Four bites into my Mexican chicken sandwich and I start to attract the attention of several overfed pigeons, which boldly waddle over to see what I’m eating. I feel like I’m in some low-budget Hitchcock remake and I smile, until one of them does a weird flappy thing near me and I leave my bench abruptly, throwing them the rest of my sandwich as I go. I wander into Queen Street station and grab a tea before heading back to the office. Leanne’s already there.
‘You didn’t get the book, did you?’ She frowns at me and my lack of carrier bag. ‘I knew you wouldn’t, so—’
I interrupt her before she mistakenly thinks I care about what she’s saying. ‘Look, Leanne, I just don’t think it’s my kind of thing—’ but before I can say anything else, she reaches into her own bag and hands me a small black book.
‘Surprise! I bought one for you.’
This woman is unstoppable.
Resistance is futile. I take the book from her with a sigh and drop it on my desk. I glance at the cover: ‘The Rules of Engagement: Single to Spoken-for in Ten Easy Steps by Guy Wright’ in gold lettering. Ugh. I want to frisbee it out of the window, but instead I smile, playing along, and open it at a random page.
Stop throwing yourself at men. We know you’re keen, but restrain yourself. If a guy likes you, he’ll ask you out.
I flip through to another page:
We want to sleep with you, but if you offer it up straight away, on some level we’re going to judge you for it.
I look over at Leanne, who’s grinning. ‘This isn’t serious, right? It’s like a parody?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, Cat, totally serious! I’m telling you, if you want to find someone, pay attention to every word in this book.’
‘But . . . but it’s ridiculous! When the hell was this written? 1892? Women being judged for wanting sex?’
‘Look, men and women are wired differently. It’s about getting an insight into men’s minds and being able to act accordingly. It even covers women with children. Like you.’
‘Oh, I feel honoured.’
‘You’re being very negative about this.’ Leanne smiles, almost singing the words. She bites into an apple and hums. It’s like working beside Snow White.
Natasha comes back from lunch, followed by Gordon, just as I’m in mid-rant about women dating on their own terms and waving the book around in the air.
‘Ooh, what’s this?’ She grabs it out of my hand.
‘It’s some sexist tripe advising women on how to date,’ I reply. ‘Leanne thinks it’s the Holy Grail of self-help.’
‘I’ve heard about this.’ She nods, reading the blurb. ‘Glasgow-based author, isn’t he? If I’m not mistaken, Debbie from the Star met her husband using this book.’
How the hell am I the only one who’s never heard of this?
‘Told you!’ Leanne cries. ‘It works!’
‘Interesting. Can I see you in my office, Cat?’ Natasha hands me back the book and doesn’t wait for an answer. I grab my notepad and walk behind her, watching her pencil-skirted bottom wiggle towards her office. I have the feeling that I’m about to get my arse kicked for my recent substandard columns and I start to panic. She sits down and spends a minute checking her emails while I wait.
‘So, your column. You know I love it and it’s a valuable addition to the magazine, but lately you seem to have lost your edge and, well, your edge is what keeps your work fresh and attention-grabbing. Have you given some thought to what we could run this week? Any good ideas?’
Well, Natasha, that would be none. Zero fucking ideas.
‘Hmm, let me see.’ I open my notepad and flick through, hoping that something will jump out at me. There’s the number Rose gave me for a painter and decorator, a reminder to buy Grace new pants and something scrawled in what looks like Farsi . . . Shit. I’m going to have to think on my feet.
‘There’s a new dating website for single parents. I thought that—’
‘Lead time too long.’
‘OK, well, I could talk about past boyfriends and compare—’
‘Boring.’
Rude. ‘Or I could discuss pornography and—’
