‘Don’t flatter yourself; I’ve just come from my ex’s wedding reception.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Nah, it wasn’t too bad.’
‘Good. Well, if you’d like to make your way to Screen 2, the film will be starting shortly.’
‘Film? But I thought you wanted to talk?’
‘We can do both. It’s my cinema.’
He leads me down the hall, following the candles, which stop outside the door. Dylan opens for it me and I go in first. Inside it’s dimly lit with soft music playing. On the screen I read:
Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining.
Running time: 146 minutes.
‘You brought me here to scare me?’
He laughs. ‘It’s a good first-date movie.’
‘Oh, so this is a date, eh?’ I ask, making my way towards the rows of seats. Truth is, this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me AND I’m wearing a splendid first-date dress. It’s just a shame it’s with the heartless kitchen absconder.
Dylan leads me to Row G, where he’s laid out some drinks and snacks. ‘When does the movie start?’ I ask, sitting down and eyeing up the popcorn. I don’t really know what’s happening, but I seem to be going along with it, more so now that there are snacks. ‘I hope you’re paying the projectionist overtime.’
‘No projectionist – everything is digital these days. The film will start soon but—’
‘Hang on . . . is that Johnny Cash I can hear? It bloody is! Are you playing country for me?’
‘Well, yes, but that’s not—’
‘I LOVE this song. It’s so—’
‘CAT! Can we talk? Please. I need to say this now.’
Oh my. I shush and casually throw some popcorn into my mouth.
‘That night I left you in the kitchen . . . Listening to you speak with such passion about all the things Tom doesn’t know about you . . . it suddenly dawned on me that I wanted to be the one who got to know all those things. I didn’t want it to be Tom. You were my game-changer and I was too stupid to see it.’
‘Your what? I don’t understand. You’re not making sense.’
Dylan reaches under his seat and hands me his iPad. ‘I’m not being very articulate. Maybe this will help.’
It’s logged on to the Tribune’s website. ‘Click on your column.’
‘What? My column? How will that help?’
‘Just read it.’
‘But I know what it says.’
He clicks on it for me. ‘Just. Read. It.’
‘Fine.’ I hold up the iPad, feeling incredibly foolish.
We apologize but there will be no column from Glasgow Girl this week. Instead we have a special guest post from Guy Wright, author of The Rules of Engagement.
I stare at the screen in disbelief. What the fuck? I’m scared to read on, but my eyes have already continued without my consent . . .
When I wrote The Rules of Engagement, I made sure I covered every dating eventuality; what to say, what to wear, when to have sex, how to handle break-ups, but there was one question I never thought to ask myself, something I never even considered until now – what happens if you meet someone to whom the rules don’t apply?
Let me be clear; this would be an extremely rare, freak occurrence: like frogs falling out of the sky, lightning striking the same person twice or Britain having warm weather on a Bank Holiday weekend but, like all of those events, it can happen.
So, in keeping with the book and the current theme of this blog, I’d like to add an additional rule. It might seem a tad cryptic at first, but stay with me.
Rule 11 – The Game Changer
Throughout this book I’ve given advice on how to meet men, how to keep them interested and make sure they stay that way. But what if, without even trying, you’ve managed to turn an ordinary, emotionally bereft man into a smitten shell of his former self? And what if he hadn’t told you this? How would you know?
Luckily, there are signs and signals you can look out for:
• He thinks it’s charming that you can’t cook.
• He’ll admit that you’re funnier than he is.
• He doesn’t care that you like crappy country music.
• He can tell you’re an amazing mum by the fact that your kid isn’t a pain in the arse.
• He’s sorry about the way you two met, but he’s not sorry that he took you home. Not for one second.
• He f*cked up and has spent the last week kicking himself, and hoping he hasn’t completely blown it.
And if all else fails:
• He hijacks your column and publicly declares that he’s in love with you.
A man like this needs to be put out of his misery. He misses you.
Look out for our exclusive interview with Guy Wright next week. The Rules of Engagement, price £5.99, is available now.
I’m aware that I’ve not said a word for at least five minutes.
‘. . . and publicly declares that he’s in love with you.’
*
I’m reading and rereading in a state of disbelief. There’s a feeling beginning to bubble, deep down in the pit of my stomach. It’s been a while, but I think it might be UTTER FUCKING DELIGHT. There’s already 232 comments! I try to compose myself.
‘Well? Cat, say something. I’m really nervous now.’
I place the iPad on the floor. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’ I stand up and begin to walk towards the exit. He can’t see me grinning like a fool.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home. My bed is calling me.’
‘Jesus, Cat, look, maybe the column was a stupid idea. I’m sorry. Don’t go. Please.’
I’m almost at the exit when I turn to face him. ‘You coming?’ I raise an eyebrow and smile. We’re the same two people we were when we met at the Filmhouse, only the tables have turned.
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
He laughs loudly and jumps up from his chair. ‘Nicely played.’
‘I think I’ve loved you since the moment you said that to me in the bar,’ I continue. ‘You made quite the impression that night. I remember everything.’
He walks towards me slowly. ‘Then you know what’s coming next.’
He’s unbuttoning his shirt. I do know what happens next.
I kick off my shoes. If this dress wasn’t so expensive I’d be already tearing it off me. I make my way back down the aisle towards him, letting the straps of my dress fall off my shoulders, reaching behind me for the zip.
He continues walking, undoing his belt. ‘Stay exactly where you are.’
As he approaches me I think how weird it is that today I watched the first love of my life get married, and now everything has changed in a way I could have never predicted, thanks to one little, stupid book. I also know that there’s no way in hell we’re making it home tonight.
He reaches me – shirt open, throwing his belt on the floor, and before I can speak he pushes me back against Seat 5 Row C and firmly pins me there, his hands clasping mine. The look he’s giving me is so intense I fear I might dissolve there and then.
‘You know we’re breaking at least four first-date rules here?’ I say, my voice reduced to no more than a whisper.
He unclasps his right hand and moves it gently to the side of my face. ‘Fuck the rules, Cat.’
And right there in Row C, accompanied by Johnny Cash, Dylan leans in and kisses me, but unlike our kiss in the kitchen, this time I know what it means.
It’s the kind of kiss that means something.
It’s the kind that means everything.
Acknowledgements
Big love to the following people –
My wonderful agent Kerry Glencorse and my equally amazing editor Kathryn Taussig, along with all t
he staff at Quercus and Susanna Lea Associates.
I’d like to thank my brilliant parents for putting up with me and my sister for introducing me to a world where dating rules exist.
Finally, I’d like to thank my beautiful daughter for her endless supply of cuddles. Without them, I’d be far, far grumpier than I already am.
Keep reading for an extract of The list
January
Saturday January 1st
I emerged from my bed like Nosferatu about an hour ago with a mouth like a stable floor. Since the minibar has been cleaned out and I cannot find one cup in this entire hotel room, I’ve been forced to drink water directly from the bathroom tap. Fuck, I’m so hungover my face feels like it belongs to someone else. Lucy is still asleep on the other bed and I refuse to get dressed and venture out where there are people with eyes who will judge me.
For once the hangover was worth it, as last night’s party was amazing! Every year we all stay at the Sapphire Hotel (overpriced, trendy and slap bang in the middle of the city centre) to bring in the bells and every year I’m surprised they haven’t banned us yet. The others had already checked in by the time Lucy and I arrived at half past three. We took the lift to our floor, dragging our needlessly large suitcases behind us as we searched for room 413. I’ve worked with Lucy for two years and she’s never on time for anything. ‘I bet the others are pissed already,’ said Lucy, ‘and shagging. I bet they’re all covered in Moët and wearing each other’s underwear.’
Finally, we found our room and I fumbled with the key card in the door, ‘Jesus, is that all you ever think about? Anyway, we’re only half an hour late. Hazel’s most likely pricing the minibar, Kevin will be ready for a pint and Oliver’s probably . . .’
‘Getting head off that Spanish girl,’ Lucy interrupted. ‘What’s her name again?’
‘Pedra. I’ve only met her once and called her Pedro by accident.’
She threw her coat on the bed near the window and turned on the television as I started to unpack, wondering why the hell I’d brought four pairs of shoes.
‘Are you wearing your green dress?’ I asked, looking at the plain black one I’d brought.
‘Yup. Although with my red hair, I look like a Riverdance reject.’
I left her, mid-Irish jig, and went for a shower, excited about the evening ahead and thinking about last year’s party: when Lucy got so drunk she fell asleep in the lift and Oliver hid behind my bedroom door and scared me so badly I wet myself.
My train of thought was interrupted by a knock on the door and a familiar Dublin accent.
‘Phoebe, I’m coming in. Put your cock away.’
I grabbed the towel and wrapped it around me just as Oliver appeared from behind the door.
‘Fuckssake, Oliver!’ I shrieked, turning away from him. ‘Give a girl some privacy! Go and peek at Pedro’s tits.’
‘It’s Pedra, and I’m not here to see your tits, impressive as they are. I’m here to tell you that dinner is at 7 p.m., and there was something else but Lucy’s Irish dancing has distracted me and made me homesick for mental redheads.’
‘Fine, I’ll see you when I’m dressed. Go and annoy someone else.’
An hour and two glasses of wine later, Lucy and I were still getting ready. The plan, every year, was to try to stay relatively sober until midnight, but generally we’d all be hammered by the time the bells chimed for New Year and do shots until we all fell over. I knew this year would be no different. ‘At least you don’t have Alex with you,’ said Lucy, pulling on her tights. ‘That man bored the shit out of everyone last year, going on about his bloody job. He’s a physiotherapist, not a fucking wizard.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean, sleeping with his boss all that time, and he had the cheek to bring her into the conversation—’
‘Enough!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t kill my buzz talking about that dickhead. It’s over now. I just need to concentrate on finding someone who isn’t a total prick.’
‘Don’t set the bar too high,’ Lucy laughed. ‘And besides, it’s not a new boyfriend you need, Phoebe, it’s a shag! Sex makes everything better.’
‘My sex life is fine, thank you very much. What I need is another drink.’
*
We met Hazel and Kevin at the bar before dinner. They had already thrown half a bottle of champagne down their necks. Hazel saw me eyeing up the bottle.
‘We have no child for the night. I intend to get shit-faced.’
‘Hey, I’m not judging. I celebrate the fact I have no child every night,’ I replied.
Hazel looked amazing in her pastel-pink evening dress. She’d swept her blonde hair up into a high ponytail decorated with tiny diamantés. Her husband Kevin was in his kilt and looked very handsome. They always looked so effortlessly groomed that I felt a tad thrown together in my black wrap-over dress, red heels and the same hairstyle I’d had since 1995.
‘Oliver and Pedra not down yet?’
‘From the way those two were slobbering over each other in the lobby, I’d be surprised if they’ve left the bedroom.’ Kevin laughed and then paused, obviously trying to picture this in his head.
A flustered-looking waiter ushered us into the main hall, where we all sat around beautifully decorated tables covered in white linen with green and red centrepieces. There must have been around a hundred tartan-clad guests and the atmosphere was electric. There were tables of hipsters wearing jaunty hats, ready to Instagram photos of their meal as soon as it arrived, the obligatory table of young lads who were pissed before the meal even arrived and the occasional middle-aged couple who weren’t quite sure what to make of the whole thing. The meal itself was traditional Scottish: steak pie, haggis and some sort of tofu extravaganza for the vegetarians.
‘That cutlery is immense,’ said Lucy, lifting a silver spoon up to her face. ‘I’d like these in my house.’
‘Steal it then,’ I joked, but then I saw the look on her face.
‘Hey, klepto! Do not steal it. They made you pay for that dressing gown last year, remember?’
‘Yeah, but they don’t allocate cutlery to room numbers. That was a schoolboy error on my part.’
Ten minutes later Oliver swaggered in with a cheeky grin on his face, followed by Pedra, a woman so beautiful I wanted to punch her in the face and then myself. ‘Finally! Did you two get lost?’ I asked, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.
‘No,’ Pedra answered quite seriously.
‘I’m starving,’ Oliver announced, stealing the bread roll Lucy was buttering. ‘When’s the food?’
‘You better replace that with something carby in five seconds, Webb, or I won’t be responsible for my actions,’ she growled.
‘You never are,’ Oliver smirked, dropping another roll on to her plate. ‘A toast, please!’ He raised his glass and we all followed. ‘To my good friends: Hazel and Kevin, who completely ruin my theory that all marriages are a sham; Lucy, the kind of woman my mother warned me about; Phoebe, my oldest and funniest friend; and finally to my lovely girlfriend, Pedra; I apologize in advance – this will get messy . . . oh, and not forgetting the new friends we will make and quickly lose this evening by being terrible human beings. Let’s fucking do this.’
*
We ate, we laughed, we danced, by midnight my shoes were lying under a table, I’d been outside for 17,000 cigarettes and I was starting to get the ‘I’m going to be alone forever’ New Year’s blues when the slower songs came on. Thankfully Hazel spotted this and was able to pull me back off the ledge.
‘You thinking about Alex?’
‘Yeah. I think I still miss him.’
‘Nah, you miss the idea of him. The man you thought he was.’
‘The man I hoped he’d be.’
‘Exactly!’
‘He was charming in the beginning.’
‘So was Ted Bundy,’ she quipped.
‘I always thought Bundy would be a good name for a dog.’
‘Focus, Phoebe.’
‘Ugh, look, maybe I didn’t try hard enough either. He did have moments when he was quite loving and tender. Maybe I—’
‘Maybe you didn’t, Phoebe, who knows, but you didn’t screw around and he did! Alex was cheating on you for four months. That’s four months’ worth of lies for you and his mistress! That’s not an endearing quality in any man.’
I knocked back my tequila. ‘Why do I always gravitate towards arseholes? I’ll never find anyone good.’
‘You’ll find someone new. Perhaps you need to go for someone who isn’t your normal type.’
‘Like a woman?’
‘No. I mean someone you’d never usually consider, but, most importantly, someone who deserves you.’
‘YES!’ I shouted, startling a nearby man in an ill-fitting kilt. ‘This year I’m going to find someone. Someone different. Someone brilliant!’
‘You can do whatever you want. This is going to be your year, girl. Start living it. Now come and dance before we all turn into pumpkins.’
And so here I am, the first day of my brand-new year, and all I have to show for it so far is a hangover, a new spot on my chin and a handbag full of Lucy’s stolen cutlery. I’m going back to bed.
Sunday January 2nd
Today I have decided to make my New Year’s resolutions and become a better, more useful person instantly. But instead of the usual – lose weight, make money, unfollow everyone on Twitter who uses bastarding chat acronyms – I’ve decided to ask myself one question: if I could do last year again, what would I do differently? Every year I make the same lame resolutions, yet nothing really changes, and I end up wondering why I bothered. So, this year, the plan is to choose just one thing and actually get off my arse and do something about it. The question is, what? I’ve been brooding over where it went wrong with Alex, but the more I think about it the more I realize it was never right in the first place, even before he pissed off with Miss Tits. (I should really grow up and call her Susan, but that doesn’t quite convey the level of my disdain). The first night we met, I was so grateful that this tall, handsome man had shown interest in me I bought every round of drinks and thrust my phone number into his hand at the end of the evening. I didn’t hear from him again until two agonizing weeks later. I realize now that even that was significant. He kept me at arm’s length for our entire relationship, occasionally pulling me in to give me a glimpse of what a funny, sensitive person he could be, but only when he chose to. So while I wanted to be swept off my feet, in reality I was just tripped up occasionally. That bastard has a PhD in manipulation, and I swear if you looked up ‘fucker’ in the dictionary, there would be a photo of him, holding my heart, and possibly my severed head, looking victorious and doing a little jig. I could never quite live up to his expectations . . . I wasn’t educated enough or groomed enough or impressive enough. I just wasn’t enough. I wasted four years with someone who was completely underwhelmed to be with me. That’s the real kick in the vag. What a waste of time.
I Followed the Rules Page 24
