I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Deal.’

  I wash and condition her hair while she does the same with her dolls, tipping water from her teapot on to their tiny plastic heads. It takes a further fifteen minutes to do her teeth, get her nightdress on and prise her DVD from under the cat’s arse. Once she’s settled I close her bedroom door behind me.

  ‘Mum, keep it open. Heisenberg might want out.’

  I leave the door slightly ajar, then nip to the kitchen to tidy up. I don’t need Dylan judging me for not having done the dishes for two days.

  Right on schedule, I see him park in the street outside. ‘Nice Jeep,’ I mumble to myself. ‘Paid for by the souls of single women, I expect.’ I count to three and take a deep breath before I let him in.

  ‘Hello!’ he chirps, wiping his shoes on the doormat. ‘Point me in the direction of the kitchen then.’

  He drops two shopping bags on the kitchen table and slips off his jacket. ‘Nice place, Cat. Different to what I imagined.’

  ‘I’m scared to ask what you imagined,’ I reply, peeking inside the bags. There are loads of ingredients inside: bottle of red, tinned tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, garlic, onions, some sort of green plant. I’m impressed.

  He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. ‘I imagined something a lot less colourful.’

  I have no idea whether this is a dig at my beautiful apple-green kitchen or if he does actually like it. Either way, I don’t care. He’s here to cook, not remark on my fabulous home interior.

  He takes all the ingredients out of the bag and then starts opening drawers at random, grabbing knives, saucepans and the chopping board.

  ‘Where’s your music?’ he asks, opening a tin of tomatoes. ‘You need music to cook.’

  ‘Do you? Well, it’s in the living room, but Grace is asleep; I don’t want to wake her.’

  He nods over to the kitchen door. ‘You sure about that?’

  I turn around and see Grace standing at the door in her red dressing grown. ‘Mum, can I have a drink?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll bring it through. Go back to bed.’

  She creeps over to the fridge beside me. ‘Who is that?’ she whispers, pointing to the man who’s frantically chopping an onion at my countertop. ‘Is that Tom?’

  I hand Grace some milk while Dylan sniggers. ‘No, honey, this is Dylan. He’s helping me make spaghetti Bolognese.’

  ‘But it’s bedtime. That’s weird.’

  ‘I know.’

  Dylan stops chopping, wipes his hand on a tea towel and holds it out. ‘I’m Dylan. You must be Cat’s sister Helen. She never told me you were so small.’

  Grace bursts out laughing and shakes his hand. ‘You’re silly. I’m not Helen, I’m Grace. This is my mum.’

  Dylan grins at her. ‘Very pleased to meet you. Your mum said she didn’t know how to make spaghetti Bolognese for you and this upset me, so I rushed round to teach her how. Do you want to help?’

  ‘No, it’s late,’ I interrupt. ‘Grace has school tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh pleeease, Mum!’ she begs. ‘Just for a minute?’

  ‘Oh, all right, but just for a little while.’

  I stand back and watch as Dylan lets Grace pour olive oil into the saucepan, which he heats up to fry diced bacon. Then she tears at the green plant (which turns out to be rosemary) while he chats to her about the fact that raw celery sucks, but cooked, it adds flavour to the meal. Her little cheeks are flushed with excitement and she’s really paying attention. This man, in the space of ten minutes, seems to have completely charmed my eight-year-old.

  I feel something brush past my leg and look down to see Heisenberg sitting at my feet, staring at Dylan. I don’t like that look in his eye, but for once I’m not the enemy in the room. If Heisenberg wants to maul Dylan, it’s unlikely I’ll stop him.

  ‘Grace, it’s time to go to bed. The cat is wondering what you’re doing out here.’

  She hops off the kitchen chair and bends down to pat Heisenberg, who miaows at her. ‘OK, fluffy face, I’m coming.’

  Dylan puts down his wooden spoon and looks over. ‘Cool cat. What’s his name?’

  ‘Heisenberg. He only likes me,’ Grace replies. ‘He doesn’t even let Mum cuddle him, and her cuddles are the best.’

  He walks over to Heisenberg and bends down. ‘I’m sure your mum’s cuddles are excellent, Grace, and your cat has the greatest name ever.’ He offers his hand to Heisenberg, who gives it a sniff, then arches his back. I close my eyes and prepare for Dylan’s imminent demise. Seconds later, Grace gives a little gasp and I open one eye to see Heisenberg practically dry-humping Dylan with happiness. He’s purring like a power drill and wrapping his entire body around Dylan’s leg. What kind of black magic is this?

  ‘Bed, Grace. Let’s go. Say goodnight to Dylan.’

  I usher her out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom.

  ‘But, MUM, did you see that? He never likes ANYONE!’

  ‘I think Dylan slipped him some food or something. Anyway, get to sleep; I’ll see you for breakfast.’

  As I make my way back to the kitchen, I pass Heisenberg in the hall. ‘Traitor,’ I whisper, but he completely blanks me, slipping round the door into Grace’s room. I nip into the living room for a quick moment to myself. Grace wasn’t supposed to meet Dylan – let alone like him – and I’m surprisingly jealous that my cat prefers this man to the person who buys his fucking food. I’m utterly confused.

  Even with the door closed, the smells wafting from the kitchen are magnificent. I sigh, then push it open gently to find that Dylan has turned on the music player on his phone and is stirring in time to ‘Scooby Snacks’ by Fun Lovin’ Criminals.

  ‘This reminds me of school,’ I remark, closing the door behind me. ‘I went out with a boy called Gary Hughes – big dope smoker, terrible kisser, and this was playing the first time I ever got high with him.’

  Dylan places a lid on the saucepan, lifts the bottle of red wine and pulls out a chair. He stands there for a moment, smiling. ‘Quite the wild child, weren’t you? I was in uni when this came out. I was dating Melanie Hawthorne – great kisser, but mediocre shag, bought me a ticket to their gig.’

  ‘Lucky you. Were they good live?’

  ‘No idea. She sold it when she found out I slept with her flatmate.’

  ‘You’re despicable.’

  ‘Corkscrew?’

  I point at the drawer under the microwave. ‘I wasn’t the one getting wasted in high school,’ he continues, ‘but yeah, not my finest hour.’

  I take two wine glasses down from the shelf and sit at the table while he pours.

  ‘It smells great, Dylan. You might be a cheating cad, but it seems you can cook.’

  ‘My sister is a chef. I pay attention. Your daughter is great.’ He lifts his glass and pours his wine directly into the Bolognese, before refilling it.

  ‘Let me guess – not what you expected?’

  He takes a sip of wine. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything. I’m just saying – she seems like a great kid. You’re obviously a good mum.’

  ‘Wow. Is that a compliment?’

  ‘Just an observation.’

  We drink our wine while Dylan’s music app shuffles to Simon and Garfunkel and we listen in silence over the sound of the simmering saucepan. It’s nice. For a moment I forget about the book and the reason we met and I enjoy just sitting in my apple-green kitchen with a pot of deliciousness simmering and a man whose playlist for the evening is making my heart less heavy. Dylan stands up and goes to inspect his culinary masterpiece and I admire how broad his shoulders are. I’d forgotten about that too. He mumbles to himself, adding more salt, stirs again and then invites me over for a taste. I take the spoon from him and sample it, being careful not to burn my mouth.

  ‘My God, that’s divine. You’re a genius. If you weren’t here I’d b
e head first into that pot.’

  ‘Thank you. Tastes better than that shit you buy in a jar, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s delicious. That little kick of chilli is making my tongue tingle. Do I have it all over my face?’

  Dylan runs his thumb just below my lip. ‘You’re good now.’ He briefly sucks the sauce from the back of his thumb, and I find myself transfixed by his mouth. His perfectly pouty, heart-shaped mouth. I can’t look away. Is this the same voodoo shit he used on Heisenberg? Dylan catches me staring and for a brief second we lock eyes. He grins.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll enjoy it too. Can I have my spoon back?’

  ‘What? Who will? Oh yes, the spoon. Sure.’

  He takes it and turns away, rinsing it under the sink. ‘Tom.’ He laughs. ‘I’m sure Tom will enjoy the Bolognese. You do remember Tom, right?’

  Fuck. I have forgotten about everything, including the reason Dylan is in my kitchen. Did we just have a moment? Is Dylan even capable of having a moment?

  ‘Oh yes, of course. He’ll love it.’ I sit back down and proceed to inhale my wine.

  Dylan turns off the hob and the music on his phone. ‘Just refrigerate that, and heat it up on Wednesday. There’s spaghetti in the small bag.’

  I’m barely listening to him. All I can think is, Goddammit, if he’d tried, I would have let him kiss me. I need to snap out of this.

  ‘Thanks. Shall we take our glasses through to the living room?’ My suggestion is met with a nod and he follows me out. He takes a look around as I turn on some of my music, keeping the volume at a respectable level.

  ‘What colour is that wall? Turquoise?’

  ‘Teal.’

  ‘Nice . . . and so is this couch. I always wanted a corner one, but it’d look odd in my living room.’

  As he sits down, he spots his book on the coffee table. ‘Glad to see you haven’t binned it then.’

  ‘How could I?’ I reply. ‘You’d have me fired. Or shot.’

  ‘Still think it’s bullshit?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He pauses for a moment. ‘Probably not.’

  I lift the book and look at its glossy black cover with his pseudonym in gold lettering. ‘Why didn’t you use your real name?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question, Glasgow Girl.’

  I smile. ‘It’s just easier. Some of the stuff I write could embarrass people who are close to me.’

  He runs his hand through his hair and leans forward. ‘Sometimes I wish I’d never written it. Don’t get me wrong – I stand by my book – but I guess I just didn’t want to be known forever as that guy who writes about dating. I wanted to save my real name for my serious writing.’

  Fucking hell, we’re actually having a genuine conver­sation. I offer him more wine, but he covers his glass. ‘I’m driving, remember.’

  I pour the rest of the bottle into my glass. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘In a nutshell, I never got round to writing another book. Turns out that being financially secure killed my creativity.’

  ‘But you have the Filmhouse now. That must be interesting.’

  ‘Oh, that was purely an investment. I’m never there. Adrian handles everything. Although I do insist we run a horror night every month. We’re showing Carrie and The Shining as a double bill in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘No way! I love Stephen King. I’ll totally come to that.’

  ‘You like King? Bullshit.’

  I point to the entire row of Stephen King novels in my bookcase. ‘Huge fan.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You continue to surprise me. Don’t pretty, quirky girls like chick-lit and rom-coms?’

  ‘Jesus, stop pigeonholing me!’

  ‘Sorry, force of habit.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘Are you looking forward to Wednesday?’

  ‘I think so.’ I swirl the wine around in my glass before finishing the remainder in one gulp. ‘If he’s coming here he’ll be hoping to have sex, won’t he?’

  ‘Cat, men go to the supermarket hoping they’ll have sex. It’s what we do.’

  ‘And I definitely can’t?’

  ‘Well, you can of course, but you’d be breaking the rules. I think we’ve established this.’

  Damn him. Now I’m back in his flat, watching him strip. I drag my thoughts back to Tom.

  ‘Well, that’s unfair, because Tom is very attractive.’

  ‘Surely you can resist his great and powerful dentist’s charm for one more date?’ he mocks. ‘How hot can he be, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Very. He’s bonfire hot. But following the rules is difficult, you know? It’s not just the sex thing, it’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s THIS stuff. I won’t get to do any of this. You know, have a proper conversation. Have a laugh. Swear! I’ll be too busy being this fucking reserved, polite monster you’ve created.’

  ‘You’re such a drama queen. Just keep going with the book and you’ll be fine. I know you underestimate it, but you also underestimate yourself. To be honest, I’m ­surprised you’re single.’

  Fuck me, was that another compliment? As my brain scrambles to make sense of this, I feel my face grow hot.

  ‘And why are you single?’

  ‘I don’t like complications. And I’m terribly picky.’ He smiles confidently at me, but I suspect it’s partly bullshit. I’m pretty sure that behind his good looks and cocky bravado lies a man who, at some point in his adult life, has had his heart well and truly broken.

  ‘Who was she?’ I ask.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who I mean. The ex. Your cynicism towards dating and women has to come from somewhere.’

  He stays silent, likely hoping that I’ll just shut up. But I don’t.

  ‘Oh, come on, you know almost everything about my dating life. Why—’

  ‘Anna. Her name was Anna.’ His body language has gone from flirtatious to fuck off. ‘She left me six months before I wrote the book. I was gutted of course, but I was able to recognize the mistakes I’d made and how I’d ignored a lot of her bullshit, thinking it didn’t matter because I loved her.’

  ‘Bullshit like calling you constantly and over-sharing?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But that was just one woman –’

  He throws his head back and sighs. ‘But it only takes one woman to fuck your life up. You need to do things differently or it’ll just happen over and over again. We’re told that being honest and vulnerable with someone who has the ability to rip out your fucking heart is a good thing! It isn’t. Believe it or not, when I wrote this book I actually wanted to save women some of the misery that goes along with dating. Give them realistic expectations. We don’t need to be inside your head to be with you. We don’t need to know every intimate detail about you, because after you’ve gone we still carry that around like you’re still here.’

  He stares at his empty glass and we sit in silence. I don’t know if I want to hug him or shake him but I don’t push him any further; instead I choose to call it a night.

  Unlike the last time I left his flat, there’s no sexual tension at the doorway – I thank him for coming over and he leaves quietly, wishing me luck for Wednesday and declining my offer to pay for the food he brought.

  Maybe his Anna is my Peter? Whoever she was, she really did a number on him, but unlike Dylan, I haven’t given up hope of finding someone again. It’s clear he has.

  *

  If Peter and I were still together, only one of us would attend parents’ evening, the other staying at home to take care of Grace. It’s what families do. But as we’re not together, neither of us wants to be the parent that doesn’t make an appearance on the one night dedicated to parents. It’s a matter of fucking principle. What if the teacher says something cool about Grace and the other one fo
rgets to relay this important information? What would people we couldn’t give a shit about think of us? Even after three years, neither of us will budge, meaning Grace has to come with us while we have the privilege of being alone with her teacher for a whole ten minutes.

  Peter is already there when Grace and I arrive and she spots him first, charging towards him like a very tiny bull. I take a little longer. She leads us in to the gym, where there are the other children forced to return to school. Grace doesn’t seem to mind, immediately ditching us to go to the library with some lanky child called Patsy or Parsley or something beginning with P.

  Peter and I sit on the plastic chairs beside the P4 sign, where her teacher is finishing up with a set of parents both wearing identical black parka jackets. We’re only there for a few minutes before she calls us over.

  Mrs Sharma is a jolly woman in her fifties who bleeds enthusiasm and takes great delight in telling us that there isn’t much to say about Grace. ‘She’s a pleasure to have in my class. I’m sure you saw from her work jotters that she’s coping well with the curriculum and I don’t have any concerns. She’s a credit to you!’

  I can feel Peter’s ‘I didn’t see her jotters’ glare boring a hole into the side of my skull, but I ignore it. If he really wants to see them, I’m sure Happy Sharma will oblige him. She continues talking.

  ‘Grace was just telling the class how she was making spaghetti Bolognese with your friend last night. She said he was quite the hit with her little cat too!’

  Peter’s skull-drilling resumes with more force than before. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Time to go. ‘Oh yes! Well, thanks very much for seeing us, Mrs Sharma, we’re thrilled that Grace is doing so well.’

  Peter is able to hold in his burst of interrogation for six seconds. A record for him.

  ‘Cat, who was teaching Grace to make spag bol?’

  ‘Just a friend of mine.’

  ‘If you’re seeing someone who’s going to be around my daughter, I have a right to know who he is!’

  I pull him into a classroom off the main corridor. I’m livid and we need to finish this before Grace gets back.

  ‘Two things, Peter. Number one – you had Emma spending time with Grace before I knew anything about her. And number two – you don’t “have a right” to know anything about my private life. What do you want? A checklist of people who might visit my house? You’ll just have to trust that I’m making good decisions for my daughter. Why do you have to be like this? Grow the fuck up.’