I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Sorry – Penny? It’s actually pronounced “Ka-treen-a”.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure that’s how my name is pronounced? Yes. Quiet sure.’

  ‘Hmm. Weird, but OK.’

  Needless to say the call ends there and I move on with my life, while Leanne greets the postman.

  ‘One here for you, CAT-REE-OH-NA,’ she mocks, tossing me a small white envelope.

  ‘Yes, very funny.’ I tear open the side and pull out an A5 piece of red card. The scrawled black handwriting reads:

  Where: Filmhouse.

  When: Friday 21 November 2014.

  Time: Midnight.

  D x

  I turn it over but the other side is blank. That’s it. I don’t ask Leanne if she also got one – this is clearly for me alone, not a press invitation like last time. It’s also Peter’s wedding reception that night and I’ve promised Grace and told Peter I’ll go. Can I manage both? Do I even want to see him?

  ‘Everything all right?’ asks Leanne, clearly concerned by my expression.

  ‘Oh yes. I just remembered I have Peter’s wedding on Friday night and I, um . . . haven’t bought them a gift.’ This is a lie.

  ‘Debenhams have thirty per cent off just now,’ she replies, ‘I’m sure you can get them something there. It must be hard to see your ex so happy, but it’ll be your turn one day!’

  I’m actually giving them a hideous vase Helen gave me for Christmas last year, but I thank Leanne for her helpful suggestion, ignore her hopes for my future and get back to work.

  *

  Rose has picked up Grace so I head to her house after a day of mostly coffees and procrastination. The kids play in the living room while Rose and I chat in the kitchen. I fill her in on everything that’s been happening since we last met.

  ‘That Dylan guy sounds like a puzzle!’ she says. ‘He sounds like an enigma . . . wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in a wanker.’ She switches on the kettle, then opens a box of biscuits and places them in front of me. ‘And how are you feeling about Peter’s wedding? For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a good thing.’

  ‘I’m feeling . . . all right about it actually.’ I stare into the box, deciding on my first of many shortbread fingers. ‘It’s funny, since I’ve been involved in the whole Dylan/Tom fiasco, Peter’s wedding has hardly crossed my mind. In fact Peter has hardly crossed my mind full stop.’

  ‘That’s because he’s no longer the last man you had feelings for. It’s funny how a new romance will put an old one in perspective, eh?’

  I grin. ‘He wants me to meet him, you know? Dylan. He sent me a mysterious note . . .’

  ‘Mysterious? Hang ON.’ She sticks her head round the kitchen door. ‘JASON, WILL YOU STOP PLAYING WITH THAT KEYBOARD? IT’S TOO NOISY.’

  She walks over to the kitchen drawers, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry I ever bought that bloody thing. I’d hide it but he loves it. Every time he plays it, it sounds like Jean-Michel Jarre is having a stroke . . . Sorry, you were saying – Dylan wants to meet up?’

  ‘Yes. On Friday, at midnight. What should I do? Meet him after the reception or just ignore him?’

  ‘I take it Grace is staying at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve booked rooms for the night. She’s kipping in with Peter’s dreadful Aunt Victoria.’

  ‘Then go! You’ve nothing stopping you,’ Rose says, removing cups from the dishwasher. ‘Go and see what he wants.’

  ‘But he’s behaved so badly!’ I object. ‘He’s so rude to me! Do I really need someone like that in my life?’

  ‘Listen, I thought Rob was an arrogant sod when I first met him, but it was all bravado. Now I think he’s the most humble, lovely man I’ve ever known. If you have a feeling about this Dylan guy, then see where it goes. You have nothing to lose.’

  ‘Except my sanity.’

  ‘Sanity is overrated. Just meet him.’

  ‘And my dignity.’

  ‘JUST MEET HIM.’

  ‘I WILL THEN.’ I stuff another biscuit into my mouth before I change my mind.

  ‘You’re doing the right thing, and if I don’t see you before Friday, good luck at Peter’s wedding. I hope it all goes smoothly. Whatever happens with this other guy, just be thankful that you’re not the woman getting hitched to that lolloping clown.’

  Lolloping. This makes me laugh more than it should.

  *

  Grace has only been in bed fifteen minutes when Helen knocks on the door. She’s brought with her a litre of vodka and a stern look.

  ‘Can you recommend a new dentist?’

  Shit. She knows. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. I was going to tell you tonight. How did you find out?’

  She steps on my toe as she walks past me. ‘I called Tom to invite him to dinner again, and he told me that it might be awkward because you weren’t seeing each other any more. Actually, he said that you weren’t really his type and he’d tried to let you down gently. He hopes you aren’t too cut up about it.’

  He dumped me? I smile. Good for him. I deserved that.

  ‘I’m fine, Helen. Life goes on and I—’

  ‘But then he said that he was never comfortable being with one of those single-mother types, so I told him to go fuck himself. So back to my original question – can you recommend a new dentist?’

  I give Helen a massive hug and she whispers, ‘It’s obvious you broke it off, and I’m glad you did. Saving face is one thing, but how dare he look down his nose at you. You do an amazing job.’

  She steps back and hands me my vodka. ‘Have one on me. I’ll see you for the wedding on Friday. I’m just going to wear that cream trouser suit I got in Fraser’s sale. What are you wearing?’

  ‘Baby-blue Jackie O suit for ceremony and my maroon swing dress with the little straps for the reception.’

  I wait for her to launch into why my choice of outfits is unsuitable, but instead she says, ‘You’ll look wonderful. I’ll see you on Friday.’

  She kisses me on the cheek and goes back across the hall, leaving me and my raspberry vodka to become better acquainted. I pour myself a small one, mix it with lemonade, then settle down to write my final rules column. There won’t be time later in the week, and I just want to get it down and move on.

  The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 22 November 2014

  I Followed the Rules

  What happens when it all goes tits up?

  It’s been a bumpy ride. From supermarket stalking to spaghetti throwing, I’ve followed the rules in the hope that Mr X just might be the one. But when the one still harbours feelings for someone else, not even the mighty rule book can help. Yes, readers, it’s over.

  On the eve of the wedding Grace packs her tiny little bag with all manner of non-wedding related nonsense, like tiny plastic farm animals and stickers. She’s excitedly gibbering on about how she has the important job of scattering rose petals and remembering not to run or dance down the aisle, while I watch for Peter at the window. It all feels very surreal.

  ‘We’re staying in the hotel for TWO nights, Mum! I’m going to sleep in Great Aunt Victoria’s room. Someone is going to do our hair in the morning.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see how you look!’ I kiss her face and secretly hope that she ignores Peter’s instructions not to dance or run. I hope she fucking hoofs it down the aisle, finishing in a small Charleston or can-can.

  The buzzer goes and I let Peter in. He’s flustered but in good spirits.

  ‘All set then?’ I ask, making an effort at dull yet appropriate conversation.

  ‘Yes. We’ll see you at the church tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Of course. Wouldn’t miss it, and I’ll pop along to the reception in the evening.’

  He isn’t listening; I know Peter: his brain is wondering how he’s going to cope
with his parents for two days and whether the hotel room has a well-stocked minibar. Anything I’m saying is just noise.

  ‘Let’s go, Dad!’ Grace slinks under my arm and out into the hall. ‘See you tomorrow, Mum. It’s going to be so AMAZING.’ And with a tiny squeal she’s off down the hall towards the front door.

  ‘See you tomorrow! And good luck, Peter.’

  ‘Thanks. Have a good night.’

  I close the door and lean against it for a second. I’m not sure Helen is the wisest choice of partner, given her need to say everything that comes into her head, but I’m grateful not to be going alone . . . I’ll turn up in my best church outfit, smile and wish them well. It all feels a bit unreal, but for the first time, I realize I don’t feel upset about it. At last we’re all finally moving on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The wedding. We arrived seven minutes ago and I’m already wearing shoes that aren’t mine. The right heel of my planned comfortable footwear got wedged in a drain and snapped off as I was getting out of the car, so I’ve been ordered to put on my sister Helen’s silver stiletto hoof-destroyers, which are too narrow for my huge flat feet. I would have been happy going barefoot, but apparently no sister of hers is ‘walking around like a bloody hippy’, so I get her new Kurt Geigers and she’s run off to her car for her ballet pumps while I hide around the side of the church.

  As I watch Helen tiptoe over to her car, a taxi pulls up. A pretty brunette I don’t recognize swings her legs out, knees together, expertly ensuring that her pastel pink miniskirt doesn’t ride up and reveal her Spanx, followed by her stubble-faced partner who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than stuck at a wedding on a Friday morning. Behind them I see Peter’s friends Jay and Lonna walking up the car park, followed by a small group of women who’ve chosen to wear black. I predict they’ll be sitting on Emma’s side of the aisle.

  I hate weddings. I’ve been to six weddings in the past seven years and the only pleasurable part is purposely finding really shit wedding gifts, like religious-themed salt and pepper shakers or ‘his ’n’ hers’ hot-water bottles in the shape of genitalia. I always try to convince myself I’m going to enjoy it, but it’s always the same old story: I spend the evening floating between tables of couples who are in various drunken stages of loved-upness and who feel compelled to tell me that ‘it’ll be my turn one day’. Sometimes I laugh and smile politely, and sometimes I tell them to shut the fuck up, but every time my heart gives a tiny painful yelp, reminding me that once upon a time I also believed this. This then leads to mild depression, soothed only by ludicrous amounts of buffet finger food, all while wearing a misjudged skirt that doesn’t allow for carbohydrate-induced mid-section bloating

  But this wedding will be different. It’s Peter’s wedding. Today I will watch the father of my child, the ‘love of my life’, marry someone who isn’t me . . . and I’m surprisingly OK with this. Better than I thought I’d be anyway. I just want it to be over.

  My attention is again drawn to the street, where I spy two wedding cars in the distance, waiting at the traffic lights. I wave frantically at Helen to hurry up; I’m certain the last thing Emma wants to see when she steps out of the car is her future husband’s ex-girlfriend hobbling around the entrance to the church in unreasonably high shoes. Grace will be in the car too – I don’t want to distract her.

  Helen pirouettes through the car park in her ballet pumps and helps me inside before we’re spotted. We find seats three rows from the back behind two middle-aged women wearing identical silly hats, which makes Helen snigger so hard she makes the whole pew shake.

  I nudge her. ‘Stop giggling.’

  ‘It’s too late. I’m gone. Save yourself.’

  I move my head to the right and spy Peter standing at the altar. He’s dressed in grey and purple and he looks understandably nervous. He sees me and gives me a quick wave, gesturing to his suit for my approval. I’m unexpectedly touched, but before I can give him a thumbs-up the doors behind me open, everyone stands and the music starts.

  I turn to look at Helen, who winks at me. She leans in and whispers, ‘Here we go.’ I take a deep breath.

  Here we fucking go indeed.

  *

  ‘Congratulations, I’m so happy for you both.’

  I unhinge my smile and sigh. No. That sounds forced. It has to be more natural. I shake it off and grin at myself in the ladies’ room mirror again.

  ‘Congratulations! Let’s hope you don’t fuck this one up, eh, Peter?’

  Nope. Jesus, the lighting in here makes me look about seventy. I try it without a grin – sombre yet meaningful, lowering my head like Princess Di used to do. ‘I hope you’ll have a wonderful life together . . . IN HELL.’

  Oh for fuck’s sake. Why is this so difficult? Throughout the wedding ceremony I was fine. No crying when they said, ‘I do,’ minimal laughter when Emma, her three bridesmaids and Grace walked down the aisle to ‘Somewhere Over the (fucking) Rainbow’, and I smiled winningly when Grace waved at me twice during the ceremony. I really do hope they have a wonderful life together . . . yet I’m struggling to say it with any sort of sincerity because although I hope they’re happy, I’m more concerned about what’s waiting for me, not for the rest of my life but when I meet Dylan later.

  The bathroom door swings open, momentarily letting the sound of laughter and music from the wedding reception float in before it closes again.

  ‘MUM!’

  Grace, in her purple swishy dress, runs towards me at full speed, throwing her arms around my waist, her head colliding with my chest. ‘I’ve been dancing with Dad for ages. What’s taking you so long?’

  ‘Oh, you look so pretty, Gracey! Let me see you properly.’

  She steps back and twirls around excitedly. I can tell that, despite it being Peter’s wedding, she’s been the centre of attention all day.

  ‘Mum, I need to go to the toilet. Wait for me?’

  She disappears into a cubicle and I finish reapplying my lipstick. As Grace emerges with her skirt tucked into her pants, I adjust the straps on my maroon dress and sneak one final look, feeling ready to take on whatever awaits me at the reception.

  Grace washes her hands while I pull her dress down, hiding her tiny white pants. She leads me out of the bathroom and we walk hand in hand through the small lobby and into the main hall. I immediately spot Emma, still in her wedding dress and dancing with a tiny boy in a kilt. Peter is a little harder to locate, but Grace soon spots him talking to his mate Ryan towards the back of the hall. I feel awkward, as if I have no right to be here.

  Grace skips over to Peter and he waves to me as I follow slowly behind. ‘Hi, Grace! Listen, your grandpa was looking for you for a dance. Why don’t you find him while I talk to your mum?’

  We both watch her speed off towards Peter’s dad.

  ‘Has today been grim for you?’

  I laugh. ‘No. Not at all! The ceremony was beautiful. I appreciate the invite. I really am happy for you both.’

  Nailed it.

  He places his hand on my arm. ‘Only, I’m not sure I’d have been able to watch you marry someone else. I know it must have been tough.’

  ‘Oh, well, surprisingly it wasn’t,’ I reply, wondering where this is going. ‘We were a lifetime ago, Peter.’

  ‘I regret a lot,’ he continues. ‘And I’ve behaved badly at times. I want you to know that, despite everything, I think Grace has a fantastic mum and that you’re a wonderful person.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘No buts. That’s all I wanted to say.’

  As he hugs me, I’m dumbfounded. It seems that marry­ing Emma has turned Peter into a reflective, decent – albeit slightly tipsy – human being. This might turn out to be the best wedding yet and finally, finally, I really do feel happy for them.

  As the evening goes on, Peter’s elderly parents approach me with
a mixture of caution and contempt – they still view me as the heartless witch who chose not to stay in a doomed relationship – but I just smile sweetly and give zero fucks. Emma is gracious and brings me a glass of champagne, thanking me for attending and being so cool about the whole thing. Ha, if only she knew.

  By eleven, Grace is practically asleep on her feet and doesn’t complain too much when her Great Aunt takes her up to the hotel room, which is also my cue to leave. Peter walks me out to the taxi and we hug again briefly before he goes back to his wedding guests and his new wife, and I make my way to the Filmhouse.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The outside of the Filmhouse looks very different at midnight. Without its brightly lit exterior display, the old grey facade appears cold and uninviting. Menacing even. The fact that it’s in Glasgow doesn’t help matters. Even friendlier cities can turn on their residents when the sun goes down.

  I try the front door but it’s locked, and I briefly wonder if he’s stood me up. However, my question is soon answered when the side door opens in the alley that runs alongside.

  ‘Over here!’ Dylan shouts, beckoning me in. Confused but intrigued, I hurry to join him.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ I ask as he closes the door behind me. He’s unshaven and seems nervous.

  He strokes the stubble on his chin. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought I’d better explain myself after the other night . . . Just straight through there, Cat.’

  ‘And you couldn’t do that over the phone?’ I walk through a small storage area, which takes me into the main lobby. It’s dark, but there are candles lighting up the floor all the way to Screen 2.

  ‘If I’d called, I wouldn’t have been able to do this.’

  I get a little shiver down my spine. This massive fire hazard has been secretly set up, just to impress me. And it’s working.

  ‘Did you get dressed up for me?’