – there is only a man who will one day decide that out of all the women he’s met, he finds you the least annoying.

  Keep the second date light-hearted. Don’t discuss heavy or personal topics.

  Like what? Ebola? Politics? Rodgers and Hammerstein? My feelings? My brain begins to create countless scenarios where I have the potential to fuck everything up:

  How are you, Cat?

  Cold. Emotional. I FEEL EMPTY. How are you?

  Returning to my column, I warn my readers that ‘emotion = danger’ and, according to the rules, they are not to discuss anything thought-provoking, lest they upset the poor man’s equilibrium. Thirty minutes later, I close the book and finish off my column.

  In any case, Mr X and I are scheduled to go out for dinner on Saturday (the day this column comes out, so you’ll have to wait until next week to find out if he actually called me or if I spent the evening at home alone singing ‘Soulmate’ by Natasha Bedingfield into my cat’s face).

  Reasonably happy with my effort, I email it to Natasha, not expecting a response unless she wants something changed. With that out of the way, I turn on Radio 1 and begin washing up the breakfast dishes. Fearne Cotton’s show has just started but I’m not paying attention to who’s on in the Live Lounge because I’m SURE I just heard a message come through on my phone. I scramble to turn off the taps.

  Three and a half seconds later, I’m leaping across the room to snatch my phone off the living-room table. No new messages . . . no new messages but also no signal! I wave it around in front of the window for a few seconds until the bars appear.

  Nope, definitely no new messages.

  I throw my phone on the couch in disgust and slink back to the kitchen, sickened that I’ve so quickly become a phone-checking desperado. This book is turning me into the type of person I used to make fun of.

  *

  As arranged, Kerry comes over after Grace is in bed. Kieran has gone up to Aberdeen for work and she’s bored stiff. I think she hates her own company – I couldn’t say the same for me, but when you’re a single parent it’s not like you have much choice anyway.

  When Kerry and I were at school, we were very different. We first became best friends in primary school. We stayed close throughout high school, where I excelled at English and history but failed miserably at maths and science, two areas Kerry shone brightly in. There was no reason for us to be friends; we liked different music, different films and even different boys, but when we get together everything just clicks. She keeps me sane. She was, and still is, the yin to my yang.

  Remembering my promise, I reluctantly hand over my green mac, warning her not to spill anything on it because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to afford from Selfridges. I make myself comfy on the couch and look around
for my nail polish.

  ‘So, exactly how good-looking is good-looking?’ she asks, looking through my bookshelves. ‘Jesus, Cat, you don’t have one non-fiction book in here. How many horror novels does one person need?’

  ‘All of them,’ I reply. ‘And Tom is absurdly good-looking. Like, Hollywood hot.’

  She picks up a book and scans the back cover. ‘Brad Pitt hot or Jared Leto hot?’

  ‘What? Um, Brad Pitt.’

  ‘But you don’t fancy Brad Pitt.’

  ‘Yeah, but Brad is more wholesome-looking. Like Tom. Jared Leto looks like he’d fuck you then murder you.’

  She puts Gerald’s Game back on the shelf. ‘You need to stop reading this shit. So you’re seeing him on Saturday? That’ll be good. Who’s looking after Grace?’

  ‘It’s Peter’s weekend. Well, we’re supposed to be going for dinner, but Tom hasn’t called yet.’ I finish painting my toenails blue and start on my fingers.

  ‘He will. Then before you know it, you’ll be all, “Yeah, this is my boyfriend the doctor.”’

  ‘Dentist.’

  ‘Whatever. He saves teeth. It’s still important. And it’s a free meal.’

  ‘No, the book says I have to go Dutch. So essentially I’m buying myself dinner and eating it in front of a dentist.’

  ‘Why do you have to split it? He invited you!’

  ‘To prove I’m not a gold-digger, skint or cheap. Otherwise I’d be likely to keep my purse in my bag and be all, “GARÇON, ANOTHER LOBSTER! HE’S PAYING!” Actually I wouldn’t get lobster anyway; it’s hard to look alluring when you’re cracking the shell and ripping meat out of a dead crustacean.’

  ‘Can I destroy that book when you’re finished, please? It’s turning you into a moron.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Wait, Cat, was that your phone?’ We both stare at each other for a second before I lunge for it. It’s a text from an unknown number. I throw the phone at Kerry, then bury my face in a cushion. ‘You read it. I can’t look!’

  ‘Fucking hell, Cat. It’s not a pregnancy test, it’s a text. Right, it says: Hi Catriona, it’s Tom. I’ve booked the Grill on the Corner for 8pm on Sat. Can meet you there? If not suitable, let me know.’

  Smiling, she hands me back my phone and does a little dance. ‘Woohoo! That place rocks. Just promise me you won’t have a fucking salad or something. Women who eat salad on dates are the worst. It shows you’re shallow and empty inside.’

  I enjoy salad, especially warm chicken salad with chilli dressing and croutons, but there’s no point explaining this to carnivorous Kerry, the woman who would happily devour rare steak for breakfast.

  I read Tom’s message for myself, then wait ten minutes and type:

  Sounds fine. See you at eight x

  I stare at the message. ‘Kiss or no kiss?’

  ‘No kiss. He didn’t send a kiss.’

  I delete the x and press Send. It’s done.

  ‘So this is happening then?’ I laugh. ‘What the hell am I going to wear?’ I suggest my white summer dress with the tiny flowers, but Kerry has other ideas.

  ‘That dress makes you look like a mum.’

  ‘I am a mum, Kerry.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but you don’t need to dress like one. Heaven forbid you remind him of his mum; you’ll never get a shag. What about your red one? Your boobs look marvellous in that.’

  ‘Is red really a first-date colour? I read that—’

  ‘Man, you’re really over-thinking this rules stuff,’ she interjects. ‘Look, just wear what you feel good in.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Except that white dress.’

  ‘FINE.’

  ‘Glad to be of service. I’m going to shoot off now, but I’ll meet you outside the Filmhouse tomorrow for the launch thingy.’

  She leaves quietly, so as not to wake Grace, even though Grace would sleep through a stampede of singing bison. Regardless, it’s fun to watch Kerry try to tiptoe in wedges. I settle down on the couch to watch the episode of American Horror Story I recorded last night. I’m looking forward to tomorrow evening. It should be fun.

  *

  Grace helps me zip up my red dress and messes around with my make-up as I get ready for the Filmhouse opening.

  ‘Lipstick is only supposed to go on your lips, Grace. You’ve drawn an entirely new mouth on.’

  ‘Am I sleeping at Aunt Helen’s all night?’ she asks, putting brown eyeshadow on her cheeks.

  ‘Yes, honey. I don’t know what time this will end.’

  ‘But I’m going to Dad’s tomorrow. I’ll miss you.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Look, how about we go to the cafe for breakfast before I take you to your dad? Then you’ll be back on Sunday night and we can watch a movie together before bed. Sound good?’

  ‘Can we watch Tangled?’ she asks with a massive grin.

  ‘Will you let me sing along?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘How about I let you mime?’

  ‘Deal.’

  With the taxi en route to pick me up, I give Grace a massive kiss and send her across the hall with a bottle of wine for Helen as thanks for helping me out. When she sees me, Helen practically pounces on me.

  ‘Did he call?!’

  ‘What? Did who call? I have to run; the taxi will be here in a sec.’

  ‘TOM, OF COURSE!’

  ‘Jesus, calm down. Yes. We’re having dinner tomorrow. I’ll pick Grace up in the morning. Stop dancing, Helen. It’s only a date.’

  She gathers Grace into a hug and I run down the front steps to catch my cab.

  Kerry’s already waiting for me when I pull up outside the Filmhouse. She stoops down to peer in the window as I pay the driver, waving wildly as if she hasn’t seen me in weeks. Keeping my knees together, I gracefully exit the taxi, ensuring the fortified gusset on my body-shaper tights remains unseen.

  ‘I thought you’d never show up!’ she moans, hugging me hello. ‘I’ve been standing alone here for at least five minutes. Loads of people have gone in.’

  ‘You look amazing!’ I gush, looking her up and down. Kerry isn’t just wearing my mac, she is wearing it. It looks far better on her than it ever has on me – I know that by the end of the evening I’ll be telling her to keep it. She grins at me because she knows this too.

  ‘You’re wearing your red dress! I thought you’d be keeping it for your date tomorrow.’

  ‘I haven’t decided what I’m wearing for tomorrow. And if you give me shit about the white one again, I’m going to take back that coat.’

  She smiles and zips her mouth as I pluck the printed invitations from my handbag and hand her one. ‘Right, hopefully this won’t be too painful,’ I say, looking around for familiar faces. I don’t recognize anyone. The journalists are easy to spot – most are still in their work clothes and all are carrying mobiles and leather bags. They have that look that says: ‘Please let the bar be open or this won’t end well.’ There’s a smattering of photographers and what looks like the entire cast of Hipster – the Movie. No sign of anyone from work yet, but Patrick is undoubtedly already in there, swigging Scotch and challenging the arts editor of the Evening Herald to a pissing contest.

  Kerry pulls open the heavy main doors and we walk into the lobby, which looks exactly like it always did, except they’ve ripped up the old blue carpet and replaced it with marble-effect flooring, which makes my black heels clunk rather than clop. I take a press pack from one of the two women standing beside the ticket desk just as a small, smartly dressed man politely requests that we all make our way to Screen 1.

  ‘You’re not doing the rules tonight, are you?’ Kerry whispers.

  ‘Nope,’ I reply. ‘I’m here as me, not as Glasgow Girl.’

  I haven’t been here since I was a teenager, and I’m feeling nostalgic as hel
l. The old two-screen Filmhouse closed in 1995 after the massive multiplex round the corner nicked all its business, but I used to come here often as a kid because they’d let anyone in to see anything, regardless of age. I saw my first on-screen sex as a twelve-year-old Doors fan and didn’t shut up about it for at least six weeks.

  Through the glass to the left I can see they’ve built a small trendy bar area, replacing the old confectionary stand, formerly run by a sixty-nine-year-old woman called Maggie who was blind as a bat. It used to smell like popcorn, hot dogs, rank cheese and, occasionally, spilled booze from someone who’d snuck in some of their dad’s beer, but now everything smells brand new. Gone are the paintings by local artists that used to line the narrow walled corridor between screens – they’ve been replaced with oversized B-movie, world cinema and grindhouse posters, suggesting that this place is clearly for grown-ups and won’t be showing a Disney film anytime soon.

  Kerry and I line up and slowly move through the hefty double doors of Screen 1, the larger of the two screens, and sit in the third row. The old grey seats I remember so fondly have been ripped out and replaced with huge comfy dark-blue velvet ones, with black cup holders and headrests. Whoever refurbished this place has done an amazing job, but I still pine for the old place.

  The small but smartly dressed man introduces himself as Adrian and welcomes everyone before launching into a somewhat dull speech on why he and his business partner Dylan decided to reopen the Filmhouse. I want to shout, ‘BECAUSE OF MONEY!’ but I don’t; I just flick through the press information until it’s time for wine.

  ‘Dylan will be along directly,’ Adrian says, looking somewhat peeved that his partner isn’t here on time for their grand opening. ‘The information is in your packs, but also please feel free to direct any questions you have to him or me. In the meantime, if you’d like to move along to the bar, we have some refreshments waiting.’

  Kerry is the first one standing and I giggle, but she’s quickly followed by everybody else. As we turn to walk along the row of seats, I spy both Gordon and Patrick near the back of the cinema, chatting. Gordon makes a ‘mine’s a pint’ gesture at me, and I nod, turning away before Patrick spots me and decides to place an order as well.