I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, giving Kerry a hug. She smells like a mixture of Gucci Rush and hairspray. ‘So, Kieran, tell me about this party.’

  ‘Friend of mine. Beth. Birthday party.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘She’s very nice, very loud and very sensitive about her age. Apparently this is her forty-second birthday but I reckon it’s more like her fiftieth. I’m forty and she’s waaaaaay ahead of me in the ageing department.’

  Kerry makes a miaowing sound and playfully slaps him on the back of the head. He turns round and purrs. God, those two are sickening.

  ‘And she’s an actress? How do you know her?’ I ask, glancing at Kerry’s jeans and trainers and wondering if I should have dressed down. ‘Have you been secretly treading the boards?’

  ‘No. I used to go out with her daughter Hannah,’ he replies. ‘A few years ago now.’ He roots around for some money in his Diesel jeans. Kerry glares at the back of his head, clearly annoyed by this revelation.

  ‘Did you now, Kieran? So essentially we’re going to your ex-mother-in-law’s party? Will there be a big fuck-off reunion between you and Hannah?’

  Kieran sighs. ‘We were never that serious, Kerry, and I’ve seen her since we split. She’s just a mate. Behave yourself.’

  The taxi pulls into Woodlands Drive and stops outside number three. Kerry gets out first, quickly followed by me, while Kieran pays the driver. She fixes the bow on the pink champagne they’ve brought for Beth.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask her quietly.

  She smiles and whispers, ‘I love it when he tells me to behave – it’s so masterful. Anyway, I’ve seen Hannah before – she looks like Gary Busey AND she still lives with her mum. Nothing to worry about.’

  I laugh as Kieran exits the taxi and we all make our way into the flat.

  I can hear the party from the stairwell as we climb the stone stairs to the third floor. The door is ajar so we let ourselves in and are immediately greeted by an unenthusiastic dog, pounding music and the sound of a woman shrieking with laughter.

  Kieran grins. ‘That’s Beth. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

  Beth Hope, real name Elizabeth Dick (changed ten years ago for obvious reasons), is a petite brunette actress who shares a spacious three-bedroom tenement flat with her blonde daughter Hannah and their astoundingly lazy greyhound, Harry. Although I didn’t recognize the name, her face is instantly identifiable; she’s one of those actresses that pops up everywhere, from bit parts on soap operas to adverts for car insurance, and although I want to yell, ‘I KNOW YOU! YOU PLAYED THAT ABUSIVE MARKET TRADER ON EASTENDERS! I WATCHED THAT! YOU WERE MUCH LARGER THEN’ I bite my tongue and shake her hand politely, thanking her for inviting me.

  ‘Thank you all for coming! Girls, take that bottle into the kitchen and grab yourselves a drink. Kieran – how the hell are you? Have you seen that dreadful light installation at the CCA? Hannah’s just taking coats to the spare room; she’ll be back in a second. CAN SOMEONE GET HARRY OFF THE COUCH, PLEASE?’

  Kerry and I walk out of the living room and across the brightly lit hall. There are a small number of guests in the kitchen, most of them propped up against the black fitted worktops, with a few sitting at the kitchen table, swigging from plastic wine glasses and beer bottles. Kerry places the pink champagne beside the other twenty-two bottles of birthday fizz and lifts an open one, pouring us both a glass.

  ‘I told you!’ she announces quietly. ‘It’s always the same at these things. We’ll see Kieran in a couple of hours when he remembers he actually came here with us.’

  ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ I ask, looking around for some orange juice to add to my horribly dry cava. Two women leave their seats at the table and we grab them, knowing we’ll be here for a while.

  ‘Not really. His close friends are lovely and fun, but his wider circle of artistic bores leaves me cold a lot of the time.’

  ‘You two really are so different,’ I remark. ‘And for someone who hates creative types, you’re dating a graphic designer and your best mate is a writer. You can’t hate them that much.’

  ‘It’s the pretentiousness I hate!’ She laughs. ‘That wankerish air of superiority that seems to cling to some people who’ve read some tricky books or think having a three-hour conversation about the position of a light bulb is acceptable. They’re just not silly enough for me and I’m probably too uninspiring for them. I’ll never be anyone’s muse.’

  After three glasses of wine we finally decide to mingle a little, making our way towards the music blasting from the living room. My sensible head is telling me that any minute the police will show up because of the noise, but my feet appear to be dancing already.

  I spot Kieran talking to Hannah, and Beth is getting twirled around the dance floor by a younger man in a trilby. Harry the dog is still claiming his rightful place on the couch, but I have the feeling it won’t be long before someone gets pissed and sits on him. Surprisingly, Kerry doesn’t make a beeline for Kieran, choosing instead to start a conversation with a guy hanging out beside Beth’s antique display cabinet. I stand alone for a moment, taking it all in. Kieran waves me over.

  ‘Hannah, this is Cat.’

  I shake Hannah’s hand but all I can think of is Gary. Fucking. Busey. Of course Hannah looks nothing like Gary Busey. Well, maybe the teeth, but oh shit, I want to laugh.

  ‘Hannah is a very talented artist,’ Kieran informs me. ‘Most of the paintings in here are her work.’

  I look around the living-room walls at the splodgy modern art while Hannah beams and waits for praise. The last time I was forced to lie about art was when Grace brought home her Primary Two art book, filled with handprints and stick men . . . only Grace’s were better.

  ‘Amazing,’ I reply. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like them.’

  ‘Thank you, Cat. I try to capture the brutality and honesty of my life in my work. It’s cathartic, but I do sometimes wonder why I put myself through it. Oh, look, there’s Lynne. Forgive me – I must say hello.’

  Hannah flounces off and I glance at Kieran, who’s trying very, very hard not to lose it. I’m not so controlled.

  ‘HA HA, you shit! You totally set me up. Whoever the hell Lynne is, she just saved me from being horribly rude to a terrible artist. I thought you liked all this arty stuff?’

  ‘Normally I do, but these are awful. Her paintings sell very well though,’ replies Kieran, still laughing. ‘Admittedly her mum buys a lot of them, but still, she has quite the following.’

  ‘Like Charles Manson?’

  ‘Pah. Hannah is lovely, but sadly she’s rapidly disappearing up her own arse. She used to be much more down to earth. Shame. Anyway, where’s Kerry?’

  I point towards the antique cabinet, where Kerry is now dancing with the random man. Kieran doesn’t look the least bit bothered; he’s actually smiling.

  ‘She’s doing this on purpose. First the argument about Hannah and now the flirting. She wants me to get annoyed.’

  ‘But why?’ I ask, watching Kerry pointedly make eyes at the man, who clearly can’t believe his luck. ‘To make you jealous?’

  ‘Well, yes. And because she knows I’ll use the paddle on her when we get home.’

  ‘Paddle? Like an oar?’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Not quite, Cat.’

  It takes me a moment, but I get there.

  ‘JESUS, KIERAN! I don’t need to know that!’

  ‘I assumed you would already . . . You guys share every­thing, right?’

  ‘NOT THIS!’

  ‘My bad.’ He shrugs. But as I watch him watching her, I get a little pang of jealousy. He’s looking at her the way Dylan looked at me that night. Sheer fucking lust. They still both want each other just as much as when they first met, and I can’t even make it past the first shag.

  Before I manage to completely d
epress myself, a tiny woman in yellow squeezes past me to turn off the stereo before belting out the first line of ‘Happy Birthday’ so loudly I get a fright. Everyone joins in, and Hannah enters with a love-heart-shaped cake, mercifully not inspired by her art, topped with five candles and a sparkler. Just as Beth starts her speech, I see Kieran sneak over to Kerry and whisper something in her ear, while the random man looks on unimpressed. I have no idea what he’s saying, but the smirk on her face gives me a clue. I turn back to Beth, who’s now drunkenly waving the sparkler around like it’s the fifth of November.

  ‘Please make sure you take some cake, and thanks again for coming!’ she slurs. ‘You all spoil me, you really do.’

  Everyone cheers, the dog barks and someone puts on Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’. Time for another drink. I meet Kerry in the kitchen – she has obviously had the same idea.

  ‘Nothing makes me want to drink more than Paul Simon’s solo stuff. More wine, Cat?’

  ‘Yeah. I need to pee though. Where’s the loo?’

  ‘Door at the end of the hall. You got any powder with you? I’m feeling shiny.’

  I chuck my bag at her. ‘It’s in my make-up bag. Back in a sec.’

  The bad thing about house parties is the queue for the bathroom. I’m second in line behind a man wearing red jeans, but already I’m hopping from foot to foot, hoping I don’t sneeze or laugh before it’s my turn. Luckily for me, he’s quick, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief that I won’t be known as Pissy Pants by a room full of strangers. Suddenly there’s a loud knock on the door.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ I yell, looking around for the toilet roll, which has unrolled itself halfway across the floor.

  ‘It’s only me!’ Kerry shouts back. ‘You got a message from Tom! Hurry up, this is killing me.’

  Fuck! I expertly reach across for the loo roll while ensuring my arse hovers above the toilet seat – I don’t trust my pelvic floor not to unleash hell on Beth’s lovely bathroom tiles. Hands washed, I rush back to the kitchen, where Kerry hands me my phone sheepishly. ‘You’ll have to wait for sixty seconds. I couldn’t guess your stupid passcode and I’ve locked you out.’

  ‘You were going to read it?!’ I guess I’m not really surprised; I’d have done the same. We both sit and stare intensely at my phone until it lets me in again and I click on the envelope symbol.

  Down south on family matter but will be back next week. Tom x

  ‘Well, at least he texted,’ I say. ‘And there’s a kiss this time. Maybe his granny died or something.’

  ‘Maybe he’s with his wife.’ I can always rely on Kerry to say the words I don’t want to hear.

  ‘Ex-wife!’ I interject. ‘They’re divorced.’

  Kerry moves in closer. ‘She could be having second thoughts and he’s rushed to London, armed with champagne, hoping for reconciliation.’

  ‘I hope not. I hope it’s something serious. Ugh, now you’ve got me rooting for a death in the family, Kerry.’

  ‘Here’s to dead grannies!’ she toasts. ‘May his reasons for blowing you off this week be unspeakably tragic.’

  I clink glasses with her and down the rest of my cava. Panic is setting in. Without Tom, there is no column and – more importantly – I haven’t seen him naked yet. That would be the real tragedy. Kerry has a dreamy little smirk on her face.

  ‘Stop thinking about Kieran’s paddle; this is about me.’

  ‘What? That’s . . . How did . . .?’

  ‘He told me. You are a pair of monsters and now I have to live with that image in my head forever.’

  Kerry snorts and blushes a little. ‘He’s quite the over-sharer, isn’t he? Don’t be mean, and don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Being blindfolded and—’

  ‘There’s a blindfold too? Jesus, you have this whole sexy, submissive thing going on. I feel impressed and mildly uncomfortable at the same time.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Did you meet Hannah? More wine?’

  I hold out my glass and Kerry fills it halfway. ‘Nice deflection, Kerry, and yes, I met Hannah – and admired her artwork.’

  We stare silently at each other.

  Kerry speaks first. ‘Do you think she painted them with her feet or her mouth?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ I reply, casually looking around to make sure Hannah isn’t standing behind me. ‘I’m more inclined to think Harry the dog did them.’

  There’s a crash from the living room, and moments later Kieran appears at the kitchen door. ‘Beth’s fallen over. She’s fine, but I think the party’s over, ladies. Grab your coats.’

  We hover in the doorway as Kieran says his goodbyes, and then make our way back down the stairs and try to call a taxi. The cold night air adds at least seventeen units to my blood-alcohol level and I’m forced to sit on the kerb until either the taxi arrives or the street stops spinning. The journey home is a bit of a blur, but with a little help from Kerry, I make it to my front door without incident.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to crash with us tonight?’ she asks, taking away my keys as I try to open the letter box. ‘Will you be OK alone?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she opens the door and turns on the hall light. I throw my handbag in the direction of the living room. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I mumble. ‘I’m going to make toast.’

  ‘Oh Christ, don’t cook anything. Just go to bed.’

  We clumsily hug goodnight before I locate my bedroom and throw myself into bed. I hear Kerry locking the front door and then the jingle as she posts my keys through the letter box.

  As I drift off, I feel the soft thud of Heisenberg jumping on to the bed beside me, quickly followed by a whack on the head from a sturdy paw. I fucking hate that cat.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You know I’m loving your column, Cat,’ Natasha announces as I take a seat in her office on Monday. ‘I understand that it hasn’t changed your life, but I do feel that you’re being a tad overcritical with regards to the author.’

  ‘Am I?’

  She lifts a copy of the magazine, already open at my page. ‘If Guy Wright isn’t a friendless, loveless Neanderthal, I’ll be very surprised.’

  I laugh. ‘He deserves it! He’s filling women’s minds full of shite that only exists in his own twisted world. He’s trying to turn us into robotic—’

  ‘He’s been in touch,’ she interrupts, handing me a printed email. ‘Seems he reads your column.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ I laugh.

  ‘Nope, have a look.’

  From: Wright, Guy

  To: Carling, Natasha

  Subject: Glasgow Girl

  Dear Natasha,

  Would it be possible for you to give me a call regarding Glasgow Girl’s current columns involving my book? I feel there are matters we need to discuss.

  I look forward to speaking with you at your earliest convenience.

  Guy Wright

  I hand her back the email. ‘Well, when you speak to him, just tell him that—’

  ‘We’ve already spoken. He’s quite charming. And keep the email, you might need his number – you’re meeting him for lunch today.’

  My stomach flips. ‘Seriously? WHY?’

  ‘Because even though I offered to meet with him, he was insistent on meeting you personally. Be good for the newspaper – he very rarely speaks to the press apparently, despite all the hype.’

  I think back to all the ridiculous hoops I’ve had to jump through lately and cannot believe I have to have lunch with that horse’s ass. ‘But, Natasha, he can’t meet me . . . I’m anonymous!’

  ‘So is he. Table is booked for twelve thirty at Yen. We’re paying. Go and see what he wants. Push for an interview.’

  I stand up, email in hand, feeling confused but intrigued. I’ve done so many interviews, but never one where I’ve been on the receiv
ing end of the heat.

  ‘And Cat? Be nice, please.’

  I nod and shuffle out of her office. Why does he want to see me? Is he going to bribe me to be nicer about him? Is he going to sue me? Shit, maybe he’s going to punch me in the face over crispy beef and noodles. Still, at least I’ll get to tell him what I think of his book – not that he doesn’t know already.

  I give Kerry a call at her office, hoping she’ll be able to calm me down.

  ‘Listen, you know that dating book I’m doing?’ I say, lowering my voice so Patrick doesn’t hear me. ‘The author has summoned me to lunch. Stop laughing!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but why the hell did you say yes? You’ve been a complete bitch about his book!’

  ‘I don’t have a choice. He arranged it with Natasha and she’s making me. I’m dreading it, to be honest. I bet he’s some middle-aged man with a spray tan and hair plugs who thinks he’s God’s gift.’

  ‘Probably. Just keep your cool. Don’t yell at him.’

  ‘Of course not. Anyway, I need to shoot off. Will let you know how I get on.’

  As lunchtime draws near, I slip into the ladies’ room to freshen up my make-up. I don’t want to look like I’ve made an effort for him, but I don’t want him to be staring at the spot on my chin or my shiny forehead all through lunch. I apply some concealer, freshen up my blusher and run a brush through my hair, annoyed with myself for giving a shit about what he might think of me. One final look in the mirror and I’m ready to meet Guy fucking Wright. I hope he’s ready to meet me.

  *

  ‘Table for one?’

  Dining alone, madam? Would you like to see our single-as-fuck specials menu?

  I glance around the brightly lit, half-empty restaurant, searching for a man sitting alone with an ego the size of Australia for company.

  ‘No, I’m meeting someone. Table is booked under “Wright”.’ I feel a little nervous and wipe my clammy hands on my grey suit. Thank God I wore it today. I love this suit. It makes me feel like I’m in charge. I feel like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl.