I Followed The Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

When Catriona Buchanan decides to date only by 'The Rules' from The Ten Rules of Enticement, she could never have imagined where she would end up. We follow Cat on a journey of sexual restraint, polite conversation and cookery classes as she disregards everything she thought she knew about dating. But when she nets not one, but two, new love interests, Cat must decide if pretending to be someone she's not is really worth the pay-off.

Release date: July 2, 2015

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Introduction

The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 8 September 2014

Does a good relationship always involve living together?

Glasgow Girl doesn’t think so.

When you’ve been single as long as I have, you start to ponder if you could ever be truly happy as part of a couple again. I’m a creature of habit now, so the thought of allowing someone into the little world I’ve created for me and my daughter is a daunting prospect.

Being a lone, working parent is tough, and I wonder if I’ll ever have the time or the energy to direct towards someone new. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine a future where I’m not doing everything alone. Still, I am a woman of a certain age and I have needs, dammit. I need to flirt and be kissed and feel wanted and cuddled by someone I didn’t give birth to.

The dating part doesn’t worry me; I’m sure when I meet the right man, it’ll be a whirlwind of laughter, sex, sleepovers and boxset mara­thons before one of us spoils it all by saying something stupid like, ‘Let’s move in together.’

Dating? Sure, but actually living together – the committed, financially draining, I never knew you were quite this messy, TAKE THE BLOODY BIN OUT, YOUR JOKES AREN’T FUNNY, I WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN kind of relationship – isn’t high on my agenda. And I know what happens, because it’s happened to me before and I’m scared it will again.

Before we even start going out, I already have restrictions set in place for a man I haven’t even met yet. Restrictions like: you will never come first in my life. You won’t meet my kid unless I’m sure you’re not a massive weirdo (at least six months), and don’t ask to come over while she’s there, even if she’s asleep, and then sulk when I say no. Don’t bore me with tales of how mean your ex was: women with broken hearts are very aware that there are two sides to every story – however much I like you, I’m not stupid.

I think couples who are committed to each other but never actually live together have the right idea: like Mia and Woody. Actually, that’s the worst example I could have given, but you get the idea. I have close friends that I wouldn’t want to live with or see every single day until one of us dies – everyone needs their own space.

God, I’m a nightmare. Form an orderly queue, boys.

Chapter One

He’s late. He’s half an hour late.

I nervously tuck my hair behind my ears and continue scrolling on my smartphone. That’s all right, I tell myself; people are late all the time. Maybe they’re not HALF AN HOUR LATE on a first date, but he’s obviously been held up. Could be a number of reasons – he could be stuck in a traffic jam . . . had a car crash . . . he could have fallen down a sinkhole; these things happen. I’ll just continue scrolling through the BBC News website, pretending that everything’s fine. The people in this bar don’t know I’m waiting for someone. As far as they know, I’m just a woman, sitting in front of a table, asking it to bear the weight of her large glass of red wine. Yup, nothing to see here.

But by the time I order my second glass, he still hasn’t arrived and I’m fuming. He clearly isn’t coming and I’ve wasted a Friday evening that could have been spent cuddling up to my eight-year-old daughter, Grace, in her fluffy pyjamas, being ignored by my equally fluffy cat Heisenberg. My sister Helen is babysitting for me, no doubt feeling pleased with herself for being the person responsible for getting her unmarried sister on her first proper date in weeks –

‘Just meet up with him, Catriona. Have a drink. Colin’s really nice . . . arty type. Goes to the theatre quite a bit.’

‘How do you know him?’ I’d asked suspiciously. My sister generally only knows two types of men: those who are married and those she wants to set me up with.

‘He works with Adam. He thought Colin would be perfect for you.’

‘So you haven’t actually met him? All you have to go on is your husband’s word? The same husband who set me up with already-engaged Kevin?’

‘To be fair, no one knew he was engaged.’

‘Well, I’m guessing HIS FIANCÉE did! I walked past the church as they were having their wedding photographs taken. He told me he was in Chester looking after his sick mother.’

‘Yes, that was shameless. His mother died years ago. Anyway, we’re no longer friends with him. But Colin is definitely single.’

I look at the clock behind the bar again, shaking my head. Why did I listen to her? Take a chance, she’d said. You deserve some fun! And now here I am, drinking alone, with a terrifying red wine smile and three per cent battery life. Fuck it. I drain the rest of my drink, pull my coat on and throw my phone in my bag. I have better things to do than wait around for a man who –

‘Catriona?’

I turn around and I’m suddenly chest to face with a short, rain-soaked, gold-cravat-wearing stranger. The sinking feeling in my stomach that follows makes it clear to me that this bizarre man is Colin.

‘Sorry I’m late, m’lady,’ he apologizes. ‘Work ran over and then I couldn’t get a taxi from the West End. Can I get you a drink?’

(M’lady? I hate you, Helen.)

‘Sure,’ I reply, staring at the tiny drop of rain hanging from the end of his nose. ‘I’ll have a small glass of Merlot.’

He nods approvingly, strolls over to the bar and I sit back down, placing my bag under the table and clasping my hands in front of me, mentally preparing myself for the forthcoming awkwardness. He returns carrying two glasses of red and clumsily puts them down before removing his sodden tweed jacket, which looks like it weighs a good 200 pounds.

‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’

I stare at him blankly. ‘Pardon?’

‘Shakespeare! I was quoting Willie Shakespeare.’ He smiles weakly, running a bony hand through his small mop of thinning brown hair. ‘This bar isn’t the kind of place I’d normally frequent. These people . . . lots of bad grammar and tattoos, I imagine.’

I look around and see a bar full of completely normal people: two women in their twenties deep in discussion, perhaps about the fact they’ve both come out wearing matching tops and boots; a couple in their thirties sharing nachos; and a group of middle-aged men doing rows of brightly coloured shots, ensuring that they’ll be throwing up on their own shoes by midnight. It’s a normal Friday night, with normal people. That’s it – one drink and I’m out of here.

‘Shakespeare, eh?’ I reply, adding, ‘A HORSE, A HORSE, MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE!’

I expect him to be at least moderately impressed by the only line I know from Richard III, but he remains expressionless, no doubt wondering just how much I’ve had to drink. And he’s still dripping. Jesus, this man has no ability to self-dry. Silence ensues and I take an overly long gulp of wine.

Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? Am I cursed? It gives me comfort knowing that once I finish my drink I can make my excuses, but until that happy, happy moment, I’ll have to continue making conversation.

‘So. Colin. Helen tells me you enjoy the theatre?’

‘I do indeed, but nothing too flashy. I enjoy the classics – none of this We Will Rock You or Mamma Mia! musical-­theatre nonsense.’

‘I love musicals,’ I reply, secretly pleased that we have nothing in common. ‘I know every word of Evita. And Rocky Horror.’

‘I see.’ He sniffs, looking horribly disinterested. ‘Well, each to their own. And what is it you do for a living, Catriona? Or should I call you Cat?’

Only people I like call me Cat. ‘No, Catriona is fine. I’m a journalist. Features mainly – I write for the Lowdown.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that.’ He sighs, moving his arm and leaving a wet smear on the table. ‘Quite lefty, isn’t it? Lots of snarky feminist witterings. Not my cup of tea. Fine for a first job, but are you hoping to eventually write for a more reputable publication?’

And with that, the date is over. I’ve had enough. Normally I like talking about my job. I write for the Scottish Tribune – the biggest-selling newspaper in Scotland – on their weekend magazine and it’s a great gig: one day a week in the office, hours to fit around my daughter and a shiny press award for my highly amusing column ‘Lowdown and Dirty’, where they give me five hundred words to rant about love, life and men, under the pen name ‘Glasgow Girl’. The New York Times and Ellen De­-Generes follow me on Twitter, for Christ’s sake! But I know this information would be wasted on Colin – he doesn’t deserve to know how utterly fucking interesting I am. I push my half-empty glass into the middle of the table and stand up.

‘Well, it’s been lovely meeting you, but I must get home.’

‘But I’ve only been here for ten minutes!’

I mumble something about babysitters, hoping he’ll just take the fucking hint.

‘Ah. I understand,’ he nods, standing up and wrapping his hand around mine. ‘Dear Catriona, parting is such sweet sorrow—’

‘Oh, fucking hell, STOP THAT!’ I announce loudly, moving my hand out from under his clammy paw and throwing my bag over my shoulder. ‘Seriously, Colin, WHO DOES THAT?’ I march towards the door, head down, ready to battle the rain on my short walk back to Helen’s flat (where I will murder her), and accidentally barge straight into a chipper elderly man in a tartan bunnet.

‘Careful, pet.’

‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!’ I cry. ‘My fault completely!’

‘Not to worry, hen. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

I look up at the sky. It’s clear; there isn’t a single cloud. It’s the kind of happy sky Julie Andrews would sing about while spinning around on a mountaintop. I look down at the pavement. Dry. Colin has only been in the bar ten minutes . . . a recent downpour would have been evident.

It suddenly occurs to me that it hasn’t rained at all, and I stride off towards Queens Park to thank my sister and her husband for setting me up with the creepiest mother­fucker who ever lived.

Chapter Two

2007

After seven years it’s finally over. We’re finished.

I open the white door of my cosy three-bedroom semi, walk down the perfectly smooth path we had resurfaced six weeks ago and unlock the doors of my blue Honda. Strapping my sleepy ten-month-old baby girl into her car seat, I quietly shut the door, just as Peter angrily throws more of the black bin bags on to the front lawn. One bursts open and I see Grace’s bibs and bottles spill out on the grass. I try not to react as I casually go to retrieve them; I won’t let him get to me. I duck as another bag flies past my head. Defiantly ignoring this, I continue to stride towards the ripped one.

‘I’ll never forgive you!’ he yells at me. ‘Never.’

‘Forgive me for what?’ I mutter, stooping down to scoop up her favourite teddy-bear bottle. ‘For having the guts to end this sham of a relationship? I want Grace to have a happy life, not raised by people who hate each other. I want—’

His laughter interrupts me. ‘You have no idea what you want! Enjoy being a single mother, you fucking waste of space. You’re an idiot, Cat. But then again, you always were. I knew that the moment I met you.’ He sneers at me with such venom I physically recoil. Looking at him, I don’t recognize the man I once knew: the blond stranger I met at the White Stripes gig who looked after me when I’d had too much to drink and got separated from my friends. The man who sent me flowers every day until I agreed to go out with him. The man who said I was everything to him. That man was gone.

I need to leave. I ignore the rest of the loose items strewn on the lawn, grab the last bag and get into my car. As I drive away, Grace begins to cry loudly. And so do I.

‘But he was so wet. WHY WAS HE WET?!’

Helen closes the kitchen door and frowns at me for being loud when she’s just put Grace to bed. Adam, her husband, snorts and puts another sweetener in my coffee.

‘Maybe it was sweat?’ he laughs. ‘He is known for being a tad sweaty in the office, but it’s never usually that noticeable . . . In hindsight, though, I perhaps should have paid attention to that nickname some of the female staff have for him.’

‘Which is?’

‘Um . . .’

‘Tell me.’

‘. . . “Sweaty Colin”.’

I hear Helen sniggering as she sits down at their bespoke maple kitchen table, carefully placing her cup on a yellow coaster. I want to laugh but I’m too annoyed.

‘For the love of fuck, this just gets worse! You’ve known me for eight years, Adam. Why on earth would you think I’d go for someone like Colin? Do I seem like the kind of woman who would go for someone who quotes Shakespeare and has unexplained drippage?’

Helen decides to chime in, simultaneously thrusting a piece of carrot cake into my hand. ‘We have no idea what your type is, Cat!’

I take a bite of my cake and talk with my mouth full, just to annoy her. ‘Peter. Peter is – was – my type.’ A shower of tiny cake crumbs sprays from my mouth and lands on the table near her mug. She looks at me like I’ve blown my nose in her auburn hair.

‘Peter? After all he’s done?! I despise that man. Actually, we need to have a chat about him—’

‘Oh, I don’t mean him personally but, you know, physic­ally he’s my type. Blond. Tall. Toned. Looks good in tight trousers. Remember this for next time. Actually, fuck that, there won’t be a next time. I trust you both with my life, but to find me a boyfriend? Never again. You’re off the case.’

I see Helen glance at Adam and I know that it’ll be a cold day in hell before she lets that happen. I quickly change the subject. ‘Shall I just leave Grace to sleep here then?’

Helen nods. ‘She wanted to stay here anyway. We didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow. Go and have a nice evening and I’ll send her over after breakfast. Your cat is here, by the way.’

‘There’s a surprise.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Good. If he’s here, then he’s not hiding under my bed, waiting to attack my bare feet. I swear that cat hates me – actually he hates everyone, except Grace. He adores her.’

‘We all do.’ Helen smiles. ‘She’s a pleasure.’

Grace is also very fond of both Helen and Adam, so I shouldn’t grumble as much as I do. They’re such a big help, but sometimes I wish that my very lovely flat wasn’t directly across the hall from theirs. Helen flounces in and out of my place whenever she feels like it – moving shit around and disturbing me when I’m trying to work – but whenever I need her to look after Grace, she’s there and I’m grateful. Peter would rather stick his cock in a blender than help me with additional babysitting.

I place my cup in the sink and say my goodnights. It’s only quarter to ten, but I’m already planning a long, deep bath followed by a gin and tonic and a Hitchcock film. Before I leave, I quietly creep into Grace’s room. The sound of her contented breathing makes my horrendous evening feel much less grim. In the gloom, I see Heisenberg curled up in a white ball beside Grace’s head, guarding over her as he does every evening. I gently move him out of the way and he makes a low growling sound, to which I respond with a similarly hushed, ‘Shut your furry face.’ Sweeping her blonde curls from her face, I lightly kiss her cheek and breathe in her unique smell. She smells beautiful – I can’t help myself; I do it again. She stirs.

‘MUM. Stop it. I can feel your nose-breath on my ear . . .’

‘Sorry, Grace-face. Just wanted to kiss you goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘OK, Mum. We’re making pancakes for breakfast.’

‘Amazing! Go back to sleep.’

‘I’m going to have jam on mine.’

‘Night night, Grace.’

‘If you could be any kind of bear, what would it be?’

‘A polar bear. Now go to sleep.’

‘Night, Mum. Oh, before you go, Uncle Adam farted in the living room and it smelled like doom.’

‘Go back to sleep!’ I laugh, and turn to leave.

She giggles and pulls me back, throwing her arms around me before cuddling up to her teddy and falling back asleep in record time. I close the door behind me, throwing a last ‘fuck you’ look to the devil cat still staring at me through the dark, and then make my way back to my flat, grateful to have the rest of the evening to myself. Unlocking the heavy wooden door, I walk inside . . . followed by Helen.

‘I need a word,’ she whispers, pushing me into the living room.

‘What has Adam done now?’ I ask, draping my favourite green coat over a chair. ‘Is this about his farting?’

She frowns. ‘This isn’t about Adam. It’s about Peter.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. I was winding you up when I said he was my type.’

‘You don’t still have feelings for him, do you?’

‘No way! He’s Grace’s dad. That’s all. I’m so over all that now.’

‘I really hope so, because he’s getting married.’

I stared at her for a moment in disbelief. ‘What? Fuck off. How do you know this?’ I can feel my face begin to drain of what little colour it has, and my lip starts to tremble. Jesus, I think I’m going to cry.

‘Melanie at work is friends with Emma. She texted me a couple of hours ago.’

I sit down on the arm of the couch and shrug. I’m determined to be grown-up about this. After all, Emma, Peter’s girlfriend, is a nice woman, and despite her ‘mistress of the dark’ exterior, she’s good with Grace. ‘Well, they’ve been together long enough. I guess it was just a matter of time. I wonder when he’ll tell me. He’s going to savour every bloody moment, isn’t he?’

‘Of course he is. Well, I’m surprised you’re taking this so well. I remember how gutted you were when you asked him to marry you and he said no.’

‘Yeah, thanks for bringing that up.’

‘Don’t be so touchy. Look, are you sure you’re all right with this?’

‘I’m fine,’ I lie. Helen can tell it’s not the truth, but tonight at least she doesn’t make me admit it. She kisses me on the forehead instead and says, ‘Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Chin up.’

‘Oh, it’s up. My chin has been up since I left him. It’s so . . . up.’

Neither of us is entirely sure where I’m going with this, but she smiles and backs out of the room, leaving me standing there mouthing the word ‘chin’ to myself.

After a couple of minutes I decide that standing alone in my living room staring at the wall probably isn’t the best use of my time, so I run a bath and get undressed. I walk naked through to Grace’s room and grab her bunny iPod speakers, hoping that a few tracks from Regina Spektor will make everything all right again. I submerge myself in warm soapy water and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.

By the time ‘Samson’ has finished, I want to fucking drown myself. Not only is he getting married, but he’s going to rub my lonely, single face right in it.

By eleven, I’m wearing the panda onesie Grace gave me for Christmas, have chosen my film and am pouring myself a Baileys on ice in the kitchen. I saunter back through to the living room; drink in one hand, the other pulling at my onesie, which is riding up my arse at an alarming rate. I plonk myself down on the couch and hit Play on Netflix just as my phone starts to ring.

Withheld number. I hate that.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. How did the date go?’

‘Kerry? Why is your number withheld? I nearly didn’t answer.’

‘I’m being fucking mysterious. And on Kieran’s phone. He’s gone to bed so I’m using his phone and drinking all his beer. Tell me how it went.’

My friend Kerry met graphic designer Kieran Nelson in Kelvingrove Art Gallery six years ago when she spotted him wandering around with his fly open and light-­heartedly threatened to call security. They’ve been together ever since, and if she wasn’t my very best friend in the whole world I’d challenge her to a duel for his hand in marriage.

‘The date? I’m already trying to forget it. Not only was he insanely unattractive and sweaty, but he was also rude, pompous and probably a Tory.’

‘Oh dear God. Sorry to hear that. I was hoping you’d at least have found someone shag-worthy.’ I hear her take a swig from her beer bottle and then softly burp.

‘Yeah, that would have been nice. The last time I had sex, science wasn’t even a real thing.’ I laugh, feeling nothing but self-pity and contempt for my own, dust-gathering vagina.

‘So when was the last time?’

‘On the floor of my living room with engaged Kevin.’ I throw a look of disgust at my laminate flooring. ‘Not particularly memorable.’

‘Nonsense,’ she replies. ‘You shagged that guy after your work Christmas party . . . What was his name?’

One of the worst sexual encounters of my life flashes before my eyes. I flinch.

‘Jesus, don’t you forget anything I do? Ugh. Chris.’

‘Well, there you go.’

‘Kerry, being jackhammered by someone with a small cock who works on the fish counter at Asda doesn’t count as a shag.’

‘OK, well what about the solicitor who finger—’

‘Kerry! There’s a reason I mentally delete these events and I’d advise you to do the same.’

‘Never. When you eventually get married, I’ll need some stories for my maid-of-honour speech. You want to come over and help me finish this beer? Or bring more?’

‘No, thanks. I’m just out the bath. I have Baileys and I’m in a rotten mood. And speaking of marriage, Peter’s taking the plunge.’

I hear her splutter on her beer.

‘WHAT? Married?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’

‘To “Elvira”? When?’

‘I have no idea when the big day is. Helen found out – he hasn’t told me yet.’

‘TWAT.’

‘Isn’t he just? He better tell me first. This is a big deal for Grace, whether she realizes it yet or not. She’s going to have a fucking stepmum.’

We both remain silent for a moment and I finish my drink. I can feel my sadness rising again and I sigh loudly.

‘You OK?’

I shake my head.

‘Are you shaking your head?’

I nod. I want to punch the wall but I’m afraid it’ll hurt, so I whack a scatter cushion before demanding, ‘How is this remotely fair? He’s found someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and I’m still alone?’

‘Listen, don’. . .