I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Ah yes, follow me.’ The young waitress leads me to a table at the back of the room. I spy a table of three women and a couple sharing dumplings in a booth, but no sign of a dating Nazi. I breathe a small sigh of relief and order a glass of wine. I don’t care if it’s lunchtime; if I’m going to be forced to endure this slimy idiot for the next hour, I’ll need a drink.

  I take out my notepad and phone and hunt around in my bag for a pen, instead finding three lipsticks I’d forgotten about and a tiny Moshi Monsters figure that looks like a pirate. I start to panic and dig deeper. There must be a bloody pen in here. What kind of fucking journo goes to a meeting without a pen?

  ‘Hello, Cat.’

  Startled, my head whips around at lightning speed.

  ‘Dylan!’

  Be still my beating loins. He has a lager in one hand and a giant grin on his smug, kissable face. I haven’t seen him in daylight before. I haven’t seen him since . . . Oh shite, now I’m back in his bedroom and he’s pulling my legs over his shoulders and I’m blushing. He’s grinning and I’m a flushed, pen-less fool holding a Moshi Monster.

  ‘You all right?’ he asks, knowing full well I’m more than flabbergasted to see him.

  ‘Yes. Fuck! You surprised me! Sorry, how are you?’ I’m strangely overjoyed to see him, but how can I get rid of him before Guy Wright turns up?

  ‘I’m very well. Is this a bad time?’ He smirks, looking at the little plastic figure I’m holding. ‘Are you on one of your famous dates? He’s a little on the short side.’

  I throw the Moshi bastard back in my bag and compose myself. ‘No, actually I’m working. I’m waiting to interview an author, if he ever shows up.’ I take a gulp of my wine. ‘I can’t find a damn pen. It’s going so well already.’

  ‘I have one you can borrow.’ He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a brushed silver pen. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘I can’t take this; it looks expensive. Can I pawn it after­wards . . .?’

  He laughs. ‘Just give it back to me when you’ve finished your interview.’

  ‘Sure, OK. Thank you, you’re a lifesaver. I’d hate to look unprepared in front of this knob; I’m in his bad books as it is.’

  ‘Oh? Sounds intriguing. Who are you meeting?’

  ‘I’m meeting an author . . . oh, hang on . . .’

  I spy a man in his late forties wearing a bottle-green suit entering the restaurant. He’s dressed like a wanker; it must be him.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and mutter, ‘Right, OK, I think he’s just arrived. I’ll be about an hour. Where are you sitting? I’ll come over after.’

  ‘I’m sitting right here.’

  Dylan places his drink on the table, takes off his jacket and sits down across from me.

  What the fuck?! He can’t sit there. I try and shoo him away.

  ‘Sorry, but, um . . . what the hell are you doing?’

  He signals to the waitress that he’s ready to order. ‘Well, I’m having a meeting with the woman who has been happily shitting all over my book for the past few weeks. Oh, and some Thai beef.’

  ‘Very funny. Look, you have to go, this guy is—’

  ‘Me,’ he interrupts. ‘Oh! How rude of me.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Guy Wright, bestselling author of The Rules of Engagement. Published five years ago and translated into fifteen languages. Millions sold.’

  The man in the green suit sits down at the table with the three women. I look back at Dylan, who’s still holding out his hand. I have no idea what’s happening. I. Just. Stare.

  His hand retreats and he laughs. ‘Natasha said you might be a bit defensive, given my book hasn’t helped you in the old love department and you’re still convinced it’s nothing to do with you . . . Oh yes, please, can I have the Thai beef and another lager? The mute in front of me will have another glass of whatever that is and the Kung Po chicken. Just nod if that’s OK, Cat. Cat?’

  I didn’t even see the waitress standing impatiently beside me – food is the last thing on my mind, but I nod to make her go away.

  Neither of us speaks for about thirty seconds, but then he smiles at me and I cave first. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why all this?’

  ‘I’ll admit, I was tempted to tell you that night, but, well, this is much more fun. Besides, we’d just had sex – it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly.’

  God, he’s smug. I want to stab him with his own pen.

  ‘You’re in no danger of being thought of as gentlemanly. You practically threw me out of your flat!’

  ‘That was just a bonus.’

  He leans back in his chair and I desperately try to push it over using my mind. The waitress arrives and gently places our meals and a pitcher of water on the table. Dylan thanks her while I glare at him.

  ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Buy what?’ he enquires, breaking his chopsticks down the middle.

  ‘That this was just some weird coincidence. That you just happen to take home the woman who’s been slagging off your book. I call bullshit. You planned this, didn’t you?’

  ‘You make a good point.’ He pincers some rice. ‘And the answer is – not entirely.’

  ‘What do you mean? Stop bloody eating and explain yourself.’

  ‘God, you’re demanding. Look, I knew Adrian had invited everyone from the Tribune so I thought there was a good chance the writer who’d been dissing my book might come. I was intrigued to find out who she was.’

  ‘And you didn’t know it was me?’ I grab a glass and pour myself some water. My mouth feels like it’s made of cotton wool.

  ‘Well, Glasgow Girl is anonymous, and you were very open about being a journalist . . . to be honest, I thought it might be your friend Kerry – I didn’t buy the whole works in finance story. She doesn’t look the type.’

  Sounds plausible.

  ‘As for taking you home – believe it or not, I invited you because I was attracted to you. If YOU hadn’t given yourself up, I’d have been none the wiser.’

  I’m not even hungry, but I find myself on autopilot, eating the chicken he’s ordered for me.

  ‘So why am I here, Dylan? I understand that you’re angry that the bad lady called you on your bullshit, but I stand by every word I’ve written. You should grow a thicker skin. I do hope you don’t stalk every critic.’

  He takes a sip of lager, seemingly unfazed by my remarks.

  ‘I’m not angry. A little irked perhaps – any author is by a bad review – but not angry. I’m just curious. Your columns don’t pose any sort of threat to me. This book paid for my lifestyle. I bought that nice pen, invested in a business I happen to really enjoy and I own a lovely flat. You remember my flat, right, Cat?’

  I do. I remember the smell of vanilla and the feeling of the bedroom carpet on my knees and . . . DON’T GO THERE, BRAIN. STAND DOWN, STAND DOWN. ABORT! I drink some more water, struggling to retain my fighting stance.

  ‘Jesus, you’re egotistical, but at least I have something interesting to write about this week. How does “self-obsessed author tricks journalist into bed” grab you?’

  He’s laughing, but I get the sneaky suspicion it’s not with me.

  ‘That would be fun, Cat, but I was thinking something more along the lines of “Journalist is full of shit and writes full and public apology to the handsome author with outstanding hair.” You see, you broke Rule 6 and yet continue to blame my book for the fact you can’t find a proper relationship.’

  My mind stops trying to maim Dylan and searches for Rule 6 in my memory banks. Nothing. Hang on – I only read up to Rule 4. Why the fuck didn’t I read the whole book before I started this?

  ‘But I didn’t get to Rule Six!’ I blurt out. ‘I have no idea what that is.’

  ‘Rule 6 – don’t sleep with him straight away,’ he replies, spearing some beef with
his fork, and eats, motioning me to do the same. ‘You should try some of this beef – it’s really good.’

  ‘But that only applies to dating. We weren’t dating!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. The whole point of your column is that you don’t break the rules. And you did. Game over.’

  ‘Look, what the fuck do you want from me?’

  Without hesitation he replies, ‘I want to make a deal. You had a date the other night, correct?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s—’

  ‘You followed my rules?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘Good, then the deal is you continue to follow the book until the end of your column series, but you follow it properly. Do it like you mean it. And just to show that I’m not a bad sport, I will personally help you out . . . as your own “dating guru”, so to speak. You’ll get your man and I’ll get to see you publicly apologize for trashing my book.’

  ‘But there might not even be another date . . . What if he doesn’t want to see me again?’ I ask, thinking that this might actually be a possibility. The date was two days ago and now he’s disappeared ‘south’.

  ‘If you did what I – sorry – the book told you to, he will. And you’re sexy. He’s definitely asking you out again.’

  ‘Don’t try and flatter me; it won’t work.’

  ‘Sure it will.’

  ‘And, wait, what the hell do you get out of this?’ I reply defiantly.

  He takes another mouthful of lunch. ‘Well, I get the pleasure of proving you wrong. So, what do you think? It’s either that or I tell your editor, your readers and everyone with a Twitter account that we had a very, very dirty one-night stand and you therefore cannot be trusted.’

  ‘You’ll slut-shame me? Seriously?’

  ‘Easy, girl. No, don’t be ridiculous. What I will do is journo-shame you. That’s worse. It seems you’ve attracted quite a following, but no one wants a journalist that makes shit up—’

  ‘That’s why we have authors,’ I goad.

  ‘Please don’t interrupt. Anyway, once I tell them what you’ve been up to, your loyal readership will know you’re a fraud. Remember Julianne Bowers?’

  The manipulative little wanker has a point. I do remember Julianne Bowers. She was a popular health writer for Hey! magazine who followed the Atkins diet for her column at the height of its popularity. Every week she swore to thousands of readers that it was complete tripe, but then a photo of her dining at Prezzo with yards of tagliatelle hanging out of her mouth appeared online, and she was dropped. No one knows where’s she’s working now. I cannot believe that shagging Guy Wright could be my downfall. He could be my tagliatelle.

  ‘Fine, I’ll do it,’ I reluctantly agree. What choice do I have? ‘But I think you’re a devious arsehole, let’s be clear on that.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you might. I’ve already run it past Natasha. She loves the idea. I didn’t tell her the full story obviously. I just told her I thought you might need some help sticking to the rules, and being the good guy I am—’

  ‘Are we finished here?’ I reach over and take my notepad, tossing it back into my bag.

  He looks taken aback. ‘What’s wrong, Cat? You hardly touched your food. Aw, are you mad at me?’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Dylan – sorry, Mr Wright. It’s been delightful.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ he replies. ‘I look forward to working with you. Can I have my pen back now?’

  ‘Can you fuck!’

  I toss my bag over my shoulder and march swiftly through the restaurant, past the lunchtime diners and straight downstairs to the ladies’ toilets, where I lock myself in a cubicle and take several long, deep breaths. I can’t believe this is happening. Not only do I have to follow his bloody rules, but now he’s going to be my fucking personal advisor?

  *

  I trudge back to work and Natasha immediately waves me in to see her. She’s finishing up on a phone call so I sit across from her and gaze around her office, which always smells of a combination of Very Irrésistible Givenchy and the popcorn she relentlessly munches on during the day. She covers the mouthpiece on her phone to speak to me.

  ‘Sorry about this. Alexander from payroll’s being a twat again . . . hang on . . . what? . . . I don’t care if you heard that! I meant it. Sort my fucking expenses out, you useless prick.’

  She hangs up and gives herself a little shake. ‘Honestly, that man makes me livid. Anyway, tell all! What was he like? Did he explain his idea for how to progress your column?’

  I want to say, ‘Well, he’s like a big attractive, untrustworthy bastard who just happens to be the man I shagged on Friday,’ but instead I say, ‘Not as bad as I expected really. And yes, I’m sure his input will be invaluable.’

  ‘Wonderful. Glad you’re on board, Cat. We both know your column hasn’t been as popular as it once was, but with the reaction so far to The Rules of Engagement, it looks like it’s back on track. Even Caitlin Moran shared a link on Twitter. It seems Guy’s book has been a blessing in disguise.’

  I smile and make sounds of agreement through gritted teeth.

  ‘Oh, and don’t mention this to the rest of the staff – I promised Guy we’d be discreet. Now, I’ve emailed you three features to do, so if you could crack on with those, and I look forward to reading your next dating column. I know you can’t force these things, but in the interests of entertainment . . .’

  Christ, how the hell am I going to get Tom to meet me again if I’m not allowed to contact him? I can’t submit another piece about waiting around for something to happen. ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply confidently. ‘It’ll be great.’

  I get back to my desk and grab my phone from my bag, desperately hoping that a message from Tom wanting to meet up again before my copy is due has miraculously appeared. No such luck. And now Patrick is staring at me.

  ‘Can I help you with something, Patrick,’ I ask, ‘or are you hoping I’ll tell you what Natasha and I were discussing?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Was it a personal matter?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘OK then. Ah, was it about the Scottish awards for—’

  ‘Nope.’ Jesus, this man cannot take a hint.

  ‘Tell me later?’ pipes up Gordon from the photocopier.

  ‘Oh sure,’ I lie, just to piss Patrick off. And it works.

  ‘You’re so bloody childish!’ he moans. ‘Piss off, the pair of you.’

  I suspect Patrick’s missing Leanne and her perky breasts, but I have more important things to think about . . . like how to meet up with Tom without hounding him. I reach into my bag for The Rules of Engagement and scan through the pages, looking for a clue . . .

  When you start dating, be keen but don’t overdo it. Appearing overly keen is the equivalent of turning up to a date in a wedding dress embroidered with the names of your future children.

  This man has a fucking screw loose. I grab my notepad, and the email Dylan sent to Natasha earlier falls out.

  ‘Right,’ I think. ‘Smart-arse has offered to help, so I’ll let him.’

  My fingers begin texting:

  OK Maharishi, here’s a dilemma: how do I get this guy to meet me without my instigating it? I can’t wait around forever, I’m on a copy deadline. Cat

  I don’t hear anything for two bloody hours, until I’m on the crowded train home and he calls me.

  ‘Maharishis were spiritual leaders, you know, not dating experts.’

  ‘Wait, how can you call yourself a dating expert when you’ve told me twice that you don’t date?’

  I move down the train and out the way of a man who smells like he’s shat himself, ending up beside a women standing up, reading Cosmopolitan with both hands. I admire her balance.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve had plenty of experience. Anyway, to answer your question, I suppose you’
ll have to sneakily find out where he’ll be and then bump into him. I wouldn’t normally advise this, however; you should be waiting for him to—’

  ‘Deadline, Dylan.’

  ‘Fine. What does he do for a living?’

  ‘He’s a dentist. Not mine, my sister’s.’

  ‘Interesting. Think you can convince your sister to make herself an emergency appointment?’

  The train bumps to a halt and the woman beside me almost falls over. Ha!

  ‘I guess so, but I don’t really see—’

  ‘She’ll go there with her bullshit toothache, and when she’s done she’ll announce she’s forgotten her purse and call you to drive down with it. If he wants to see you, he will appear when you arrive. Then you act like you’re not that bothered to see him, but in a sexy way. I’d give it an hour tops before you hear from him.’

  ‘That’s awfully devious,’ I reply, impressed and ­disgusted at the same time. ‘You really are horrendous. But fine, I’ll try it.’

  I hang up before he has the chance to do it first and get straight on the phone to Helen, sure she would fake her own death if it might help me get together with Tom.

  *

  Helen’s fake appointment is at half past twelve the following day. She calls me at ten to one, shrieking dramatically, ‘YOU MUST COME IMMEDIATELY. I APPEAR TO HAVE FORGOTTEN MY PURSE!’ forgetting that I put her up to this in the first place.

  ‘Aye, all right, Meryl Streep – I’ll be there in ten minutes. Does Tom know I’m coming?’

  She lowers her voice. ‘Yes! He asked how you were. Hurry up – there’s people in the waiting area.’

  I pick up Helen’s purse from the table, charge out the door and dive into my car like Dave Starsky (bet he wishes he was cool enough to pull off the tight plunging V-neck top I’m wearing). The surgery is only a few streets away, but it’s raining so I decide to endure the one-way system for the sake of my hair. Andie MacDowell might have got her man by braving the pissing wet weather, but I’m not risking it. I park up right behind Helen’s car and dash through the front door of the dental surgery, unnecessarily ringing the bell to announce myself. I look around the pristine waiting room for Helen but there’s no sign.