I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  After a much shorter amount of time, Tom strides confidently back into the living room and sinks back on to the couch beside me. This time he kisses me without announcing it first.

  ‘Let’s take this to the bedroom, Cat.’ He starts kissing my neck.

  Oh God, here we go. Time to pretend I’m not in the mood to find out if his body is as toned as I suspect it is. I could claim I have my period, but the book states I must not mention any kind of bodily function, so instead I tell the truth. Well, kind of.

  ‘I want to, Tom, I really do, but I have a personal rule: no sex until the fifth date.’

  He moves his lips away from my neck. ‘Really? Five?’

  ‘Yes,’ I insist, ‘but I do like you, Tom.’

  ‘Five?’ he repeats, seemingly stunned by my revelation.

  I place my hand on his. ‘I just need to be sure of someone before I sleep with them. Like, really sure.’

  He looks deep into my eyes. ‘I respect that, Cat. You’re not driven by emotion or lust. That’s admirable.’

  Well, maybe it would be if I actually felt that way.

  ‘On the bright side,’ he continues, adjusting his trousers, ‘the next date will be our fifth. When are you free?’

  Keen!

  ‘Saturday. Grace will be at her dad’s again.’

  ‘Great, come over to mine. I can’t cook like you can, but I’m a master at ordering takeaway.’

  I start to laugh. I can’t help myself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Saturday sounds great.’

  He takes my hand. ‘You know, you never answered my question the other day. Am I your boyfriend?’

  Awkward. I feel like I’m in an episode of Saved by the Bell. I lean in and kiss him deeply, which is technically against the rules, but I’m stalling while I think of a suitable answer. Am I even allowed to answer that question? Isn’t it too soon to be talking about boyfriends anyway? Eventually I reply, ‘Does that answer your question?’

  ‘It does. I’ll see you on Saturday.’

  After I show Tom out, I text Dylan.

  Dinner was a success. Fifth date on Saturday. Looks like you were right. Not about everything but I’m starting to get it now x

  I wait for a reply that never comes.

  The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 15 November 2014

  Glasgow Girl’s home is no longer a man-free zone

  I was expecting something different for my fourth date with Mr X. A movie perhaps? An art gallery? Maybe the opera? Possibly a dirty weekend where we use baby oil, owl masks and a safe word, I’m not sure. What I wasn’t expecting was to have him over for dinner at my place, but that is exactly what happened.

  The first hurdle was feeding him. According to my daughter, my culinary skills are limited to processed meat shaped like animals and the opening of tins, but I was assured by someone who is very familiar with The Rules of Engagement that anything less than a meal home-cooked from scratch would be a disaster: a real man knows home-made from store-bought. So I did what any self-respecting killer of cuisine would do – I got someone else to make it for me.

  Next I cleaned my flat, getting rid of anything that would give the impression I’m a normal, messy human being. The book says: At some point he might think about living with you, so it’s best to throw away anything that might make him reconsider.

  Of course I felt sad about having to get rid of both my home-made wedding altar AND all of my friends, but I chose to follow these rules so I guess I can’t complain.

  The food went down well, and in general the date was going smoothly until he suggested we have sex. All readers of The Rules of Engagement will know that sex ist completely verboten before the fifth date. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to decline and, like the gentleman he is, Mr X respected my decision. In hindsight, I think the only reason he was so cool about it is that our next date will be our fifth; otherwise I fear I might have witnessed a grown man begging.

  The author states at the beginning of the book that if you follow his rules you’ll be in control of your own dating life, and I didn’t really believe him . . . until now. Mr X might have decided what we were doing on our date, but I was the one calling the shots in all other respects. I guess, on reflection, the only thing missing for me was the excitement of wondering what will happen next. Following the rules means there can’t ever really be a thrill of the unknown – the where and how of everything is already prescribed.

  The fifth date will take place at his house tonight (he’s buying me a takeaway, ahem), and if you think I’m going to kiss and tell, you’re absolutely right.

  It’s showtime, baby.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rule 6 – Don’t Sleep with Him Straight Away.

  Sex isn’t the gateway to happiness or the filler for your emotional void; it’s just sex.

  Condescending nonsense. I throw down the book and pick up my phone:

  Dylan: every woman already knows that the gateway to happiness is not sex but killer heels that don’t cripple your feet. Look, I know you’re either dead or ignoring me, but I thought I’d let you know that next week will be my last column following your rules. So we’ll both be off the hook. I think I’m officially dating Tom now, so much as it pains me to say this – it worked.

  I press Send on no doubt my fifth unanswered text to Dylan, place my phone under my pillow and roll over in bed. It’s half past eight on Saturday morning, and for once Grace is still asleep but I’m wide awake. I listen to the heavy rain battering off my bedroom window like a million angry fists and try to ignore the feeling that is gnawing away in the pit of my stomach. I’m not sure whether it’s hunger, or nerves about this evening, or even annoyance that Dylan seems to have cut me off with no explanation. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. In some weird way, I do sort of miss him.

  The rain doesn’t let up all day so Grace and I spend the afternoon playing board games and eating toast and cheese with pickle before she has leave for Peter’s house. I can tell she’s thrilled to spend so much time with me and I feel the same. Everything has become so hectic lately, it’s nice to just sit quietly with her and remember how delightfully simple things can be.

  At three she pulls on her shiny yellow wellington boots and hunts through the hall cupboard looking for her bumblebee umbrella while I hang my one and only little black dress on the back of my bedroom door to de-wrinkle. It’s my secret weapon: not too tight but clingy in all the right places. I’ll be completely overdressed for a takeaway, but then again, I don’t intend to stay dressed for all that long.

  The puddle count outside is impressive. I’m wearing my old Converse so I skip over them like a baby deer while Grace plunges into every one with great delight, spinning her umbrella as she splashes.

  Windscreen wipers on full, we drive slowly through the Southside, past seas of umbrellas and unhappy wet faces. Grace’s bright idea to play I Spy is quickly cut short when I keep driving past things she’s spied.

  ‘No, the answer was “dog”, Mum.’

  ‘Where’s the dog?’

  ‘Back there. Turn around – you might still see him!’

  ‘I’m driving, Grace.’

  ‘This is rubbish.’

  At long last we arrive at Peter’s house and I move Grace from the car to the front door as swiftly as possible. Peter, who looks like he’s been in bed all day, helps her take off her wellies at the front door.

  ‘Go and get dry,’ he says, shaking her umbrella dangerously close to me. ‘I’ll be there in a sec.’

  ‘Bye, Grace! Hi, Peter, nothing to report,’ I say, getting wetter by the minute. ‘I’ll see her tomorrow.’

  ‘The wedding is next week and you haven’t RSVP’d. We were just wondering if you were coming and if you were bringing anyone. You know, to get an idea of the numbers.’

>   NEXT WEEK? That can’t be right, surely.

  ‘Yes. To both,’ I reply, knowing I can’t go alone, but wondering who to bring. Peter and Kerry hate each other. Helen maybe? Tom? A big drop of rain targets the back of my neck and I shiver. ‘I’m getting soaked here, Peter. I need to run. I’ll see you later.’

  I can tell he wants to chat, but I’m off like a shot back to the car. I have a date to get ready for.

  Forty minutes before I’m due to leave for Tom’s house, the elusive Dylan turns up at my door, looking unkempt and mischievous.

  ‘Dylan? What are you doing here? Why have you been ignoring my texts?’

  ‘Sorry, MUM. Been busy,’ he replies, squeezing past me. ‘And you practically drop-kicked me out of your house last time . . . but since your last column is coming up, I thought I’d give you a final pep talk. Nice dress.’

  I close the door behind him. He’s already making himself at home. ‘Thanks all the same, Dylan, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Don’t hang your coat on the door handle – I do have hooks, you know.’

  He hands it over. ‘There are things you need to consider. I myself have never had sex with a dentist, but what if it’s all too dentisty? What if he makes you open your mouth and say, “AHHHHHHH”?’

  ‘Shut up.’ I try not to laugh.

  ‘Oh, and the most important thing to consider: what if he has a small knob? I’ve heard that’s quite common with dentists. Well, dentists and also men who aren’t me. Make me a cuppa, will you? I’m freezing.’

  Before I can reply, he’s striding up the hall towards the kitchen, asking if I have anything to eat. I’m left holding his jacket. He munches on some biscuits he’s found in the cupboard while I organize the tea. I can tell he’s waiting for a response. ‘So, what do you think, Cat?’

  ‘Are you trying to make me anxious, Dylan? Cos it’s working.’

  He stops munching. ‘Why are you anxious?’

  ‘Ugh, I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel right.’ I stare blankly at the kettle while it boils.

  He brushes biscuit crumbs from the table into his hand and disposes of them in the bin. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Did he get weird with you? What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing! This isn’t his fault. I’m just not being fair to him. Or me.’ I stick two teabags in the pot and pour in the water. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Um, one,’ he replies. ‘You’re over-thinking this again. You like him – he likes you; what’s the problem?’

  I thump a mug down on the worktop. ‘He likes me? How can he like me? He doesn’t know me! He knows “Cat”, the woman who doesn’t have any fucking discernible personality. He doesn’t know that I read horror in bed, that I can’t cook for shit and that I’m—’

  ‘Taking ages to make the tea?’

  ‘Fuck the tea, I’m serious! He doesn’t know me, Dylan! He thinks I’m sensible and reserved. ME!! I talk to myself! I shout at the television! I cry like a baby when I listen to “Wichita Lineman” and I can’t hear “Icky Thump” without getting the horn.’

  He nods. ‘“Icky Thump” is a dirty, dirty track.’

  ‘It really is, isn’t it? Now, what was I saying?’

  ‘That you’re weird and he isn’t.’ He starts on his second biscuit.

  I carry the teapot over to the table and sit down with a groan. ‘You just don’t get it.’

  He pauses. ‘I don’t actually. You’re going out with a good-looking bloke, decent job, who’s probably boring as fuck but who wants to spend time listening to you and having sex with you, but you’re unsure because you might not get to shout at the TV in front of him? There must be more to it than that?’

  ‘There isn’t, and you’re making me sound shallow,’ I reply, pouring the tea. ‘It’s not as simple as that. If I had to choose between a lifetime of controlled happiness or a lifetime of being myself, I’d choose the latter.’

  ‘If it helps, there’s a chapter on what do when you break up with—’

  ‘Oh, shut up about your bloody book.’

  ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that! You created this whole sorry mess. You and Leanne.’

  ‘Who’s Leanne?’

  ‘One of your devotees. Between the pair of you, I’ve successfully pursued someone who has no idea what I’m actually like.’

  He puts his mug down, pushes out his chair and stands up. ‘You can’t blame me or my book, Cat. Remember, I didn’t choose Tom for you. You were the one who agreed to go out with him in the first place.’

  ‘You’re right; I did agree to go out with him. I really liked him, but that was before—’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, just tell me!’

  ‘Before I met you.’

  We both take a second to let my words sink in. As he stares at me I begin to wonder if it’s possible to kill yourself with a teapot. The longer he remains silent, the more frustrated I become. I might as well say the rest:

  ‘Do you know what I hate the most, Dylan? Of all the things I’ve kept from Tom, the biggest one is that when I’m not with him I’m thinking about YOU, and even when I AM with him, you’re still in my head! One minute you’re teaching Grace to cook, the next you won’t even reply to my texts and now you’re over here, uninvited, AGAIN. What is it you want?’

  He gets to his feet. ‘I think I should leave.’ His voice is soft and calm. ‘I shouldn’t have come here –’

  I stand up and block his way. ‘So why did you? Answer me, Dylan. Why all of this? Why are you here?’

  ‘Because, Cat, you make it fucking impossible for me to want to be anywhere else!’ He grabs my face with both hands and he kisses me hard. Jesus, it’s a good kiss. I don’t know what it means, but –

  It’s the kind of kiss that will ruin me forever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘And then what happened?!’

  I can hear the anticipation in Kerry’s voice as I lock my front door and make my way to the waiting taxi. ‘Then nothing. He pulled away, said he was sorry and left.’

  ‘He left? But he said nice things! He kissed you! What was he sorry for? Did he say anything else? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.’

  I open the taxi door and clamber inside. ‘Arlington Avenue, please. You still there, Kerry?’

  ‘Hang on, are you in a taxi? Why are you in a . . .? You’re not still meeting Tom, are you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Are you insane?! But you’re not sure about Tom! You just told Dylan you liked him!!’

  ‘I do, I guess, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like Tom too. At least he seems genuine. That kiss with Dylan was . . . a momentary lapse in judgement. I was frustrated. You know how I get when I’m frustrated.’

  ‘Aroused?’

  ‘No. Emotional. Now I’m just confused.’

  ‘Maybe you should call Dylan or—’

  ‘Call him? HE PASSIONATELY KISSES ME AND THEN BOLTS FROM MY FLAT. I DO STILL HAVE A SMALL SHRED OF DIGNITY LEFT!’ I see the driver’s eyes staring at me in the mirror so I lower my voice. ‘I feel so stupid. I want nothing more to do with that man.’

  ‘OK, understandable, but are you sure seeing Tom is a good idea? I could come over instead?’

  ‘I didn’t put on my best underwear to spend the evening in with you, Kerry. I’m going to have a nice dinner, with a nice man, who hopefully has enough booze and sexual prowess to make me forget I ever met Dylan fucking Morrison.’

  ‘OK, Cat,’ she replies, clearly aware that my mind has been made up. ‘Call me if you need me.’

  I hang up, check my make-up in my little gold compact and tell myself that everything will be fine. I focus on ignoring the aftershock of Dylan’s kiss, which is still coursing through my body.

 
Arlington Avenue is about as middle-class suburban as you can get. Thirty white houses all sitting merrily in a row, each one slightly hidden by a large, perfectly pruned hedge. Tom rents number eighteen, which is the last bungalow at the top of the cul-de-sac. Through the rain-splattered window, I spot his BMW and ask the taxi driver to stop. I pay, take a deep breath and dart quickly to his front door.

  He greets me wearing jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt that hugs his chest.

  ‘Come in, Cat. It’s lovely to see you. Weather’s been awful, eh?’ He takes my coat and I see his eyes scanning my little black dress. Half of me wants him to just slam the door shut, throw me on the hall floor and shag Dylan clean out of my system, but the other half is really fucking famished.

  He leads me down a short hallway and into his cream-­accented living room, which is dimly lit and welcoming. There’s a real flame electric fire mounted on the wall and champagne in an ice bucket on the table with two glasses. At the back of the living room I spot French windows leading out into a conservatory. I knew it! I’m totally having a proper snoop later.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Cat. I’ve ordered Chinese; it should be here in half an hour. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Please. Your home is beautiful, Tom. Good find.’

  ‘Yeah, I like it here. I prefer living a bit outside the city these days. Must be my age. Not sure how long I’ll rent, but I’m happy for now.’

  He pops the champagne cork without flinching – a skill I’ve always admired in a man – and we toast to a ‘lovely evening’, which of course is code for ‘please let the sex be good’.

  Even though this is our fifth date, it still feels like we’re mostly communicating via small talk. By my fifth date with Peter, I knew that he’d been bullied at school, had a moon-shaped birthmark on his hip, took two sugars in his tea and could do a really funny impersonation of Alan Rickman. Conversely, I feel like Tom and I are still floating on the surface – neither of us attempting to dive a bit deeper. I have my obvious reasons for doing this, but either he’s also holding back or that’s just the way he is.