I don’t give him time to respond – I’m already stomping towards the library to collect Grace. I spot her sitting alone on a red beanbag, engrossed in a book about dinosaurs. I hear Peter behind me, the sound of his cloven hooves instantly recognizable. I take a deep breath and smile.
‘Grace! Time to go, sweetheart!’
‘AT LAST!’ She slides the book back into the shelf and jumps up. ‘Did you see my teacher?’
Peter chimes in. ‘We did. Your mum and I are very proud. Emma will be too.’
Ugh. I’m aware that clubbing the smug bastard you share a child with to death with a dinosaur book is probably frowned upon, but it doesn’t stop me imagining the sense of joy I’d feel afterwards.
Grace skips ahead of us towards the car and I walk quickly behind her, determined to stay at least five feet away from Peter and his potential random acts of interrogation. We get to my car and she hugs him goodbye. As I close the passenger door he places a hand on my arm.
‘I’m sorry, Cat. You’re right; I do trust your judgement. I just worry about who’s around Grace. I can’t help it.’
‘Peter, if I do get involved with anyone and they become a part of Grace’s life, then you’ll know about it. Grace is a happy, clever girl and that’s because somehow we’re managing to give her a stable normal childhood. By implying that I’d do anything to fuck with that is insulting.’
‘Fair enough – I said I’m sorry. I’ll see her tomorrow when you drop her round.’
‘Actually, can you pick her up after work? My car is going in for a service in the afternoon and I won’t get it back until Thursday.’ Complete lie but I could use the extra time to get ready for my date.
‘OK, but it’ll be six before I’m there. See you then.’ He gives a final wave to Grace, then walks off down the street to his car.
Perfect. I make a mental note to park my car somewhere else tomorrow and finally start to get excited about date number four.
Chapter Fourteen
I’m supposed to be working, but I’ve just spent the past three hours cleaning my flat. Generally if I’m having guests round I’ll just have a quick surface tidy, but according to The Rules of Engagement, I should ensure that my flat is free from any signs that I might be a bunny boiler.
Don’t leave your shit lying around. It’s off-putting. This means no time-of-the-month undies hanging in the bathroom, no romance novels or ‘How to trap a man’ magazines lying in plain sight.
I have to say I’m finding the whole experience of consulting the book a bit weird after Dylan’s ‘confession’ . . .
In order to keep up my car lie, I nip to the shops to collect a few bits and pieces and then craftily park in the street behind my house. I’ve asked Rose’s husband Rob to drop Grace home as a favour. My somewhat slapdash plan seems to be working.
I tell Grace I’ll buy her anything she wants from the toy shop if she promises not to wreck my beautifully clean house before her dad picks her up. She agrees as long as that something is an overpriced monster doll. I’ve bought fresh flowers for the living room and I’m burning a candle that is supposed to smell like cookies. I’m not convinced, and neither is Grace: ‘I don’t like it, Mum. It smells like a dead biscuit.’ I snuff it out and burn some incense instead.
I figure that even though I’m not sleeping with Tom this evening, there still might be a freak accident in which all my clothes fall off, so I’m not taking any chances. I shave myself into oblivion, leaving only the hair on my head and a landing strip intact.
I’ve only managed to dry half my hair when the buzzer goes at 6.35 p.m. Peter. Grace skips down the hall to answer it, while I mouth the words ‘about fucking time’. I grab my less-than-sexy dressing gown as I too head for the door. Grace doesn’t even ask who it is; she just buzzes them in and slides past me like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. I make a mental note to have words with her later about letting random psychos into the flat, and then brace myself for Peter’s inevitable comments on my ‘outfit’. I hold my dressing gown closed with one hand and open the door.
‘Dylan?!’
He’s standing there holding a tub of parmesan cheese and a giant pepper mill.
‘Hi, Cat; I noticed the other night that you were missing these. You can’t have a good spag bol without parmesan and freshly ground black pepper.’
He’s waiting for me to invite him in, but I have no words. I also have no pants on. I clutch my dressing gown tightly and move to the left to let him by.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Dylan, but Peter’s due any minute to collect Grace and I’m running late and, GRACE, STOP SLIDING IN YOUR SOCKS AND GET YOUR SHOES ON.’
‘You seem a tad stressed. Look, go and finish getting ready and I’ll sort the food out. Will that help? You won’t even know I’m here.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask, genuinely confused. ‘What, are we mates now?’
‘Maybe,’ he says, considering. ‘But I think the most obvious reason is that I want a look at this Tom guy.’
‘No. No way!’ I panic. ‘You have to leave before he gets here.’
‘You’re wasting valuable drying time arguing with me, Cat. Unless your hair is meant to look like that?’
‘Fine! Help if you want to.’ I throw my arms up in the air and head back into my bedroom; he carries on down the hall towards the kitchen. ‘GRACE! Come and sit in here with me until your dad comes.’
‘But why?’ she moans from the living room. ‘I’m watching Adventure Time.’
‘Because your mother doesn’t trust me not to teach you swear words!’ Dylan yells from the kitchen.
Grace slopes through and glowers at me for the whole time it takes to dry my hair, but I can live with that. I decide on my blue lace top and skinny jeans; sexy but still casual. I appease a disgruntled Grace by letting her play with my make-up while I do my own face. Finally Peter rings the buzzer (forty minutes late) and Grace is free to leave my evil clutches. At least this time I’m dressed when I open the door. I can hear Dylan moving around in the next room.
‘Hi, Cat, is Grace ready?’
‘Yes, she’s just grabbing her bag.’ I’d normally invite him in to wait, but no fucking way after his reaction on parents’ night. ‘She hasn’t had dinner; she wanted to eat with you.’
Grace pushes past me, carrying her schoolbag and a cuddly tiger. ‘Let’s go, Dad! See you tomorrow, Mum!’
I wave her off and stare down the hall towards the kitchen. One down, one to go.
Determined to be firm with Dylan, I throw open the kitchen door, ready to tell him to go home . . . but am surprised to find myself stuck to the spot, grinning like an idiot.
In the time it’s taken me to get ready, he’s prepared a salad and set the table in a way that makes my cheap plates look almost classy. He’s taken the small blue tea-light holders from the living room and placed them in the centre of the table, and now he’s scooping the Bolognese into a pot, ready to be reheated. He has his back to me, but he knows I’m there. ‘OK, Cat. You’re all set. Do your spaghetti ten mins before you eat.’
He lifts the salad bowl and places it between the tea lights as a final touch. ‘Not bad, eh?’
‘I’m speechless,’ I reply. ‘And very grateful. Why are you staring at me?’
He shakes his head, ‘Am I? Sorry. It’s just those jeans. Damn.’
‘Thank you! I’m glad they’re having such an impact on you. Hopefully Tom will – oh shit, what time is it?’
I look at the kitchen clock. 7.15. There’s still time to get Dylan out of here before –
The sound of the buzzer makes me jump. He’s early. WHY IS HE EARLY? Dylan begins laughing. ‘Ha ha, oh no, Cat, it’s too late. Here’s here! Now I get to meet loverboy. However will you explain me? Should I stay for dinner? Maybe he won’t notice.’
My heart is in my mouth. The buzzer goes
again. Twice.
‘Stay in here. I need to answer the door. AND STOP LAUGHING.’
I gallop down the hall and grab the handset. ‘Hello? Hi, Tom, I’ll let you in.’
I try to calm myself down. Maybe I can sneak Dylan out while Tom is in the living room. It’s worth a shot.
Seconds later Tom knocks on the door. When I answer it I give him my best smile. He’s wearing a dark blue suit and carrying flowers and wine. He’s like a fucking advert for perfection. He steps inside – men who look like Tom don’t need an invitation.
‘You look nice, Cat.’ He hands me the flowers and then bends in and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I feel a little overdressed, but I came straight from a meeting.’
‘You’re beautiful.’ Oh shit shit shit. I’m flustered.
‘I mean, they’re beautiful!’ I back-pedal. ‘The flowers – and you look great too. Come through to the living room and I’ll put these in some water.’
He follows me down the hall. Hopefully he’s looking at my arse and not thinking about the fact I’m a gibbering loon. I take his jacket and offer him some wine. ‘Dinner won’t be too long so—’
I’m interrupted by a loud clanging noise from the kitchen. Then another. My heart sinks. What the hell is he doing? Tom is looking at me, waiting for an explanation, but I haven’t had time to invent one yet so I mumble, ‘Give me a minute, will you?’ and walk to the kitchen as calmly as I can. Dylan is already coming out. He stops for a moment and winks at me. ‘All done, Cat!’ he announces loudly. ‘Should be working fine now.’ He breezes past me and straight into the living room. I rush in behind him.
He sees Tom and stops in his tracks. He doesn’t look quite so cocky any more.
‘Oh! Sorry for interrupting. I’m Dylan – upstairs neighbour.’
Tom stands up to greet him. ‘Tom Ward. Pleasure.’
They’re both just staring at each other. Are they sizing each other up? Fuck me, this is awkward. I step in. ‘The light bulbs in the kitchen blew. Dylan was kind enough to change them for me. I mean, I know how to change a light bulb; I’m just too damn short for these high ceilings.’
It might not be a great explanation, but it’s better than the truth. The testosterone in the air is threatening to suffocate us all, so I grab Dylan by the arm. ‘So, thanks very much, Dylan. Let me show you out. Tom, make yourself at home.’
‘Nice to meet you, Tom,’ Dylan says, following me out. I close the living-room door and we hastily move to the front door.
‘Nice save, Cat. I was going to go with a blocked sink, but I liked that better. Oh, the sauce is heating up on the hob as we speak.’
‘I’m about to have a breakdown here. Can you please go?’
I open the front door, but he still isn’t leaving. Instead he whispers, ‘This guy? You’re sure this guy is your type? Yeah, he’s good looking but—’
‘Don’t you do that!’ I interrupt. ‘Don’t try and fuck with me. There is NOTHING wrong with him. Of course he’s my type – did you see him?! Now let me follow your stupid rules and see where this goes.’
He takes the hint and steps outside. ‘You know what I was saying about women not being worth the hass—’
‘Dylan. Can we talk later? I don’t want to leave Tom on his own.’
‘Oh. Right. Later then.’
I slam the door and return to the living room, where Tom is still sitting in the same position. ‘Sorry about that. I’d normally ask Adam, but they’re on holiday.’
Oh, shut up, Cat, he doesn’t need this much detail. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, let me get you some wine.’
I turn on my mp3 player and grab some glasses and a corkscrew from the kitchen. To my horror, I return to hear Lady Gaga singing ‘Applause’. I love this song, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. He gives me a ‘So this is an unexpected song choice’ look.
‘I’m sorry. My daughter has a lot of her music on here too. Let me just change that.’ I quickly scroll through, find George Ezra’s album and press play. First disaster of the evening averted, although, quite frankly, if Tom doesn’t like this he can leave.
‘Dinner smells good,’ he comments, uncorking the red wine he’s brought. ‘What are we having?’
‘Oh, just a spag bol I knocked up. From scratch.’
‘Impressive. You like to cook?’
Fuck no.
‘When I have the time. I find it very relaxing.’ I’m a pro at The Rules of Engagement now. ‘Let me just put the spaghetti on. Won’t be a sec.’
I’m standing reading the spaghetti packet when Tom appears. ‘Can I help with anything?’
Why yes. How in the love of fuck does one actually cook spaghetti?
‘Oh no, I’m fine. Thanks, Tom.’ He sits at the kitchen table instead. Oh fuck me, he’s going to watch. I need to pretend I know what I’m doing.
The water in the pot is already boiling so I carefully lower the spaghetti in, but my pot is too small and I’m forced to try to snap them into submission. I press nine minutes on my digital timer.
‘Your place is very nice,’ Tom remarks. ‘Different to your sister’s. Yours is much more . . . fun.’
I politely laugh. ‘Yes, well, Helen’s house is more sophisticated than mine, but I have an eight-year-old. I like to make it fun for her.’
This is only kind of true. Fact is, I’ve been living like this since I left home. Helen’s house is for grown-ups; everything is white and wood and it all matches. Mine is a bit chaotic, but fairy lights, mood cubes and colourful walls make me happy. I need colour in my life.
Spaghetti finally submerged, I taste the sauce – it’s warm, and just as delicious as when Dylan first made it. I lower the heat and get the serving bowls down from the cupboard while Tom tells me about the workmen who are currently invading his house.
‘I swear, none of them can whistle, yet they all seem insistent on doing it.’
‘Are they seven tiny men?’ I ask, giggling at my own joke. Tom laughs, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t quite get it.
The timer goes off and I look down at my spaghetti. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to throw a piece against the wall to check it’s cooked, so I carefully fish out a short strand and fling it against the splashback. It sticks! I am now entirely proficient in the art of pasta cooking and flinging. I want to point at the wall and shout, ‘LOOK AT THAT BAD BOY!’ but even I know that would be weird.
Despite the fact that I’m still struggling to hide my crazy, dinner is perfect. Tom compliments me profusely on my sauce, and because I have no idea what is actually in it, I tell him it’s my great-grandmother’s recipe and I’ve been sworn to secrecy. It’s officially the lamest secret anyone has ever pretended to keep, but he doesn’t question it. For dessert I offer Tom some Häagen-Dazs ice cream, and I’m glad when he refuses because I had planned on eating it by myself at some point later. Instead we have cheese and crackers before taking our coffee through to the living room, where the George Ezra album has finished. Tom sits on the couch and I join him.
Normally I’d be getting nervous around now because, with dinner out of the way, it’d be time for more wine, flirting, and then desperate kissing followed by clumsy sex. But I feel fine – actually, I feel in control. Unbeknownst to Tom, sex isn’t on the cards this evening, so the flirting will be minimal and I know exactly how this is going to end; him in a taxi and me seductively spooning Häagen-Dazs into my mouth. There are no butterflies, no buckling anticipation, just me and a handsome guy, sitting an appropriate distance from each other on a couch. However, I really need to pee.
On the other hand, it seems that Tom is fully in the moment.
‘I find you extremely attractive, Catriona,’ he purrs, moving in closer to me. ‘You’re exactly my kind of woman. I think we really have a connection.’
Oh, please stop being so bloody corny! It’s di
stracting me from your perfect face.
He strokes my hair. ‘I’m going to kiss you now.’
I close my eyes and feel his lips touch mine. One of his hands is resting lightly on my knee and the other on the side of my face. It’s very sweet, and I can feel his kissing becoming more urgent, but I’m distracted and the only urgency I feel is coming from my bladder. If I don’t pee soon, I’m going to wet myself. I wrench my mouth away from his and open my eyes.
‘Everything OK?’
‘I need the loo. Back in a sec.’
I hastily make my way to the bathroom, praying that I don’t dribble on to the expensive knickers I’ve worn especially for this evening. I lock the door and make it to the toilet without incident, loudly breathing a sigh of relief which echoes over the tiles. The flat is silent. Bollocks, I should have put some more music on. Oh God, the house is too quiet and Tom is going to hear me pee. We’ve only been on three dates – he doesn’t need to hear my bodily functions this early in the game.
I reach across and turn on the taps in the hope that the sound of running water will drown out the sound of me pissing like a gin-drinking racehorse. I hear him call from the living room:
‘What’s taking so long? Are you freshening up?’
Perfect, he thinks I’m in here flannelling my foof, and I’m still peeing. No normal person takes this long to use the toilet . . . unless it’s a number two. ARGH, this is getting worse. I finish, flush, turn off the taps and throw open the bathroom door dramatically. The sight of Tom standing there makes me yelp in surprise.
‘My turn.’
Oh God, he’s totally going to wash his bits now because he thinks I have. He brushes past me and closes the door while I return to the living room, totally ashamed of my unforeseen neurosis. I have turned into a clandestine urinator and I’m not happy.
I Followed the Rules Page 20
