‘Well, on one condition,’ he replies. ‘You let me pay next time.’
THIRD-DATE ALERT. I hadn’t even considered this. I was too busy trying to both follow the rules AND not think about Dylan. But Tom is a lovely man – he’s kind and gentle and handsome as hell. PLUS dating Tom can help me rectify last night’s unfortunate ‘situation’. Dylan was just a mistake. A well-endowed, charming, infuriating mistake.
‘That would be great!’ I reply warmly. ‘It’s a deal.’ I know that I’m grinning stupidly, but I can’t help it. I’m now one step closer to being felt up by a dentist.
Tom and I both hand over our cards to Lorna who splits the total between the two and hands us our receipts. Tom leaves her a ten-pound tip and she’s so grateful she thanks him twice. I retrieve my coat on the way out, which Tom helps me slip into, and seconds later we’re outside on Bothwell Street, awkwardly wondering what to do next. I decide to call it a night before I recommend we both get pissed and blow my cover.
‘Give me a call during the week,’ I say casually. ‘We can arrange something then.’
‘You don’t want to grab a nightcap somewhere?’ He looks surprised that I’m leaving so soon. I’m more surprised that he’s used the word nightcap after 1970, but still, it seems my ‘whatever’ attitude is working.
‘No, sorry. I have to get Grace early,’ I lie. ‘But maybe next time?’ I spy a taxi approaching with its light on and raise my hand. ‘Do you want to share a cab?’
Before long we’re sitting in the back of a cab, heading towards the Southside.
‘I don’t even know where you live,’ I say as we pass the O2 Academy. ‘Oh, look, Paloma Faith was playing tonight!’
‘Hmm, she’s a little bit crazy for me,’ he remarks. ‘I’m more of a Mumford and Sons man myself; and I’m renting a house in Newlands. For the moment anyway.’
I love Paloma Faith. Mumford and Sons? Oh sweet Jesus.
‘Newlands is lovely!’ I reply overenthusiastically. And by ‘lovely’, I mean ‘expensive’. I wonder what his house is like. I bet it has a conservatory.
The taxi makes its way through the unusually quiet Southside streets, past the local boozers and supermarkets before stopping outside my front door as directed. I offer Tom money for my fare, but he refuses to take it. I make an informed decision not to spend ten minutes stubbornly insisting ‘YOU SHALL NOT FUND MY EXTRAVAGANT LIFESTYLE, SIR!’ and put my purse back in my bag.
‘Well, thanks for a lovely evening.’ I tuck my hair behind my ear and feel rather coy. Which is weird. Last night I was having my dress unzipped by a man I just met, and tonight I’m nervously wondering whether a goodnight kiss is appropriate or even allowed. However, before I have time to deliberate, Tom leans in and kisses my cheek.
‘I’ll call you this week. I had a great night, Cat.’
‘Me too. Speak soon.’
I exit the taxi and wave as he’s driven off towards Newlands. I can still feel his kiss on my cheek and I sigh. Once inside, I let Heisenberg in through the window. He completely blanks me and heads for the kitchen. I follow him through and open a tin of cat food, talking to myself as I spoon it out. Actually, it was a really great night. He’s intelligent, kind and handsome. I leave the obnoxious furry one to feast on his beefy jellied mush and retreat to bed thinking, Maybe calm and composed is exactly what I need.
*
For once, it’s Kerry who wakes me up at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. on a Sunday.
‘Get up and meet me for lunch. I need to hear everything that’s been going on.’
I sit upright, rubbing my eyes. ‘I would, but I don’t plan on getting dressed today.’
‘Unacceptable. They’re doing Sumo Sundays at Yo Sushi. All you can eat for twenty pounds. You don’t really expect to have liaisons with two different men and think you can just NOT GIVE ME DETAILS.’
‘I would have called you when—’
‘Cat, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in two years. Now put some fucking clothes on and I’ll pick you up at one.’
*
The shopping centre is packed full of people who somehow think it’s normal to be vertical on a Sunday. Kerry has insisted that I don’t utter a word about my shenanigans until we’re sitting at a booth and she’s ordered a spicy tuna and cucumber hand roll. As we wait for a table, she tells me that her boss Jessica was caught shagging the new temp Emma in her Fiat Punto.
‘Everyone is talking about how she’s abused her position of power . . . I’m just shocked that on her salary Jessica only drives a fucking Punto.’
‘I miss working in a really busy place,’ I moan. ‘There’s never any work gossip in my life. I’m either working from home or in that tiny office with those four maniacs. I cannot wait till we all move into the new premises.’
‘Yeah, it’s a good laugh, although I’ve been there nine years and I still don’t know everyone’s name. There’s one guy I speak to every day and I think his name’s Jim, but secretly I call him Prince cos he’s really tiny but you still would.’
‘Good to know.’
Our server is a twenty-something man with a dubious moustache and a blue plastic watch. ‘Can I get you green tea or miso soup?’
I order soup and watch the tiny dishes move past on the conveyor belt. Kerry points out that green tea tastes like shit, and the waiter doesn’t disagree. I grab some ebi nigiri from the belt and reach for the chopsticks.
‘That’s all you ever eat in here.’
‘Not true!’ I protest, snapping the chopsticks in half. ‘I also eat cucumber maki and those dumpling things. I’m just not that crazy about sushi. I’m always starving afterwards.’
‘I’m starving now. Grab me those inari pockets, will you? Fucking hell – look! There’s Karen Stevens. She hasn’t changed much.’
I turn in the direction of Kerry’s glare and see our old high-school classmate briskly walking towards the exit. She’s wearing very high over-the-knee boots that keep slipping on the smooth floor.
‘I wonder if she’s still a gigantic bitch,’ I muse, secretly hoping she’ll fall on her arse. ‘Remember when she brought in those pro-life leaflets to school because Allison Brown had an abortion? Wicked cow.’
‘She works in recruitment now,’ Kerry says through a mouthful of sushi. ‘So I’m guessing the answer is yes.’
The waiter brings my soup in a small brown bowl. I thank him but he isn’t listening. Kerry pours herself some fizzy water from the table tap. ‘Anyway, I didn’t bring you here to talk about Karen Stevens; I want to know what happened with your two boys.’
‘Ugh, where do I start?’
‘Start with the Filmhouse man . . . Please don’t tell me he was shit in bed. I’ll be crushed.’
I grab my second plate off the belt. ‘He wasn’t; in fact he was sublime. You know the way one-night stands are usually all awkward and . . .’
‘Rushed?’
‘Exactly. This wasn’t. This was slow and exciting. It was like he was determined to make sure he blew my mind. We had a connection. Well, until . . .’
Kerry is staring at me intently. ‘Well?! What happened?’
‘Afterwards he went all weird. Distant, y’know? Like he’d just spent hours making sure every part of my body came into contact with his tongue, and then he was all “See ya!” and pushing me out the door at two a.m. If we’d had an average time, I could understand it, but up until then I really thought we’d clicked. I did let it slip about the column though; that might be the reason.’
Kerry drops her chopsticks and frowns. ‘Why would he care about you writing a column? I think it’s more likely that he’s just a prize wanker. He could have at least pretended to give a shit until you left.’
‘EXACTLY!’ The waiter with the blue watch glances my way and I lower my voice. ‘So let’s just say, I don’t expect I�
��ll be hearing from Dylan any time soon.’
‘Shame, I had high hopes for him. I told Kieran I thought you had met the one.’
‘Oh, behave. If I end up with a shithead like him, I’ll kill myself. Tom is a much better prospect.’
She picks up her chopsticks and hits them off mine. ‘Yes! Fuck Dylan right in his sexy, sexy face. This Tom one sounds much saner.’
‘He is, and he’s very polite . . . and sweet! There’s a lot to be said for sweet.’
‘Sweet?’
‘Yes. A gentleman.’
Kerry purses her lips together and sits quietly.
‘Oh, come on, what the hell is wrong with sweet? Kieran is sweet!’
Kerry laughs. ‘Sweet? On our second date Kieran whispered in my ear that he was going to shag me until I couldn’t walk. His words, not mine. See? You’re blushing now and so was I. Those are not the words of a “sweet” man.’
‘Perhaps if I wasn’t pretending to be so bloody repressed, he would be more forthcoming . . .’
Kerry grins. ‘That boy is going to get a fucking shock when you finally unleash. You sure you want to keep doing it this way?’
I pause and pour some more soy sauce into my little bowl. ‘Not really, but I am nothing if not dedicated to my job. Besides, Tom’s handsome as hell. I have a strong, sexual need to see where this goes.’
Kerry picks up a pink-rimmed plate and makes a face at the contents. ‘I can tell you how this will go, Cat. He’ll fall madly in love with the prim and proper you, until one morning he’ll catch you dancing in your pants to Azealia Banks with your hair in bunches and he’ll have you sectioned.’
‘That’s unfair. I defy anyone to listen to “212” and not dance like they’ve been tasered.’
‘I agree, but Tom might be hoping he wakes up to a girl who tiptoes around to “Tubular Bells” in the mornings.’
‘I’m not Linda Blair, Kerry.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. Something inoffensive and twinkly.’
I have no idea what she means.
*
Kerry drops me back home at three, promising to call later. I plan to creep back into bed for an hour before Grace comes home, but Helen corners me in the hallway.
‘I can’t believe you haven’t let me know how your date with Tom went.’
‘Jeez, Helen, it was only last night. Give me a break.’
She places her hands on her hips and frowns. ‘That doesn’t answer my question. You didn’t blow it, did you?’
‘No! It was great. He’s really nice. We’ll be meeting up again.’
Her frown vanishes and her face explodes with happiness. ‘THAT’S WONDERFUL! I KNEW HE WAS THE MAN FOR YOU!’
‘Christ, calm down. He hasn’t proposed.’
‘Oh, I know. I’m just pleased you’re getting another date. It’s hopeful!’
‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’ I take the keys from my pocket and begin unlocking my front door. ‘We’ll see how it goes. What are you up to today?’
I turn around but she has already vanished back inside, presumably to excitedly report to Adam that her sister isn’t such a lost cause after all.
*
I’ve hit the mid-week blues and find myself ignoring three copywriting jobs I’m supposed to be finishing up in favour of drinking a frozen margarita I found at the back of my freezer while half watching an episode of Criminal Minds I’ve already seen. Secretly I know I’m distracted because it’s Thursday and Tom still hasn’t been in touch to arrange our next date. I’m becoming one of those women who might as well be pacing the streets of Glasgow, dressed in a sandwich board that reads: ‘WHY THE FUCK HASN’T HE CALLED?’ Should I text him? I have his number stored from the last text; I could easily drop him a ‘Hey, are we still on for this week?’ light-hearted, no pressure, dripping with desperation text . . . No, I’m not fucking allowed to, so what can I do?
I call Kerry.
‘He’s probably just busy. It happens. Call him.’
‘I’m not supposed to call him.’
She sighs loudly. ‘Get the book and tell me what it says.’
I grab my copy of The Rules of Engagement and turn to Rule 4 – ‘Don’t Harass Him.’
‘It says, “By texting or calling him every seven minutes, you’re telling him that you have nothing else going on in your sad life.”’
‘Ha ha, does it really say that? What else?’
I’m a little annoyed that she finds this all so funny. ‘“Stop making it easy for him. Let him do the work,”’ I continue. ‘This is so bloody clichéd. So, what? I should make it hard for him? Like go into hiding?’
‘You should challenge him.’
‘Challenge him to what? A duel? Turn my life into one long episode of Takeshi’s Castle? Is that challenging enough?’
Kerry snorts down the phone.
‘And what if I do call him? Would it really be so bad? What’s the worst that can happen? I interrupt him watching fucking Babestation?’
‘Calm down, Cat.’
I toss the book back on to the coffee table. ‘This bloody book is turning me into a prize idiot, and I still have very little to write about this week, other than Saturday’s uneventful dinner date. I need more!’
‘Listen, if he doesn’t call, then fuck him. I’m sure your editor will understand that you can’t force these things.’
‘No, forcing it is exactly what she’ll expect me to do.’
‘Right, well. Oh! Before I forget, Kieran and I are going to some actor’s birthday party in the West End on Saturday night. Do you have Grace?’
‘No, she’s at Peter’s. Which actor?’
‘Beth someone. Kieran knows her. I think she was in EastEnders once? I’m just about to google her so I can pretend I’m familiar with her work. Want to come?’
‘I don’t want to be a third wheel. I won’t know anyone. I can see it now: you and Kieran getting all kissy and me standing in the corner wondering why I came.’
‘Oh, say you’ll come,’ she pleads. ‘It’ll be you and me in the corner while Kieran talks about design with the rest of the arty twats. I need you to come. He always forgets about me at these things and I end up getting far too pissed to compensate.’
‘Hmm. I dunno. I have an article due and—’
‘Fuck work. We’ll pick you up in a taxi at seven. And let me know if he calls!’
Then she hangs up the bloody phone before I can argue. She always does that and it always works. I switch off Criminal Minds and begin writing my column for Saturday.
The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 1 November 2014
I Followed the Rules
Glasgow Girl has some news.
I had my second date with Mr X this week. Yes, I know. I’m awesome. Quieten down . . .
As I describe my date with Tom, it occurs to me that although I wasn’t funny, entertaining or even particularly charming, I didn’t spending the evening vying for his attention either, so I’m begrudgingly giving Mr Wright a point for that. I end the column in my usual cynical manner:
Date three is on the cards, and hopefully at the end of all this I’ll either have a brand-new boyfriend or just be much, much older than I once was.
Forty-seven delightfully distracting minutes later, I email the copy to Natasha, feeling pleased that writing about Tom has taken my mind off him and all of the reasons he might not have called.
WHY HASN’T HE CALLED?
*
The next morning, I’m sitting at the table writing an advertorial for a handbag company when Natasha phones.
‘Hey, Cat; I’ve got your copy for Saturday’s mag.’
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes! Online comments are increasing every week. I just wanted to check you’ve got something exciting lined up for next week?’
‘Oh, of course. I have another date with Mr X in a couple of days,’ I lie. ‘I’m sure things will start to get, erm, exciting!’
‘Great. I’ll look forward to it. Speak soon.’
Bollocks. If that fucking dentist doesn’t call, I’m up shit creek. As if writing about handbags wasn’t bad enough, this conversation has officially ruined my morning. I glance at the clock on my laptop – 11.30, which means it’s coffee time. I save my Word document and switch on iTunes. Sometimes music is the only thing guaranteed to lift my mood. While I’m putting the kettle on, the shuffle function decides to play Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash, and my desire to sway is suddenly overridden by thoughts of Dylan and his contempt for country music. Then I start thinking about how he began undressing, how he unzipped me, and by the time I get to him holding me down on his bed, the kettle has boiled and I’m so aroused I want to dry-hump the kitchen table. Damn him. I wonder if he ever thinks of me.
*
Instead of me driving Grace to Peter’s house, he picks her up – they’re going to the new American diner that’s opened in town. Grace decides to wear her best frilly dress, along with a leather jacket and some plastic shoes, and I don’t object. There will be plenty of time for wearing clothes that actually match each other when she’s a grown-up. I wave her off and start getting ready for the birthday party Kerry is dragging me along to.
An hour later I’m wearing a pretty polka-dot dress, killer heels and frantically painting my nails before the taxi comes. This party had better be worth it; I could have been in bed watching Orange Is the New Black.
The taxi arrives at five past seven. I grab my black poncho and hurry towards the front door, almost tripping over Heisenberg in my rush to get out. He miaows while doing a little sprint towards my bedroom and I’m sure I’ll come back to find he’s spitefully pissed in my slippers for having the cheek to be walking where he was.
It’s a surprisingly chilly evening, but I run the risk of messing up my perfectly set curls if I attempt to pull this poncho on, so instead I gallop over to the taxi, mumbling, ‘cold, cold, COLD!’ until I’m safe and warm inside the car. I climb into the back seat beside Kerry and say hello. Kieran, who’s busily tapping on his phone in the front seat, doesn’t look round but manages a short ‘All right, Cat?’
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