I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  I hear my phone beeping in my bag, but I don’t check it until Tom leaves the room to answer the door to the delivery driver. Even though I’ve just fervently kissed another man in my hallway, I do have a modicum of dating etiquette left. It’s a text from Peter:

  Grace had some dry skin on her shins but we’ve dealt with it.

  ‘We’ve dealt with it.’ I picture him and Emma both dressed in hospital scrubs, smearing Vaseline on to a small patch of dry skin, commending each other on their quick, incisive action.

  Excellent news, Peter. Glad you were able to save the leg. Teamwork for the win!

  I slip my phone back in my bag and take a huge gulp of champagne. Tom closes the front door and I hear the rustle of carrier bags. ‘I’ll just get the table ready,’ he calls. ‘Won’t be long.’ I have a brief mental image of Dylan letting Grace stir the Bolognese in my kitchen.

  What am I doing? Here I am, in a beautiful house, with a super-hot man, drinking champagne and allowing myself to be infuriated by the memory of a fucking mediocre writer who has no idea how to treat women. Fuck him and fuck his book. It’s game over.

  I mosey around Tom’s living room while I wait for dinner, spotting a large pile of neatly stacked magazines beside the television. Hoping I haven’t stumbled on his porn collection, I have a peek and wish that were actually the case. Tom appears to have subscriptions to both the Classic Car Club and Golf Monthly, and he hasn’t had the good sense to hide them under his mattress.

  ‘I see you’ve found my weakness.’

  ‘FUCK, you scared me, Tom!’ I yelp, staggering backwards. He reaches out to steady me and laughs. ‘Sorry. It’s these carpets, they muffle footsteps. It’s so strange – hearing you swear like that! Kathryn, my ex, used to make me put a quid in the swear jar every time I did.’

  I’m starting to feel I know this Kathryn woman more intimately than I know Tom . . . ‘Oh, sorry, I try not to do it very often,’ I lie, but in my head I’m running through the entire alphabet of swear words.

  I follow him through to the kitchen, which is about twice the size of mine and sports a large wooden white table in the centre, on which Tom has laid out our Chinese meal: sweet-and-sour something, Kung Po chicken, Peking duck, rice and prawn crackers. I think back to when I met Dylan at Yen . . . This time I intend to demolish that Kung Po.

  Stop. Thinking. About. Dylan.

  ‘I thought Chinese would be a safe bet – not everyone likes spicy food,’ Tom says, setting the cutlery down. ‘Please, sit.’

  We sit across from each other and, despite being famished, I do my very best not to hoover up everything in ten seconds, like I would at home. I also – small victories – succeed in not spilling anything down my dress. Tom, on the other hand, manages to get sticky sauce on his shirt.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ he says, wiping it away with his napkin. ‘I’m not usually this uncoordinated.’

  He finds THIS embarrassing? Between me and Grace, this is an hourly occurrence. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply. ‘I have an eight-year-old; I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Sometimes I forget you’re a mum.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean, it’s fine that you are, I’m just grateful you don’t go on and on about your child like some women I know. I think that’s one of the things I like best about you – you keep that side of your life private.’

  His words sting – that side of my life is the most import­ant part. I feel uneasy, like I’ve somehow betrayed Grace. I can’t even really blame him – in following these rules I’ve told him nearly nothing about her. I’m not allowed to. The feeling stays with me through the remainder of the meal and, hard as I try to ignore it, I can’t.

  ‘These wine glasses are beautiful,’ I deflect. ‘You have good taste.’

  ‘Thank you. I got custody of them in the divorce. If I recall, they were a present from Kathryn’s parents.’

  And there she is again.

  We finish dinner and I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I need time to think.

  I’m sure his bathroom is as charming as the rest of his house, but I barely notice anything as I sit down on the closed toilet seat to decide whether a night of sex is actually going to change the fact that I’m starting to feel I might not be really all that compatible with Tom and his omnipresent ex-wife, Kathryn.

  Tom’s in the living room, casually lounging on his chester­field sofa when I return. He motions for me to sit down, stroking the seat beside him. ‘Come here, cutie.’

  Coffin: meet the last nail.

  ‘Please don’t call me that. It’s kind of cheesy.’

  He looks surprised. ‘Oh. Sorry. I thought you liked that.’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Is there something bothering you, Cat?’

  ‘I need to apologize to you, Tom,’ I say, sliding on to the couch beside him. ‘I’ve been trying to be someone I’m not, and you deserve better than that.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He looks completely baffled and I don’t blame him.

  ‘I use swear words, Tom. All the time, well, except around Grace, of course – whom, by the way, I frequently discuss with people I’m close to because she’s the most important person in my life. I write about sex and dating and romance and I think my ex is a massive bastard and I also think you talk about your ex way too much, which is odd . . . and what I really want to know more than anything is, have you ever fucked anyone in your dentist chair?’

  ‘My chair? No. Cat, have you taken something?’

  ‘Oh, and I lie!’ I exclaim happily. ‘Not usually, but with you I have lied about loads of stuff. Like my neighbour, Dylan – he isn’t really my neighbour; he’s the man who made the meal I pretended to cook and also a man I slept with a while ago because I DO have sex before the fifth date – that was bullshit too, but I wanted you to stay interested in me and – Jesus, Tom – you’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

  I realize I’m being a bit unkind, but now that I’ve told him I feel a rush of relief. I reach over and drink the rest of my champagne while Tom tries to process what he’s just heard.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I’m sorry, Tom, I really do like you, but as much as I’ve been dying to see you without any clothes on, I’m going to walk to the main road and flag down a taxi now.’

  I grab my bag and walk into the hall, taking my coat from the mahogany coat stand. As I pull it on, I hear him say, ‘It’s pouring down. You don’t have to go.’

  He’s standing at the living-room door with his arms folded across his chest, looking marginally less scared than he was two minutes ago.

  ‘I do,’ I reply. ‘You’re really great, Tom. I’m sorry about all of this; I just followed some bad advice.’

  I step into the rain and begin walking up the street towards the main road, breathing a huge sigh of relief. One more column and I can put all of this behind me. Glasgow Girl is back to square one.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For the purposes of ‘cheering me up’, Kerry has the bright idea that we should eat lunch in the park – if you can call two limp tuna sandwiches and a sharing bag of pretzels lunch. It’s a cold and drizzly Sunday, but I welcome the opportunity to get her insight on my evening.

  ‘I must admit I’m surprised.’ Kerry breaks off a piece of her sandwich and throws it towards a small duck that’s been patiently eyeballing her for the past few minutes. ‘After we spoke, I totally thought you’d have shagged Tom, not dumped him. You seemed so determined.’

  ‘It was the right thing to do.’ I gesture towards the pond. ‘That fat one over there is an arsehole. Did you see him try and steal the wee one’s bread? YOU’VE HAD ENOUGH BREAD, BEAKFACE.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘No idea, except that I now have to write a column ­entitled “I dumped Mr X because I have
a fucking conscience” or something. Natasha won’t be pleased. I think she was expecting a more electrifying conclusion to the whole thing. We all were.’

  ‘You could always write about Dylan . . .’

  ‘Ha, and say what? “I momentarily lost my mind because this random guy was nice to my kid and my cat didn’t hate him”?’

  ‘Heisenberg liked him? Wow.’

  ‘Don’t be impressed, my cat is perverse. He’d probably take a shine to Hitler.’

  She stuffs her wrappers into the rotting grey bin beside our bench. ‘But he did kiss you. He told you he can’t stay away from you. Aren’t you curious to hear what else he has to say?’

  ‘By which you mean you’re curious.’

  ‘Yes! But you must be too.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m fed up of hearing what he has to say. I’ve read his book. He goes on and on about how men will pursue women if they’re into them. Nowhere does he write that they will shag you, manipulate you, then assist you in wooing another man before kissing you passionately and fucking off immediately after. You can’t just kiss a girl like that and then leave! Those kinds of kisses are supposed to mean something.’

  ‘You really liked him, didn’t you?’

  I nod and throw a pretzel at the mean duck. ‘Doesn’t matter now. He’s a professional player. Everything is a game to him. At least Tom wasn’t like that.’

  ‘And you’re sure Tom is a definite no-go?’

  ‘He likes golf and classic cars, Kerry. I will never believe that these are acceptable hobbies for anyone to have.’

  ‘Golf?’ She gives a little shudder. ‘Enough said.’

  *

  Eventually we submit to the cold afternoon air and leave our little bench, walking quickly towards Kerry’s red Mini in the rapidly emptying car park. She turns on the heater to thaw out our stinging faces and suggests we stop for a takeaway coffee on the way home.

  ‘They’re doing that pumpkin coffee crap now,’ she says, clicking her seat belt in. ‘It’s “in season”. It’s also hipster bullshit, but I really want to try it. I’ll probably hate it.’

  She does hate it, and I end up returning to the flat with a milky tea and three-quarters of a skinny pumpkin-spice latte, which has been sworn at repeatedly by my pissed-off best friend. Grace arrives back at half past five, wrapped up in a fluffy hat and matching gloves, with a rosy face just made for kissing. Peter doesn’t get out of the car, presumably sulking about my text reply.

  ‘I tried on two dresses for the wedding, Mum! One was pink and had little beads on it and the other was purple and had a massive sticky-out skirt. I liked that best. I could swish in it.’

  ‘Swishing is important,’ I agree. ‘Sounds like you had a great weekend.’

  ‘I’d give it eighty-nine per cent. It lost points because Netflix wasn’t working.’

  ‘Take your stuff off and I’ll make dinner. What do you fancy?’

  ‘That spaghetti stuff Dylan made. Can we have that?’ She throws her hat on the floor, causing Heisenberg to arch himself into something resembling a hissing croquet hoop.

  ‘Another day, honey. I’m not sure of all the ingredi­ents and—’

  ‘Phone Dylan, then. Maybe he can come and make it for us again? Do you remember when he was making the celery talk? He’s funny.’

  My heart sinks. Right about now I expect a Parent of the Year award to plummet down on me from the sky and cause considerable bleeding from my stupid inconsiderate head. ‘He’s working away just now, Grace, but we’ll arrange it when he comes back.’

  Happy with my excuse, she darts into the living room to see if Netflix is up and running again, leaving me to pull together a lame dinner of fish, oven chips and microwaved beans. It’s hardly haute cuisine, but it’ll have to do.

  It’s half past ten before I sit down again, having organized Grace’s school clothes, made her packed lunch, washed the dishes, bathed her and finally insisted she go the fuck to bed. I’m exhausted, but my brain is far from sleepy. I need to come up with something for my article this week that doesn’t make it look like I just gave up on The Rules of Engagement. I could say Tom turned out to be a massive racist . . . no, that’s just mean. Maybe I can lie and say that Tom dumped me? Being dumped is far more interesting than taking the moral high ground, right? But then that implies that the rules don’t work . . . What if Tom dumped me to get back with his ex-wife? That could work. Who am I to stand in the way of true love . . .?

  Reluctantly I pick up The Rules of Engagement and search for advice on being dumped. As I suspected, it’s an onwards-and-upwards approach, designed for people with no emotional inner life. From what I gather, I must not walk around with a face like the Wailing Wall. He then goes on to talk about some of the emotions a lady might experience and I make my own notes underneath each point:

  Sadness – (Why didn’t he love me? I’m totally loveable.)

  Anger – (Who does he think he is? He’s a fucking dead man walking.)

  Crazy – (If I can’t date him any more, I’m going to cut my hair off with this spoon.)

  Vengeful – (I’m going to buy him a dog and then STEAL the dog and then I’ll have a dog and HE’LL HAVE NOTHING LEFT.)

  Denial – (He’ll be back. I’ll just eat everything until that happens.)

  Dylan says the most important point is to have self-respect. I must not become a weeping chick-flick cliché. I must not beg for him to come back because I will inevitably cry, and not just a single Sinead O’Connor solitary tear. No, it will be massive showers of salty despair, streaming down my face, soaking through the baggy T-shirt I’ve been wearing since I stopped caring about my appearance. Women who stop caring how they look will eventually shrivel up and die, while their ex-boyfriend is probably off in Cannes, shagging someone better on a yacht. Unsurprisingly it doesn’t mention how to react when a man gives you a kiss that still haunts you and then fucks off out of your life forever.

  If Tom had actually dumped me, this chapter would be no help at all. Still, at least I have something to work with for Saturday’s column. I close The Rules of Engagement and throw it in the bin.

  *

  Helen and Adam are back from their holiday, looking suitably rested and pleased to see Grace when I drop her off before school.

  ‘Did you bring me something?’ Grace asks first thing.

  ‘Yup. Go inside and see what Uncle Adam has for you.’

  Grace kisses me and then vanishes into the flat, giving Helen exactly sixty-seven seconds to interrogate me before I have to leave for work.

  ‘How’s it going with Tom?’

  There is no way I’m getting into this before work. ‘Fine, Helen. I’ll fill you in later. I really need to go.’

  ‘Just fine? Have you seen him this week?’

  ‘I really have to go. Later. I promise.’

  I trot off down the hall as she yells after me, ‘I BOUGHT YOU SOME RASPBERRY VODKA. YOU’RE NOT GETTING IT UNTIL YOU SPILL THE BEANS.’

  Bollocks, I love raspberry vodka. She’s so unfair. She’s going to lose her shit when she finds out I dumped Tom. With the week I’ve had, I really wish it was acceptable to start drinking on the train to work.

  *

  ‘What is that awful smell?’ I’ve only been in the office for two minutes and I’m opening windows and looking for signs of a dead animal. Great start to Monday. I look at Leanne, who’s spraying everything with cheap air freshener she borrowed from the staff toilets.

  ‘I have no idea, but these cleaners need to be sacked.’ There’s something different about her today . . . her face . . . Oh, I see what it is. Jesus wept.

  ‘Leanne, what’s going on with your eyebrows?’

  Leanne furrows her forehead and looks up in a failed attempt to see her own brows. ‘I got them done on Saturday – “High Definition” brows. I love them.’

>   They look as if they’ve been drawn on with a Sharpie, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. The woman’s just tried to see her own forehead without a mirror after all; it would be like kicking a really stupid puppy.

  Leanne and I are the only ones in the office today. Patrick has the week off, Gordon is in Edinburgh all day and Natasha is at some conference in Perth. I’m extremely happy about this; the fewer people ask me about date five, the better. Leanne predictably tries to prise it out of me, but her high-definition face is getting nowhere:

  ‘You’ll have to wait until Saturday!’

  ‘Exciting! Shame it’s your last one. You’ll have to come up with some brand-new ideas again.’

  ‘This one wasn’t my fucking idea in the first place,’ I snap. Oh good, now Leanne has a colossal pout to go with her drawn-on brows. ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit stressed. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

  Pout gone, Leanne offers to make me some tea and toddles off to the kitchen while I go through my emails and get organized for the day. The foul smell can’t be ignored and seems to be coming from Patrick’s desk. Eventually I’m forced to investigate. Thirty seconds later I’m carrying half a Tupperware of rotten kale down the stairs and disposing of it in the bin across the street. I then write a note for Patrick:

  You didn’t look after your kale and it died. I’m very sorry for your loss.

  Also, WHO THE FUCK BRINGS KALE INTO WORK?

  You owe me two new nostrils.

  ‘I’ll buy some baking soda at lunchtime,’ I say to Leanne, taping the note to Patrick’s monitor. ‘It should soak up some of the smell.’

  ‘I remember Patrick eating a kale salad last week. Baking soda? How do you know these things?’

  ‘I have a kid and a cat,’ I reply, riffling through the weekend papers. ‘At some point they have both shat somewhere unexpected and left it for me to find. Also, Grace spills milk. Secretly and often.’

  She smiles. ‘I admire you. I can barely look after myself, never mind a kid. How the heck do you stay sane?’

  ‘Grace is both the cause and the cure,’ I reply. ‘You’ll understand when you grow one of your own.’ I thank her for the tea and take my first call of the day – from a young PR woman called Penny who keeps pronouncing my name ‘Cat-ree-oh-nah’.