*
‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset.’
Helen hands me back the invitation and continues sipping her coffee, oblivious to my ‘What the actual fuck?’ facial expression.
‘I mean, come on, Cat. You and Peter haven’t been together for years, and you knew this was happening. Not too sure about a November wedding though. It’ll be freezing.’
I rub my temples; my head is beginning to ache. I’m beginning to regret asking Helen over for a chat. ‘So you don’t think it’s wildly inappropriate that he’s invited me?’
‘I do,’ she agrees, ‘but you’re over-thinking it. Grace probably nagged him until he agreed to send an invite. You two have spent years hiding how much you loathe each other from Grace; how can you then expect Peter to explain why the mother she adores isn’t welcome to such an important day? Or why you’re refusing to share in a day that’s so exciting for her? That would be cruel.’
I sit back and consider this. I’m so used to Peter being underhanded and shitty to me, I never considered he might just be trying to make Grace happy.
‘I guess you’re right. It’s just going to be so hard watching him marry someone else—’
Helen throws her hands up in the air. ‘Jesus, Cat, will you please just move the fuck on?’ I’m shocked. Helen hardly ever swears. She picks up the invitation and waves it at me. ‘LOOK! Peter has, the rest of the planet has, but you’re STILL moping over a man who was never, ever right for you.’
I lean back on my couch, trying to avoid being poked in the eye by the invitation Helen’s flapping around in my face. ‘Maybe when I find someone—’
‘You will NEVER find someone while you continue to act like a tortured character from a bloody Brontë novel.’
‘You’re being too hard on me. We had a child together. Peter was the love of my—’
‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence. There is no such thing as the love of your life, that’s bullshit. There are only men you will love for varying amounts of time and with varying amounts of passion. Look forward to the next one instead of grieving over the last.’
She puts down the invitation and takes my hand. ‘I am being hard on you because I don’t want to see you end up like Mum. After Dad vanished, she closed herself off to the possibility of ever finding anyone again and we became her life. Only that wasn’t fair on her, or us. Remember?’
I nod. After Helen went to university, mum coped because she still had me around. But five years later it was my turn, and she begged me not to move into student digs. Maybe I should have stayed, but I desperately needed to spread my wings: I left for Manchester. Helen and I visited as much as we could, but I could tell she was lonely. For instance, everything in the house was spotless – it wasn’t the home of someone who had a life; it was the home of someone who had nothing else to do but clean.
‘It’s hard,’ I sigh, my lip beginning to tremble. ‘What if this is it? Just me and Grace until she moves out? Mum might have been able to cope with that, but I couldn’t. I don’t want this to be . . . it.’
I wipe away a tear before it begins its descent down my face and then reach in to hug my sister, who squeezes me back tightly. ‘You’ll be happy again, Cat, and when Grace comes home to visit, she’ll come back to a home that’s full of life, not one that’s shrouded in memories. Don’t ever let a man get the better of you – that’s all Peter is. Just one man. Now, pull yourself together and make me a decent coffee – this stuff tastes like tar.’
I sniff and laugh at the same time, taking her half-full cup with me to the kitchen. I feel exhausted but hopeful. Fuck today. Tomorrow will be better.
The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 8 November 2014
My choice or yours?
In the modern world, dating is a two-way street. Relationship decisions are made together and, in between all of this important and undoubtedly sexy decision-making, men and women have meaningful conversations, touch below the waistline and happily participate in all the fun things that are forbidden in The Rules of Engagement.
I’m not allowed to do any of this. The only decisions I get to make are what to wear on the date of his choice and, eventually, the best way to dispose of his body when I inevitably snap. But I promised to follow the rules until the bitter end, and I’m a woman of my word.
But an unexpected obstacle got in the way: Mr X was taking far too long to organize our third date and I was forced to move things along myself. Why? Because my deadline waits for no man; not even a handsome English one with a gym membership and stylish hair.
I’ll admit – I did things I’m not proud of. With a little help from various people, I randomly appeared at his workplace wearing something low-cut and then pretended I had better things to do other than be there, even though I had actually spent the whole day plotting the situation. It wasn’t my finest hour, but it worked. The following day we had lunch.
It was a very pleasant lunch, my chat was marginally more interesting (his was certainly more revealing) and neither of us felt the need to overturn the table and have a full-on fist fight by the end of it. He isn’t perfect, but then, neither am I.
Oh, did I mention that we kissed? Yes, our lips touched and saliva was exchanged, as was talk of another date. It’s a good day to be me.
So what happens on date four? It seems I’m still not allowed to choose the venue or reveal anything about myself that might cause him to cry or vomit. Oh, and still no sex. Not even outside-the-clothes crotch rubbing is allowed at this stage. I hope this is killing him as much as it’s killing me.
Chapter Thirteen
Back in the office today and I’m pleased to see Leanne back from her holiday looking slightly sunburned and sporting hair braids. She swoops on me when I walk in.
‘You’re here! I looked for you at the station this morning! I’ve just caught up on your column and I’m expecting you to buy me sweets to thank me for recommending this genius book. Tell me about your mystery man – I want details!’
‘It isn’t genius, Leanne, it’s fucking torture.’ I place my jacket over my chair and sigh as I sit down. ‘And it’s hard bloody work.’
Her head tilts to one side and she throws me a sympathetic look. ‘I know. You have to make compromises. I remember when I first started seeing Charlie. I had to pretend that I didn’t find The Big Bang Theory funny or watch clips from Pitch Perfect on a daily basis because he despised those things.’
‘But Pitch Perfect is THE ultimate film!’ I point out, completely ignoring The Big Bang Theory – I’m with Charlie on that one. ‘This is crazy. Why are we changing who we are for men?’
‘Because you’re all nuts?’ mumbles Gordon, without even looking up.
‘No, because Charlie was more important than amazingly funny female singers engaging in voice battles with hot geeky men. Now we’ve been together for two years, and he loves me enough to not care that I love them almost as much as I love him.’
I look over and see both Patrick and Gordon pretending to work but smirking like schoolboys.
‘What I’m saying,’ she continues, ‘is that once he loves you he won’t care that you’re a bit off the wall. You just have to limit what he finds out until that happens.’
‘Off the wall? Are you implying I’m weird?’
‘Not at all!’ she protests.
‘Yes, she is,’ Patrick mutters.
‘Shut up, Patrick. All I’m saying is you’re different and that’s why we all love you . . . Don’t say anything, Patrick!’
Patrick does as he’s told, slinking out of the office with his coffee mug, tail between his tiny legs. He hates it when Leanne tells him off.
‘So when’s the next date? Has he called yet?’ Gordon interjects. I glance round to see him tearing pages out of a newspaper. ‘For our fourth date, I took the wife to a hotel in Aberdeen.’
‘
Against her wishes?’
He smirks and continues ripping. ‘Not at all. Maybe your guy will do something grand. If he thinks he might get some action out of it, he probably will. I did.’
‘Well, he hasn’t called. Actually, come to think of it he’s never called – just texted.’
‘I used to call up Charlie on his home phone when he was at work and listen to his voice on the answering machine.’
Gordon and I both turn to look at Leanne, who’s practically bent over backwards, fiddling with her contact lens. ‘It helped. I got my fix without him knowing. Don’t you just yearn to hear his voice when you’re not with him?’
‘Of course I do!’ I lie. Leanne really is the type of woman Dylan wrote this book for; women I’d previously have argued don’t exist. Until now. Truth is, I think about Tom all the time, but then again I also think about Jake from Scandal – but do I want to stalk either of their answering machines? Not particularly.
I leave the office at lunchtime to interview a terribly unfunny comedian who somehow won best newcomer at the Edinburgh Fringe. After about twenty minutes I literally can’t take it any more, so I heartlessly pretend he was late for the interview and I have to go home early to pick Grace up from school.
When we get back to the flat, we meet Helen and her suitcase in the hallway. Grace needs the bathroom so I hand her the keys and she goes inside.
‘Helen, have you been evicted?’
She puts her hand on her hip and waits for me to remember why she has a suitcase. When Adam also appears, passport in hand, it clicks. ‘Egypt! Damn, I thought that was next week!’ I didn’t. I’d totally forgotten they were even going.
‘Well done, Cat,’ Adam teases. ‘Flight’s at six, I cannot wait to fuck off out of here for a week.’ He hands me their keys – ‘For emergencies.’
‘Now remember, an emergency is NOT using all of my hairspray and hair oil, Cat,’ lectures Helen.
‘That happened seven years ago, Helen, and it was an emergency. I had ridiculous frizz that summer.’
A quick kiss goodbye and they’re off to sunny Sharm el-Sheikh, leaving me with no babysitters, but also with complete access to their well-stocked freezer.
If a week of 24/7 childcare wasn’t enough, I had forgotten it’s parents’ night tomorrow – an hour of playing happy families with Peter while we discuss Grace’s progress. The school have sent home several jotters for me to look through ahead of meeting with her teacher, Mrs Sharma. After dinner, Grace proudly presents me with her schoolwork to date: mostly textbooks I vaguely remember covering in old wallpaper at 1 a.m., filled with complicated maths problems like 3x3, and workbooks bursting with writing in a pencil Grace obviously couldn’t be bothered to sharpen.
‘Do you think you’ll get a good report?’ I ask her as I rummage through the cupboard in search of something to make for dinner. ‘Or have you been terrorizing your teacher with blunt pencils and making mischief all year?’
She giggles. ‘OF COURSE NOT. I like my teacher. She brought in a safari to show us. I tried it on.’
‘You mean a sari?’
‘Yes. It was gold. She’s really nice. We used to have Mrs Hall two days a week but she left. I hated her; she used to shout at us all the time for no reason. Kelly called her “Mrs Hell”.’
‘I like Kelly.’
My mobile rings from the other side of the room and Grace runs over to get it. Before I can yell, ‘Let me answer it!’ she’s swiped right and is shouting ‘Hello!’ unnecessarily loudly into the mouthpiece.
‘Mum, it’s a man called Tom. He wants to talk to you.’
She throws the phone at me before it’s dawned who that might be. By the time it’s in my hands, my brain has kicked in and I nervously move the handset to my ear.
‘Hi! Hello.’
Grace returns to the couch and sits beside me. ‘Mum, who’s Tom?’
‘He’s my friend, Grace. Sorry, Tom, give me two seconds.’ I cover the mouthpiece. ‘Gracey, go and play while I take this.’
‘Why is your face red, Mum? IS TOM YOUR BOYFRIEND?’
‘Stop it, Grace. Go and play.’
‘BUT IS HE?’
Oh sweet Jesus. I firmly point in the direction of the hall and she bounces off to her room, singing, ‘Mum’s got a boyfriend, Mum’s got a boyfriend!’
‘Sorry, Tom, privacy is a little hard to come by these days.’
‘Not a problem. So, am I your boyfriend?’
My already red face bursts into flames. ‘Ha, well. Sorry about that. Y’know kids. Um.’
Oh, just fucking kill me.
‘I’m just teasing. I was hoping we could have dinner on Wednesday? Your daughter goes to her dad’s that night, right?’
Someone has been paying attention.
‘She does. Yes, that would be nice. Did you have anywhere in mind?’
To Tom I might sound unfazed by the fact we’re having another date, but I’m doing a happy bum shuffle on the couch. I hope he takes me to that new Thai place in the West End.
‘How about at home?’
YES! HE WANTS TO HAVE SEX.
‘Sure. Your place?’
‘Actually, I was thinking your place . . . I would have suggested here but the landlord is having the radiators replaced and it’s a bit of a mess. Be nice to see where you live.’
Bollocks, that’s less good. And wait, what number date is this again? Am I even ALLOWED to have sex yet?
‘Sounds great,’ I reply cheerily, slapping my forehead. ‘You bring the wine and I’ll cook. Say seven thirty?’
‘Excellent. I’ll see you then!’
He’s already hung up, but I stay holding the phone to my ear. Why did I just agree to this? Can I trust myself not to jump him? Can I trust my cooking not to poison him? WHAT WILL I WEAR?
‘GRACE, TWENTY MINUTES UNTIL YOUR BATH!’ I shriek hysterically. Her head pops round the door. ‘Mum, why are you shouting?’
‘I don’t know. Sorry. Quick question – what do I make for dinner that’s nice?’
‘Chicken teddy bears and sweetcorn, ham omelettes, sausages and mash.’ She spins around and I hear her hop back into her room.
Chicken teddy bears? This is going to be a catastrophe. I jump up and scour through my bookcase, hoping a gourmet cookbook will have magically appeared in the last five minutes. Shit. It’s Monday evening and I have a day and a half to become bloody Nigella. I rush through to the bathroom and start running Grace’s bath. How the hell am I meant to pull this off? What would a Rules of Engagement girl do?
Dylan answers his phone almost immediately.
‘What’s up?’ he asks breezily. ‘I take it loverboy called?’
‘Yes, and somehow I’ve agreed to him coming over to my house for dinner.’
‘And this is a problem? Are you in the bath?’
‘No, I’m running one for Grace and, YES, it’s a problem. What if he expects something good?! Though I guess I could just order a Chinese and—’
‘Don’t get a takeaway, Cat. First, it tells him you didn’t make any effort for him, and second, it lets him know you’re a terrible cook.’
‘I am not a terrible cook!’
‘So cook him something then!’
‘I can’t, I’m terrible.’ I hit my forehead against the bathroom mirror with a thud. It hurts more than I thought it would.
‘Look, you have a kid; you must be able to cook some-thing.’
‘Hmm. Cook is a strong word. I can boil, steam and put things I bought in the oven. Does that count?’
‘Can you make anything from scratch?’
‘Toast?’
‘Get your sister to cook for you.’
‘Helen’s on holiday.’
‘You’re screwed then.’
My head hits the mirror again. ‘Dylan, I’ll have
you know that if I wasn’t following your book, I’d be feeding him pizza and taking him to bed.’
I hear him sigh. ‘Any girl can do that. The point of all of this is to prove you’re not every other girl.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ I turn off the taps and call Grace through. She bursts into the bathroom naked, carrying a couple of dolls and a teapot. ‘I’ll be back in five, Grace, don’t splash too much.’
I take my conversation into the living room. ‘You still there?’
‘Cat, what’s your address?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going to come over and help you.’
‘But it’s late. My daughter is here.’
‘It’s seven, Cat. And so what? Because you’re a single mother, you’re not allowed to have friends over?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Either I can come over and teach you how to make an amazing Bolognese from scratch, or you can buy store-bought food and hope he doesn’t notice.’
‘You think I’m too stupid to look up a recipe online?’
‘Not at all, but I imagine that finding recipes isn’t the problem or you’d be confidently cooking already . . .’
He’s right. I once tried to make a Christmas log for the school fair and Grace refused to let me hand it in, telling me she’d rather die than hand in a cake that looked like a fruity poo. I grumpily concede and give him my address.
‘OK, I’ll be over in an hour.’
I put my phone in my pocket and rush through to Grace, who’s happily still alive and splashing around in the bath.
‘Grace, I’ve got a friend coming over in a little while, so I’d like you to go to bed early.’
‘But it’s not bedtime! I still have HOURS left.’
‘Not hours, ONE hour. You can read or something until eight thirty.’
‘Can I watch Frozen?’
‘Fine, but please don’t sing that Snowman song repeatedly.’
I Followed the Rules Page 18
