I turn and face the other wall and suddenly he presses his body up against my back, moving my hair out of the way. I can feel his breath on my neck. He tugs slowly at the zipper and it slides down, followed by my dress, which pools around my ankles. As I step out of it, I hear him kicking off his jeans. He puts his hands round my waist and firmly pulls me into him.
Christ, he feels huge. The teenage girl in me wants to swing round for a look at his bulge, but he’s kissing my neck and running his hands over my breasts and stomach and I’m torn between never wanting this part to end and throwing myself down on the ground in a happy tantrum, yelling, ‘PUT YOUR PENIS IN ME THIS VERY SECOND OR I MIGHT JUST DIE!’
Suddenly he spins me around and grabs my hand. I subtly try to stuff my tits back into my bra as he leads me along the hall to his bedroom, but eventually give up when I become transfixed on his very naked arse. He has a better arse than I do.
His bedroom is dimly lit but the light from the hall lets me see that it’s very spacious – several prints hang on the dark walls, and the carpet feels soft and inviting between my toes. I stand beside the bed while he closes the door behind him. It’s pitch black.
‘Should we turn a light on? I can’t see a thing,’ I ask quietly.
He takes my hand again and pushes me gently on to the bed. ‘I don’t want you to see this. I want you to feel it.’
He gives me the softest, slowest kiss. Soft lips, soft tongue – one hand holds the back of my head and the other undoes my bra like a lingerie ninja. His kisses continue down my body, and by the time his mouth is between my legs I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out, because this is outrageously good. Then it happens. Dylan makes me come so hard, I want to have a little cry, but before I can offer him a standing ovation and a knighthood he wraps my legs around his waist. Two hours later we’re three condoms down and I’ve had the best sex of my life. I’m lying next to a man who’s vaping on an e-cig and has turned me into a shuddering wreck. I’m a dishevelled mess. He nudges me.
‘You’ve gone all quiet again. Are you thinking about Taylor Swift?’
I laugh and move my hair out of my face. ‘Yes. I’m hoping she’ll write a song about this. Actually I was thinking how glad I am that I’m not working tomorrow. I think your penis might have broken me.’
‘Was that a compliment? Aww . . . it’s been a while then, hasn’t it? You just need to get back into the swing of things.’
‘How the hell did you know that? Oh God, was I really rusty? Was it like shagging the Tin Man?’
He laughs loudly. ‘Hardly. It was memorable to say the least. Call it intuition. I’m wise in the way of the woman.’
‘Your modesty must be a real burden.’ I roll on to my side and glance at his bedside clock. ‘Shit, is that the time? I have to get home. I promised my daughter I’d take her for breakfast in six hours.’
‘I didn’t know you had a daughter. What’s she like?’
I sit up and feel around on the floor for my underwear. ‘I don’t discuss my kid with men I’ve just met . . . but she’s tremendous. Where the hell is my bra?’
Dylan turns on the bedside lamp, gets up and walks towards the door. ‘But you’re not with her dad any more?’ he probes, taking his robe from the back of the door. I feel sad when his perfect arse disappears under it.
‘No,’ I reply, checking under the bed for my MIA underwear, ‘but I’m looking for daddy number two, if you’re up for the job?’
‘Very funny. Just making sure I’m not going to get a visit from an irate husband in the dead of night . . .’
‘Oh here they are!’ I retrieve my bra and knickers from inside his duvet cover. ‘No, we’ve been apart for years. In fact, he’s getting married soon, while I’m single and following some stupid dating book for my column, which is never going—’
‘What column?’
Oh shite. I start putting on my knickers, frantically trying to think of something to change the subject. I’m certain he can see the look of panic on my face.
‘You’re Glasgow Girl.’
I snap the waistband of my knickers. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘You’ve never heard of the columnist who writes for your magazine?’
Oh fuck off, Sherlock Holmes. I hook my bra behind my back and quickly pull the straps up. ‘What I meant to say was—’
‘Stop digging, Cat. Your secret is safe with me. I’ll make some tea.’
He’s not smirking any more.
A few minutes later Dylan’s making tea in the kitchen while I un-smudge my make-up in the bathroom mirror, periodically chastising myself for letting my secret out. When I get back to the living room, he’s laid my dress on the back of the couch and is texting on his phone.
‘Updating your Facebook relationship status?’ I ask, hoping my feeble attempt at a joke will somehow reverse time.
‘Nope, just ordering you a taxi. I said you were going Southside – you can direct the driver.’
What the hell? I’m not even dressed yet.
‘How efficient of you. Do you have them on speed dial?’ I ask, pulling on my dress and managing to zip it up first time.
He walks to the window and peeks out of the blinds. ‘Well, you said you had to get home.’ I approach him at the window and wrap my arms around his waist, but he wriggles free. ‘Taxi shouldn’t be long. Got everything?’ His tone has suddenly grown cold.
I take the hint and collect my belongings. ‘Not a problem. I’ll wait downstairs.’ He doesn’t object, only nods and walks me to the front door, kissing me on the cheek like I’m his fucking auntie.
I feel wounded. He could at least have kept up the charade of being a normal human being until I left his bloody lovely flat. It’s obvious he has no intention of asking for my number.
‘Oh, and Cat? Good luck with your column. I’m sure that somewhere out there is a cowboy who’ll appreciate your country-music tastes.’ He’s laughing at his own joke now and it wasn’t even that funny.
‘I have one tomorrow night actually. A date, I mean. So, you know, I have options . . . and I refuse to be defined by my interest in ONE musical genre, you big snob. This was just . . . I have no idea what this was. I’m going. Tell Jessie J I said hi. Oh, stop laughing.’
As I creep out into the hallway I’m greeted by unwelcoming cold air and distressingly bright fluorescent lighting. I keep my head down and my heel-clopping to a minimum as I begin my walk of shame down to the waiting taxicab. ‘Nice to meet you, Cat!’ he yells after me. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘Doubtful!’ I call back, and I make a mental note to avoid the Filmhouse for the rest of my life. Thirty minutes later I’m home, in bed, asking myself just one question:
What in the name of fuck just happened there?
It’s nearly 3 a.m. but I text Kerry anyway because I’m full of bewilderment, annoyance and a variety of words which I must share with her immediately:
MEN ARE WEIRD. Great flat, incredible sex but then he turned into a cold, arrogant prick because I write stuff. HE HATES COUNTRY MUSIC. What was I thinking?
I plug my iPod into Grace’s bunny speaker and turn on Johnny Cash, silently berating myself for going home with the wanker of the week.
Chapter Eleven
Despite feeling worse for wear after my night with Dylan, I take Grace for breakfast as planned. As I step outside into the morning the light dazzles my eyes and I slip on a pair of sunglasses, not caring how pretentious I look. We pop across the road to Fee’s Cafe where I grab a table in the corner and Grace happily plonks herself down on the comfy brown sofa.
‘I want sausages, Mum. And some toast. But not the toast with the seeds. Real toast. The white kind.’
I don’t protest. Instead I call the waiter over and let a delighted Grace order for herself, before I ask for all the caffeine with an extra shot.
Grac
e swings her legs, eats her sausages and tells me important things about Lego ninjas while I nod and nurse my coffee. I know it’s not only the effect of the wine last night that’s making me tired – it’s the fact that I haven’t gone three rounds with anyone and crawled into bed at 3 a.m. for a very long time. This is a young woman’s game; what am I playing at? I’m not twenty-two any more; I’m hurtling towards forty at breakneck speed. And what the hell was Dylan all about?
‘Mum? MUM.’
‘Sorry, Gracey. I was, um . . . thinking about your Lego men. What did you say?’
‘I was asking if I can have a muffin to take to Dad’s.’
‘Sure – one of the small ones though. You’ve just demolished a grown man’s breakfast.’
‘Can we go to the big toy shop after this? Marie from school said they have about a million loom bands.’
‘Yes, OK, for a wee while, but we have to get to your dad’s by three. I’m going out later.’
‘Aunt Helen told me you have a date.’
‘Your Aunt Helen has a big mouth. It’s just dinner.’
‘You should wear your white dress. You look pretty in that.’
‘Kerry told me not to.’
‘Kerry is kind of weird.’
‘You’re a very smart girl.’
She agrees and skips off to choose a muffin while I text Peter to let him know what time we’ll be there.
*
Peter is pottering around in the garden when we get there, wearing cargo trousers and an overly tight T-shirt. Grace immediately gravitates towards the garden shears as if she’s being pulled there by a tractor beam.
‘Do not touch them, Grace,’ Peter says, without even turning around. ‘They’re sharp.’
She changes course and instead runs inside with her blueberry muffin. We all live to see another day.
‘Jeez, you look rough,’ he says, now looking directly at my dark-circled eye sockets. Cheeky bastard.
‘Oh, I’m fine, but never mind me – have you been working out?!’ I ask him in my best ‘astounded’ voice.
‘Me?’ he asks, surprised. He looks down at his stomach. ‘No . . .?’
‘Didn’t think so . . . Anyhow, must dash!’
‘Yes, you must be struggling out here in the daylight, Anne Rice!’ he retorts, looking pleased with himself.
‘You do know she just writes about vampires. She isn’t actually one herself.’
He doesn’t answer, just carries on pulling weeds, but I can tell he’ll be kicking himself when I leave.
‘Always a pleasure, Peter. Anyway, I have a date to get ready for. Text me when you’re bringing Grace back tomorrow.’
*
I get to the restaurant at eight on the dot, wearing my white dress because Kerry isn’t the boss of me; Grace is.
The overly animated hostess greets me and takes my coat, telling me that ‘the other party’ hasn’t arrived yet and ‘Would I like to have a drink at the bar while I wait?’
‘Hell, yes,’ I tell her, quite seriously, and grab the cocktail menu with both hands while she points me in the direction of the booze. I’m still a tad thrown after last night’s escapades. I know it’s unlikely that I’ll ever see Dylan again, but it doesn’t stop me thinking about him naked . . . Jesus, I’m about to have a date with wholesome, handsome Tom and I’ve brought along the sarcastic naked man with an enormous penis who now lives in my head. I need that drink.
I scan the cocktail menu, impressed with just how many ways there are for a person to get completely fucking legless. I’m pretty sure getting pissed before your date arrives is frowned upon by Guy Wright, but given the circumstances, I really couldn’t give two hoots what the book says about that. The ‘Porn-Star Martini’ looks good, but no way am I asking for that – I’m not on a fucking hen night.
‘Pear and Apple Martini, please.’
The barman nods and begins the laborious task of carefully mixing something that will be thrown in one go down my throat, hardly touching the sides.
I lift my fancy glass and sink into a soft leather couch, watching the door for Tom’s arrival like a nervous Labrador. Thankfully I’m not the only person waiting alone so I don’t feel the need to whip out my phone and pretend to text someone just yet. I take a long drink of my martini and begin to calm down and remember why I’m here. The rules of engagement are back on. I got side-tracked but this is my opportunity to redeem myself. All I have to do is pretend last night never happened, remember my rules and play it cool.
Ten minutes later the door opens and Tom walks in. He gives his name to the hostess and then waves over, smiling. A group of women standing at the bar are unashamedly staring at him as I saunter over to greet him with a walk that says ‘WINNER’.
‘Sorry, am I late?’ he asks, kissing my cheek. He smells of Armani.
‘Not at all,’ I reply, even though he is. ‘Great to see you.’
Perfect start. Not too eager and just friendly enough. Bonus points for not straddling him.
The hostess leads us into the main restaurant, where a nervous young waitress named Lorna seats us beside the window. Outside there’s a drunken man in a black suit, trying to light his cigarette at the wrong end.
‘Our special tonight is pan-fried sea bass,’ recites Lorna, handing us two large white menus. ‘Can I bring you some drinks?’
I’m about to ask for a gin and tonic when Tom cuts in –
‘We’ll decide what we’re eating before we choose wine. Just some water for the table at the moment.’
Lorna nods and goes to fetch some while I debate whether grabbing Tom by his shirt collar and yelling, ‘LET’S NOT DO THAT EVER AGAIN, SHALL WE?’ into his face is appropriate first-date etiquette. I’m sure such a thing would be frowned upon by Guy Wright – but seriously? Is this the 1950s? I decide to bite my tongue.
Tom smiles at me, like a man who likes to decide things on behalf of women.
‘You look very nice, Cat.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply courteously. ‘You too.’ It’s true.
‘Your dress is pretty. Very simple.’
Simple? This cost £99 in Monsoon. It’s a fucking work of art. I just smile, but he realizes what he’s implied.
‘Sorry, I meant classy – not simple. I’m just nervous; I think I’ve forgotten how to do this. Forgive me?’
Unbutton your shirt and I’ll think about it.
‘Of course, don’t worry!’ I reassure him. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
We both take a few minutes to look at the menu before Lorna returns.
‘I’m going to have the sirloin. Medium rare,’ Tom announces. ‘Have you decided, Cat?’
What I really want is a big fuck-off burger with hand-cut chips and onion rings, but The Rules of Engagement states I must ‘maintain my air of refinement’, which is hard to do with relish running down my chin. I order a rump steak, well done, and a side salad, and plan to get chips on my way home.
‘Can we have a bottle of Merlot too? Oh, wait, how rude of me. Do you like Merlot, Cat?’
‘Yes, that’s fine with me.’ I thank Lorna as she takes the menus away and feel a little silly for judging Tom so quickly. For all I know, his ex-wife liked him to take charge over dinner. I wonder if she liked him to take charge in the bedroom too . . . Dylan was pretty confident . . .
‘Cat?’
Tom’s voice jolts me back to reality.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?’
He laughs. ‘You were miles away there. I asked if you had a good day?’
If it wasn’t for my strict guidelines, I’d tell him how Grace and I went to Hamleys and had a light-sabre battle which Grace won, but caused the untimely deaths of Peppa Pig and a giant panda who were caught in the crossfire. Then I would share how Grace and I sat on green beanbags in Waterstones and read
about Vikings, before she went to see her dad, who was dressed like a nineties boy-band member. But I’m wary of talking overly much and breaking the rules, so instead I reply:
‘I did. Spent it with my daughter – you know, usual stuff. And you?’
Tom tells me all about his day in detail: the gym, catching up on paperwork, looking online for a new sofa . . . because he’s allowed to talk about himself and he does it very well, coming across as an actual person and not a vacant stuffed dummy with no personality or interests.
Dinner is actually rather pleasant, as is the conversation. Tom grew up in Sussex, he met his ex-wife Kathryn at university and they married at twenty-two. No kids, no pets and one older brother, Stephen, who lives in Germany. I tell him about my life in minimal detail – he already knows I have a daughter, a cat and a meddlesome sister who lives across the hall. He thinks this is intriguing.
‘How did that happen?’ he asks. ‘I mean, I get on with my brother, but I don’t think I’d like him living so close.’
‘The previous tenant went into a nursing home,’ I respond dutifully. ‘Helen found out before it went on the rental market and it seemed like a good idea at the time . . . I mean, she can be intrusive at times, but she’s a huge help with Grace.’
Despite my tedious demeanour, he doesn’t appear to be bored in the slightest, even declaring over the wine that, ‘It’s so nice to meet someone who doesn’t feel the need to talk just for the sake of it.’ Bah, it’s starting to feel like Guy Wright might be on to something here.
As our empty coffee cups are taken away, Tom asks Lorna for the bill, which she promptly brings over. I reach into my bag and pull out my purse, plus an old tissue, which I quickly stuff back inside. Tom sees this and motions me to stop.
‘Put that away.’
‘The tissue?’
‘No, silly, your purse. I’ll get this.’
Ugh, here we go. I’m not supposed to let him pay on the first date.
‘No, let’s go halves. Please? I’d feel better if we did.’
No, I fucking wouldn’t. I’d rather spend my fifty pounds on something new and sparkly, but that’s not allowed.
I Followed the Rules Page 12
