I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  He doesn’t move his mouth away from my ear straight away, instead choosing to linger there, his body touching mine, and in that moment I feel, pressed into my hip, exactly what he’s thinking about. This entire power-game scenario he’s created is turning him on, but I intend to leave Dylan and his erection alone in the hall. He doesn’t get to fuck me twice, regardless of how good he smells. I sidestep left and grab the door handle.

  He looks a little surprised that I’m not tearing his clothes off and mounting him in the hallway, but doesn’t try to stand in my way.

  ‘Control yourself. I’m into Tom. That’s what all this about. Remember?’

  He laughs. ‘Sure you are . . . That’s why you’ve hardly mentioned him all night, right? Have a nice evening, Cat.’

  ARGH! He’s so fucking arrogant! As he’s closing the door, I yell from the stairwell ‘NICE SHOWER CAP!’ The text from him two minutes later reads: ‘Fucking snoop.’

  *

  Tom texts to tell me he’s taking me for lunch at the Waverly Tearooms, which suits me as it’s close to home, and if I do end up paying, it won’t cost me a bloody fortune. I’m excited as I stroll down Shawlands Cross towards the restaurant. The sun is shining, the natives are friendly and I have on my new purple wedge shoes, shoes that I’m so in love with I would one day like to knock them up and marry them. As I prance round the corner I see Tom waiting outside and I’m tempted to run at him in the hope he’ll be equally excited, lift me in his hands and spin me around, but I reconsider. Wedges really aren’t made for grand running gestures anyway. However, his face lights up when he sees me and that’s good enough.

  ‘Wow, you look great. Very pretty.’

  I graciously thank him. He also looks very nice in his grey shirt – which he does – but he’s nowhere near as fancy as me. I win.

  ‘Cat, I’m really sorry about last week. I had to visit my dad. He had emergency heart surgery.’

  I can gauge from his expression that shouting, ‘YES! I FUCKING KNEW IT WAS SOMETHING SERIOUS!’ wouldn’t be the smartest move I’ve ever made, so instead I frown and say ‘I hope he’s doing OK’, which of course I do; I’m just also happy to know it had nothing to do with me being a rules-following borebag.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replies. ‘He’ll be fine. My ex, Kathryn, was a big help – she still has a lot of time for my family.’

  Kathryn? Oh, that’s just perfect.

  He pulls out my chair and we sit outside for lunch. I peer at the menu while he continues to describe what a fucking superstar his ex-wife is and how she’s a selfless angel – an angel who appears to be ruining my third date from several hundred miles away. I need to distract him.

  ‘I’m starving!’ I blurt out. ‘Shall we order?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘Sorry if I’m going on and on. It’s just been a hellish week.’

  Oh God, I’ve turned into one of those high-maintenance women who doesn’t give a fuck about anything except her lunch. I need to redeem myself and quickly. I place my hand on his. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I’m happy to listen, I’m just aware you have to get back to work soon.’

  He’s looking at my hand on his and he’s smiling. I might have saved this one, but I still have the rest of the date to get through.

  I refrain from asking inappropriate questions while I tuck into my club sandwich, despite the fact I really want to know if he’s ever screwed on his dentist chair, if he still harbours feeling for his ex-wife and how much perfect veneers like his would cost? Instead we chat about the weather, life in London, life here, and generally avoid anything salacious that might go against Dylan’s bloody rules of engagement. This means I also avoid mentioning marriage, the future, unborn children, bumholes, bridesmaids, Pot Noodles or areolas. For my own sake I take care to skirt around questions regarding my job, making sure he’s unlikely to ever read the magazine, and pretend that Peter and I are jolly old friends who share a deep understanding and respect for each other.

  Throughout lunch I’m like a perfectly trained conversation maestro and it’s working; he even touches my hand again when he excuses himself to go to the toilet.

  I watch him walk away and I reckon I have three minutes tops to text Kerry and let her know that he made actual physical contact with my hand skin of his own free will.

  On date with Tom. We touched hands. I feel about 15. Like Molly R in Pretty in Pink but without the shitty home-made prom dress that everyone hated.

  By the time I’ve typed this, I can see him coming back and I panic, quickly pressing Send, then throwing my phone into my bag like it’s covered in spiders. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

  ‘Sorry, Cat, I need to get back to the surgery,’ he apologizes, ‘but it’s been really great. Again.’

  I take out my purse and offer to pay, but as Dylan predicted, he refuses. ‘I said last time that this was on me, and it’s only some sandwiches and coffee. Please, let me.’

  This time I don’t protest. Part of me wants to tell Dylan right away that it all went to plan, but I think I’ll let him dwell on it for a few more hours.

  I walk Tom to his car, refusing a lift on the grounds that I live within walking distance, and also that I really need to fart. I omit this second bit for Tom, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

  ‘I’d love to keep seeing you, Cat. Shall we do this again?’

  My stomach high-fives my heart and I immediately agree. He then takes my hands and continues, ‘I think you’re very special, Cat. Dignified. But I want to know more. Who is Cat? Who is this woman I see before me?’

  My stomach reconsiders and this time boots my gag reflex in the balls. He didn’t just say that, did he? Please tell me he didn’t just cheese the fuck out of me. Where did this crap come from? My ears are offended.

  With my hands still in his, I look down at my feet, afraid I’ll laugh in his face. Maybe he’s just nervous, and if this type of misguided sentiment is his only fault, I’m sure I can nip it in the bud later when –

  ‘Rule 8 – Accept us for who we are.’

  Oh, shut the fuck up, Dylan.

  ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you too, Tom,’ I reply in the most diplomatic way I know how. ‘Let me see when I can get a sitter next.’

  He leans in and kisses me. It’s pretty good. It’s the type of kiss that you know won’t cause explosions or even erections, but his lips are soft and he doesn’t try and tongue my face into oblivion.

  ‘Until next time then, cutie.’

  He gets into his BMW and starts the engine. I fart and curse him at the same time. All while smiling and waving him off like a navy wife on shore. As soon as he’s out of sight, I call Kerry at her office.

  ‘Hey, Ringwald, how did it go?’

  ‘Cutie. He called me fucking cutie.’

  I hear Kerry laughing and it starts me off too. ‘He called me cutie and asked me, “Who is Cat?” Honestly, I wanted to scream.’

  ‘Wait, what? That’s hilarious. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes, I pardoned him. But he’ll need to knock that shit off. How can I allow myself to commit to someone who talks like that?’

  ‘Fuck, I could advise you better if I knew what he looked like. He might not be handsome at all; you might be wrong.’

  ‘Google Southbank Dental. Tom Ward. His photo is on their website.’

  I hear her tapping on her keyboard. I begin walking back towards the flat. My purple wedges are rubbing against my heels. I should have agreed to a lift home.

  ‘Holy shit. You’re not wrong. Is that his real face?’

  ‘YES!’ I cry. ‘You see my problem?’

  ‘You lucky bitch. First Dylan and now him. You’re on a roll here.’

  ‘Well, technically Dylan didn’t actually fancy me like—’

  ‘Oh shush, of course he did, and you fancied him. Him bein
g a sneaky fucker doesn’t mean he wasn’t attracted to you.’

  ‘What should I do about Tom?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think you can shag some sense into him? A few nights of dirty sex might make him re­consider this poetic bullshit.’

  ‘I’m willing to find out.’

  ‘Good. Listen, got to dash, but I’ll call you later.’

  She hangs up on me and I continue home, hobbled by my soon to be ex-favourite shoes.

  *

  School’s out at three and I meet Rose at the gates. We decide to take the kids to a local soft-play so they can exhaust themselves, and we can catch up. As we enter Captain Clown’s Play Emporium we’re greeted by a host of screaming pre-schoolers and an overpowering waft of fish fingers and beans. We sit down beside an elderly woman who looks utterly horrified. It’s clear that Granny has mistakenly volunteered to bring little Johnny here, unaware of what horrors await her, and now she’s quietly hoping a mild stroke will end this madness.

  ‘Ever notice how stupid the name of this place is?’ Rose muses. ‘How the fuck can he be a captain AND a clown? Coffee?’ She wanders over to the food area, leaving me to ponder this. I look over and spy Grace disappearing into the ball pit. Jason is manoeuvring across a rope bridge with only one sock on, little beads of sweat forming on his brow. Rose returns with the coffee and I point her in the direction of Jason.

  ‘Aww, he thinks he’s Indiana Jones,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Aye, if Indiana Jones was an seven-year-old shitebag.’ She grins at me and shakes a packet of brown sugar. ‘Oh, by the way, Rob is home tomorrow.’

  ‘How long for? It feels like a million years since I last saw him.’ I like Rob. He’s a gentle giant of a man with a massive beard and a passion for real ale and Bernard Matthews’s Mini Kievs. They met when Rose was dating George’s friend Alan in college and he introduced them. Although that was nine years ago, I think Alan (still single) might not be completely over Rose – he often spends the wee hours of the morning liking her Facebook photos and posts while she sleeps.

  ‘Two whole weeks, so I probably won’t see you much.’ Rose fishes a Chapstick out of her pocket and smears it over her lips. ‘I’m going to force him into doing all the school runs while I sleep until midday. He can collect Grace on Mondays too. I know you’re working.’

  Then Jason returns, looking for juice and complaining that Grace isn’t playing with him properly.

  ‘She keeps doing things first!’ he moans, throwing himself down on a chair. ‘I wanted to jump in the ball pit first.’

  Grace suddenly gallops over, thirsty and not giving a crap that Jason’s telling tales on her. She knocks back orange juice from a blue plastic tumbler, before triumphantly declaring, ‘You snooze, you lose, Jason!’ and disappearing back into the fray. Jason responds with a wail and Rose cuddles him, trying to keep a straight face. When Jason finally slopes off towards the slides, Rose whispers, ‘I like your kid. She doesn’t take shit. Just like her mother, eh?’ She winks.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, I’m ordering baked potatoes for the kids and wondering whether slushies are still as delicious as I remember them to be, when I hear my phone beep in my bag. It’s Dylan.

  Well? How did it go?

  This man is so impatient.

  Will text you latex.

  Oh yeah? Kinky. Can’t wait.

  *LATER.

  But you said latex.

  Autocorrect fail. Now go away.

  I switch my phone off and drop it back into my bag. I know Dylan is only desperate to know how my date with Tom went so he can gloat over how clever and right he is. Well, he can wait a bit longer.

  At six we all head home. Grace finishes off her homework while I tidy her bombsite of a bedroom, making the bed around Heisenberg, who refuses to move. I open her desk drawer to throw some crayons in and find a picture of me, Peter and Grace from Grace’s first Christmas. I’d forgotten about this photo. Peter’s dad took it with the camera we’d just given him. We’re all dressed up in party hats, sitting round my old dinner table, and we look happy. We look like a normal family. The longer I stare at the photograph, the more my heart hurts. To Grace it’s just a photograph of me and her dad – she can’t remember it any other way – but to me it’s a reminder of hopes and dreams that came to nothing. I place it back where I found it and close the drawer.

  I finally text Dylan back at 11.30 that evening, hoping he’ll either be in bed asleep or in someone else’s bed and too busy to reply. Of course I didn’t mention Tom’s cheesy outburst – I refuse to give him any ammunition.

  Date went well and he wants to see me again. This will be date four – can I bloody organize it for once?

  His reply is swift.

  Read your ‘bloody’ book.

  I sigh and grab it from my bag, flicking through the pages half-heartedly. I didn’t fucking study this much when I did my degree.

  From date four you should be more open with your date. Share more of yourself but always leave him wanting more. Don’t try to take the reins just yet.

  BUT WHY? Why do I need to drag this nonsense out? I need clarification and, partly to annoy Dylan for making me mad at this hour, I call him. He answers sleepily.

  ‘Hi, Dylan. Did I wake you? . . . Good. Now, date four – you say I can’t ask him out yet, but why not? Why can’t I?’

  ‘It’s midnight, Cat. THIS IS THE VERY REASON WHY THE BOOK SAYS NOT TO CALL MEN.’

  ‘Oh, behave – that applies to men I want to date, not authors who promised to help me after threatening to ruin my career.’

  He’s silent for a moment. ‘Look, we – and by “we” I mean men – need to feel like we’re in control. If you suggest somewhere shit to go, we’ll agree, but we’ll resent you for it and question your judgement.’

  ‘The fact that I’m talking to you means my judgement has already been brought into question.’

  ‘Oh, very mature, Cat. If you act like this on dates, it won’t be long before he’s tired of that noise coming from the hole under your nose.’

  ‘At least I don’t have a shower cap with bananas on it.’

  ‘IT WAS A STUPID GIFT FROM MY SISTER, ALL RIGHT? I forgot it was in there.’

  ‘Why are you shouting at me? And, what? You have siblings? Damn, I totally had you down as an only child. Possibly raised by wolves and—’

  ‘I’m ending this call. Goodnight.’

  ‘And—’

  He hangs up before I can finish. I hate that. I have an overwhelming urge to rile him, so I wait almost an hour – until I’m sure he’ll be asleep and unable to reply. Then I text: ‘AND YOU WERE BORN OF A JACKAL.’

  I turn my phone off, because if he replies I’ll be up all night trying to get the last word in. I know me.

  *

  On Friday morning I’m leaving with Grace for school when I meet the postman outside. We exchange pleasantries, I admire his moustache and he hands me my post, which consists of junk, a council-tax bill and a fancy white, card-sized envelope. I pause and look at it for a moment, wondering if I’ve managed to forget my own birthday.

  ‘I KNOW WHAT THAT IS!’ Grace shrieks, even though she’s standing right beside me. ‘OPEN IT!’

  ‘Did you send me this, you lovely thing?’ I start tearing open the envelope, which has small bells embossed on the back. Bells? Grace tugs on my jacket.

  ‘No, Daddy sent it. Hurry up, Mum!’

  They’re wedding bells. Oh shit. I know exactly what this is. I don’t want to open it. I want to pretend it contains spiders and anthrax and kill it with fire. I look down at Grace, who’s bursting for me to see the invitation to her dad’s wedding. I want to explain how weird and awkward this is for me and how her dad should have factored in how I’d feel before sending this, but I don’t. Instead I beam back at her.

  �
�We’re going to be late for school; Grace, jump in the back seat. I’ll open it in the car.’

  I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine, while Grace clicks her seat belt on. There’s no way I can’t open it, she’s too excited. I gingerly ease the white card out of the envelope and my lap is suddenly showered in tiny silver stars. Grace squeals, ‘I put them in!! I gave you extra. Isn’t it pretty? Mum, you’re not looking – LOOK. AT. THE. CARD.’

  I obey and feast my eyes on the smooth cardboard. The front has a subtle floral pattern, with the words ‘Peter and Emma’ and ‘21 November 2014’ printed in plain black script. Inside it reads:

  Mr Peter Anderson and Miss Emma Davies

  request the pleasure of your company at their marriage

  on Friday 21 November 2014 at 11 a.m.

  Southside Parish Church, Newmill Road.

  Dinner and dancing will follow at 7 p.m. in the Hilton Hotel.

  At this very moment I am having all of the feelings. Sadness, jealousy, annoyance, loneliness, self-pity, hunger, ALL OF THEM.

  I close the card and give Grace my best sunny smile. My heart is beating at a million miles an hour.

  ‘Well, isn’t that exciting? I’ll get to see you in your ­flower-girl dress! And in November! So soon! Why is it so soon? Are you hot, Grace? I’m hot. Let’s get to school!’

  I open the driver’s window and release the handbrake, aware that Grace is now looking at me like I’m psychotic.

  ‘They got a cancellation. Are you OK, Mum? Dad didn’t think you’d want to come, but I made him send you an invitation because I knew you’d be sad to miss it.’

  I turn left at Queens Park, narrowly missing a magpie in the road. ‘Of course I want to come, darling! It’s a big day for everyone. And you know how much I love getting dressed up. It’ll be fun!’

  Fun? My ex has just invited me to watch him get married. It’ll be fucking humiliating. There’s no way in hell I’m going. We pull up at the school gates just as the bell is ringing.

  ‘See you at three, Mum. Love you!’

  ‘Love you more, Grace. Have a great day.’

  I watch her catch up to a small boy in a neon jacket and they walk into the playground together. As soon as she’s out of sight, I place my head on the steering wheel and exhale. For ten minutes all I do is sit there and breathe.