I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks a stern-faced woman behind reception. Her name badge says ‘Margaret’. She must hate that bell, I think. She’s rocking a hair bun so tight, I’m getting a sympathy headache.

  ‘Yes, hello, I’m looking for my sister. I have her purse.’

  ‘And does your sister have a name?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. Helen Walsh.’

  I smile sweetly but her face remains unchanged. I admire her dedication to being a po-faced bastard.

  ‘She went to the bathroom. I can give her the purse if—’

  ‘No, I’ll wait for her. But thank you.’

  Nurse Ratched goes back to typing and I take a seat beside a man who’s clutching at his swollen jaw. After five minutes of listening to the clock ticking on the wall, Helen finally appears and flings her arms around me like I’ve just announced I’m going to pay off her mortgage. I whisper in her ear, ‘Take your time – Tom must be in with a patient. I’m not leaving until he’s seen me, so I can ignore him and then expect his call!’

  Helen slowly fumbles around with her bank cards, stalling for time. The receptionist is staring at us, and eventually her burning death glare forces Helen to pay £10.20 for a deep clean she didn’t even need but endured for me.

  I’ve just about given up hope when a door opens and Tom appears behind a puffy-mouthed woman who attempts to settle up with Margaret. He looks happy to see me.

  ‘Cat, I heard you were coming down! I told Helen she could pay next time, but she insisted on calling you.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ I reply, flicking my hair over my shoulder. I smooth down my top and his eyes scan down to my cleavage. Boom! Gotcha.

  ‘You looked nice. Look nice.’ He’s stumbling over his words. This is exciting. I turn and face my sister, who is beaming at the pair of us. It’s time to move before I say or do something stupid.

  ‘We’d better be going, Helen. I have that thing to get to.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘I told you earlier? That meeting?’ Jesus, she’s the worst fucking mind-reader ever. ‘Anyway, nice to see you, Tom, and thank you. I like your white coat.’

  I turn and walk away with a wiggle that would make Monroe blush and a creeping suspicion that this shit might have just worked.

  *

  I have time to nip home before I pick Grace up from school and my phone beeps as I walk through the front door. Excitedly I press the tiny envelope symbol.

  Well?

  Ugh, it’s from Dylan. There then follows a quick succession of texts.

  I’m just home. Think it went well. Will have to see.

  The book works. He’ll call. Stop being so negative.

  I want to reach into the phone and pull him through, scrotum first.

  Your book makes no sense. I hate it. DO YOU READ ME? I HATE YOUR STUPID BOOK.

  There’s no reply at first and I start to think he’s offended until:

  If you really don’t understand, come by tomorrow and I’ll go over everything with you. I’ll train you up, grasshopper.

  Fuck off, Mr Miyagi. I’m not going back to your gigolo pad. Besides, maybe Tom will ask me for a date on Wed.

  My phone rings. It’s Dylan. THIS IS NOT THE MAN WHO IS SUPPOSED TO BE CALLING ME.

  ‘Even if he does ask you, don’t rush to meet him the very next evening. He needs to believe you’re busy and have a life. When’s your deadline?’

  ‘Friday at the latest. And again, that is a stupid rule.’ I open the fridge and grab a yogurt.

  ‘Why is it stupid?

  ‘Because being keen is not a character flaw!’

  ‘Hmm, fine, you can see him Thursday then.’

  ‘I have a kid, for Christ’s sake!’ I reply, spooning Müller into my mouth. ‘I can’t just go swanning off every bloody evening.’

  ‘. . . What’s that noise? . . . Are you eating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, you’re worse than I thought. What the fuck is it? Soup? I can hear metal clanging off your teeth. Don’t do that with him.’

  I bash my spoon on the handset. ‘You are so obnoxious. And it’s yogurt! Yogurt is silent! Only you could hear someone eating the quietest food ever.’

  ‘Look, Cat, we made a deal, and you promised you’d do this properly. Wednesday night. Seven. Bring the book. If you can’t remember the address, text me.’

  He hangs up and I continue with my yogurt. As much as going over to his flat pains me, I’m going to settle this Rules of Engagement nonsense once and for all. He’s so infuriating and so bloody certain that he’s right about everything.

  Then, miraculously, Tom texts.

  So great to see you. Sorry we couldn’t chat longer. Can I take you to dinner on Wednesday?

  I’m about to reply YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES! when I stop and evaluate the situation. Dylan got this one right. I did what he said and Tom texted. Just like Dylan said he would. Ah! This is nuts. I wait for a couple of minutes and reply as if I don’t care one way or the other. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?

  Can’t do Wed. Very busy. Could manage lunch on Thursday?

  He speedily responds:

  Great. 1pm suit? I’ll find us somewhere nice.

  I’m so delighted I do a little jump and spill yogurt down my top. How classy. I do need help.

  *

  I pick Grace up from school at four on Wednesday, later than usual as she’s decided to give football a try and participate in an after-school game held in the gym. When she climbs into the car, her face tells me that it didn’t go very well.

  ‘Ryan Rogers missed the ball and kicked my shin. The lady in the office put a plaster on it for me.’

  ‘Aww, honey. You all right? Does it hurt badly?’ I inspect her little leg and laugh at the smiley face she’s drawn on the brown plaster.

  ‘It only stings a little. I didn’t cry. Ryan drew that to say sorry. I think he’s my boyfriend now but I haven’t decided.’

  I wonder if ‘Let him kick you in the shin and then draw on your plaster’ is listed anywhere in The Rules of Engagement, because it seems to be working well for my daughter.

  I glance at the time and realize I’m running late for Dylan’s ‘love clinic’.

  ‘That’s nice. Listen, Grace? I’m going to drive you to Dad’s now. We won’t have time to go home first. I’ve brought your stuff.’

  We arrive at Peter’s house, but he doesn’t even bother coming to the door. Instead I’m greeted by Emma, dressed all in brown, looming over me like a perfectly toned Wicker Man.

  ‘Hi, Emma. No new homework, but Grace needs to go over her maths again. She’s stuck on her division.’

  ‘Oh, no worries. Lucky for you, Grace, I’m the Maths Master.’

  What a fucking stupid title to give yourself. What next, the Spelling Sultan? The Algebra Assassin? Surprisingly, Grace finds this funny. I sometimes doubt she’s actually my child.

  I thank Emma politely before kissing Grace goodbye and continuing my journey to Dylan’s house, miffed that it’s my one free weeknight and I’m spending it studying his bloody book. I remember exactly where he lives, but I text him anyway in some sort of cunning ruse to convince him that night isn’t still etched in my brain.

  In the early evening light, the street he lives on looks nicer than I remember. There are well-kept communal gardens across the road, and the restaurant I noticed last time now looks chic and inviting. I ring the intercom and he buzzes me in.

  At the top of the stairs I spot him standing at the open door in jeans and a checked shirt, smiling. The same seductive smile he used on me that evening. ‘Hey, Cat. Glad you could make it.’

  ‘I don’t want to be here, you know,’ I announce loudly as I enter. ‘We did it here. It could trigger all sorts of shit. This flat could be my ’Nam.’

 
; Dylan laughs loudly as we head into the living room. ‘Did you bring the book, you maniac?’

  Dammit. ‘Shit, no. I’ve left it at home.’

  He gives me a disapproving look, then pulls open a drawer in the bottom of his bookcase and motions for me to sit on the couch.

  ‘I’m very aware that we “did it”, Cat, but I’m pretty sure we can control ourselves this time.’ He stops rummaging through his drawer and raises an eyebrow. ‘Unless you don’t want to, that is? I mean, it was pretty hot.’

  ‘Certainly not! I slept with you when I didn’t know what a terrible shit you were. I have a Tom now. A very nice, HONEST Tom.’

  ‘I’m just messing with you. Relax. I don’t remember you being this uptight.’

  And now I feel stupid. I cross my legs and sit quietly. There’s a beer on the table next to an empty takeaway pizza box. Pig.

  ‘Found it.’ He hands over a copy of The Rules of Engagement and sits beside me. ‘I knew I had one somewhere.’

  I take the book from him. ‘How can you only have one copy of your own book? If I wrote a book, I’d be sitting on chairs made from copies of it and wallpapering my room with the pages.’

  ‘Meh,’ he replies. ‘I wrote it five years ago. The novelty wears off pretty quickly. After I lost interest in writing, I lost interest in this.’

  ‘Are you sharing with me, Dylan? Is there some deep, dark secret you’re going to disclose to me next? Did a bad lady kill your creativity?’

  ‘No, I’m just making conversation. I’m getting another beer before we get started. You want one?’

  ‘OK, but just one. I’m driving.’

  I start thumbing through the book as he leaves for the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll need snacks to soak up the alcohol!’ I shout after him. The least he can do is feed me.

  It might be an awful book but, begrudgingly, I can’t help but admire him for writing one at all. I can barely reach my weekly word count. He returns and hands me a packet of crisps and a bottle of Bud, raising his in the air to clink mine.

  ‘Here’s to helping you and your Tim,’ he toasts.

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Same thing,’ he continues. ‘And, also, to showing you the error of your ways and . . .’

  I open the crisps and my crunching drowns out the remainder of his sentence.

  We decide to discuss the book chapter by chapter, beginning with the main rules, before going on to finer points after. This works for about twenty seconds before the discussion gets heated. He just won’t admit he’s full of shit.

  ‘This makes no sense to me whatsoever, Dylan. Look at this for example: Rule 4 – Don’t harass him. Men don’t chat or text like women do. I mean that’s nonsense for a start! I know plenty of men who text more than I do.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Women are notorious for hassling men over the phone. It’s all, “What you up to?” and “Thinking about you!” and “Look at this dog I saw in the park”. Men don’t like that. Stop the calls and texts or he’ll look for someone else, I guarantee it.’

  I laugh. ‘Like who? Someone who doesn’t own a phone? OR A VOICE? If we like you, we want to chat – what’s so wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s too needy. You need to make him wonder where you are, what you’re up to. If you’re sending him smiley faces and pestering him, he’ll know you have nothing else going on in your life but him.’

  ‘See? That’s your problem! You tar all women with the same brush in this book. “Rule 8 – Accept us for who we are.” I mean, really?’

  He opens another beer. ‘This stuff happens all the time though, Cat. You’d be surprised. You’re not happy with our job or our haircut, or our choice of footwear or the fact that we actually like wanking as much as we like shagging. Women aren’t perfect either, but men accept this much more easily. In fact, we expect it. A sure-fire way to put a man off is to tell him he isn’t good enough the way he is.’

  He says this with such conviction that I become suspicious. Has this man been fucked over by someone who hated his haircut? He’s obviously been told off for wanking too much at some point. He can see me considering all of these things.

  ‘Let’s get to work,’ he deflects. ‘We’re getting nowhere and you’re on a time limit. So, when are you seeing Tom again?’

  ‘How did you know he got in touch?’ I ask. He raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. Fine – we’re having lunch on Thursday. And I know how to act – don’t speak too much, don’t skip the food and only order dessert, don’t suddenly announce I’d prefer a summer wedding – all that stuff.’

  He turns around on the couch to face me properly. ‘Uh, it doesn’t say anything in the book about only ordering dessert.’ He starts to laugh. ‘I’d find that quite endearing actually. Even on a second date.’

  I down some beer. ‘Well, if you count the initial blind-date set-up at my sister’s house, this’ll be number three . . . ooh, third-date rule!’

  He takes the beer out of my hand. ‘Number one – calm down. And number two – that’s my beer.’

  God, he’s a dick.

  ‘And, number three, there is no third-date rule,’ he continues. ‘It’s more like a fifth-date rule. A kiss on the third date is fine, but no groping, finger banging, oral or nakedness whatsoever, and especially not during lunch. Make him wait. If he already cares about you, when you eventually have sex he’ll be far more likely to see you again.’

  ‘You sound like my mum,’ I joke.

  ‘Well, your mum’s obviously very wise.’

  ‘She was,’ I reply.

  Cue the awkward silence. I wish I hadn’t said that. He didn’t need to know that.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He looks sombre. ‘Can I ask what hap­pened?’

  ‘Car accident, ten years ago. I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘No, of course.’ I can tell he doesn’t want to argue with me any more. Surely he isn’t developing a conscience? That’s no fun. I get up to use the loo. ‘I’ll be back in a second, and then we can return to this.’

  His blue and grey bathroom is tastefully minimalist but somehow cosy. However, his toilet seat is freezing and I finish peeing in record time, then take a quick peek in the mirrored medicine cabinet while I’m washing my hands. Nothing out of the ordinary; some condoms (unsurprising), painkillers, a shower cap with bananas on it (twat) and a roll of plasters. He doesn’t have a bath, but instead has a wet room which looks like it cost a fortune and I imagine has seen a lot of soapy sex action over the years.

  When I return to the living room, he’s stretched flat out on the couch, playing with his phone. When he sees me, he sits up and chucks it on the table.

  ‘Get a good snoop then?’ he asks.

  ‘I have no interest in snooping,’ I lie. ‘Shall we get back to this? I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.’

  ‘Take a seat and stop pretending this is so awful.’ He swivels his legs round. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, the next date. As I said, this time things can be more relaxed, but there are still subjects you should avoid completely.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Marriage . . . kids . . . Well, you can talk a bit about your own, but don’t bore him.’

  I tut. My kid is fucking fascinating.

  ‘Then there’s the future. Don’t talk about the future. It’ll make him think you’re already choosing a wedding dress and planning ahead.’

  ‘No future talk – got it. What about Back to the Future? Is that OK?’

  He smiles. ‘Only the first one – the sequels weren’t great. Oh, and don’t mention diets or a dream you had or bodily functions—’

  I laugh. ‘Bodily functions? You mean, like farting or poo or wee-wee? But what if I’m French?’

  ‘You’re not French, and you’re not taking this seriously, are you?’
/>
  ‘Non.’

  ‘Fuck this. Fine, I’ll tell you exactly what to do.’

  He draws up a cunning third-date plan for me. Third-date lunch should be more casual than second-date dinner, but under no circumstances should I act like I would with my friends. I must not morph from being polite and reserved to the annoying woman who takes selfies with her starter and swears profusely, like I apparently do. I can offer to pay on this one to show I’m not a gold-digger, but he should decline to let me – if he doesn’t it means he thinks he doesn’t have to impress me any longer, in which case he should be dumped immediately. Under no circumstances should I be my sarcastic, sceptical self.

  ‘Got all that, Cat?’

  ‘I don’t take selfies with my starter,’ I mutter. ‘Main course, maybe. And yes, I’ve got all that.’ I stand up and sigh. ‘This just seems like a lot of hard work on my part.’

  He looks puzzled. ‘Who the hell said you wouldn’t have to put in any work? I mean, I’m assuming this guy is worth it?’

  ‘Of course he’s worth it,’ I snap. ‘He’s extremely handsome and successful and he likes me, so he’s obviously very, very smart. Now, unless there’s anything else, I must be going.’ I pick up my handbag and rise from the couch.

  ‘Now? You don’t have to rush off.’

  ‘I’ve been here for an hour and it’s past my bedtime. Can I take this book as a spare?’

  ‘Sure. Did I mention that top looks great on you?’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t wear it for you. I wore it for Tom earlier.’

  ‘Then it’s no wonder he asked you out again. Damn.’

  ‘Stop trying to flirt, and STOP staring at my tits.’

  Dylan’s eyes move north and he escorts me to the door. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. Pleasure as always, Cat. Let me know how it goes and we can discuss the next course of action. Oh, and one more thing . . .’

  I turn back and he moves in closer to me, making me step back against the door. The faint smell of his aftershave makes my tummy flip. Leaning in, he whispers, ‘Play nice in your column this week.’