‘Look, I’m raising a child on my own. If I get wild, social services gets called in. Anyway, I thrive on my strict routine; it’s the only thing keeping me sane. I’ll consider getting a life when Grace leaves home.’ God, I hope Grace never leaves home, but I’m not admitting that to someone who has made it clear on several occasions that she doesn’t understand the need for children.
We leave at quarter to four and I drop Kerry at ‘Logan and Cross’, the only salon in Glasgow she considers worthy to touch her hair. I carry on home, all the time wondering how on earth I’m going to successfully follow this book.
A quick stop at Tesco for snacks and I’m home. I open a packet of pistachio nuts and sit silently on the couch, shelling them one by one while staring at the black cover with the gold lettering. Finally I open the book and read Rules 1 and 2 again. The main points seem to be: don’t be too forward, eager, giggly or chatty. Basically, be restrained. If the author isn’t secretly a presenter from a 1940s public-information film, I’ll be surprised.
My darling daughter arrives home at five with tales of swimming pools and ladybirds, but Peter remains quiet, barely making eye contact. Maybe he’s following the fucking rules of engagement too.
Grace eats some cold tuna pasta for dinner and we spend the evening watching a film about talking dogs before she falls asleep on my lap. Really, someone should warn you that you’ll be forced to watch some of the worst films ever made when you become a parent.
I help her through to my bed and carefully put on her nightdress, hoping she won’t suddenly spring back into life and demand to stay up. She doesn’t. She snuggles under the covers and I lie down beside her, hoping to have five minutes of calm without the pressure of planning what I’m going to do about these bloody rules. It doesn’t work. The dark room is soothing but the words ‘Stop making the first move’ fizz around in my head, until a realization comes to me. In every single long-term relationship I’ve had, I’ve been the one who made the first move. And not one of them has lasted. Lewis – the boy from university, who used to kiss my neck and make me feel like I was floating, dumped me for a girl with huge tits; Michael – the man who could never commit to anything; and finally Peter – the man who broke my heart the hardest but who helped me create the most incredible little girl. I met them, I approached them, I loved them and I lost them. Would I still be in a relationship if I’d waited to be asked out? Would I have had any relationships at all? Is the author on to something with this?
Feelings of failure begin to rise and I get up and march back through to the kitchen. I stand at the fridge, drink some orange juice directly from the carton and attempt to pull myself together, reminding myself that the ramblings of some lunatic writer aren’t true just because he and several thousand others said so.
Although I’m too young to remember him, Mum always said that Dad pursued her for ages. She said that he was very handsome, but handsome men weren’t to be trusted and it was weeks before she finally agreed to go out with him. They got married one cold October day at a registry office after she found out she was pregnant with Helen. Four years later, I came along. Then, on my first birthday, he went to work and never came home. We haven’t seen him since, but Helen did some digging and apparently he now lives in Spain with his third wife, Jennifer. He never had any more children, probably because he didn’t even want the ones he already had.
If anything, this proves that most relationships fail anyway, regardless of who makes the first move. I rarely think about my dad – it makes me think of how hard Mum’s life was, and although it’s been ten years since her accident, I still miss her terribly. I know she would have loved Grace.
I place the orange juice back in the fridge and wipe a tear from my cheek. Fuck night-time; I’m never this morose during the day. I’ll think about this rule thing tomorrow. It’s only ten thirty but I’m exhausted, so I pull on an old T-shirt and climb back in beside Grace, who is now starfishing the bed and snoring soundly. I kiss her forehead and cuddle in, ignoring the sound of the text message coming through on my phone. Right now there’s nothing I need more than this cuddle.
*
We get up at eight and she dances bare-arsed to ‘YMCA’ on Wii Party while I make us some eggs and toast. I draw smiley faces on the boiled eggs and cut the toast into soldiers, feeling like a shining example of motherhood. Setting the table, I call her through to eat.
‘Aren’t you going to put some pants on?’
She nods. ‘Someday. I want breakfast first. You don’t need pants for breakfast. Or for Sundays.’
‘Which egg do you want?’
She carefully examines each face before pointing to the one on the right. ‘That one. The one that looks like Dad.’
‘Does it?’ I turn it around and, true enough, staring back at me, is a small, soft-boiled Peter. I examine the other one. It looks like Clint Eastwood. I have no idea what goes on in my head sometimes.
‘Good choice,’ I reply, and watch with a strange delight as she scalps it.
After breakfast I dump the dishes in the sink and take my tea over to the couch to check my phone while Grace plays. There are two texts from last night, both from Rose:
22.45: Want to take the kids to the park tomorrow?
23.20: Y U NO ANSWER ME?
I giggle and press the green Call button. There’s a sleepy ‘Hello?’ from the other end.
‘Hi, Rose. I went to bed early. I wasn’t ignoring you.’
‘I figured. You up for the park? I need some company.’
‘Yeah, why don’t we take some lunch and head to Rouken Glen? I’ll drive.’
I arrange to pick them up at noon and tell Grace that we’re spending the afternoon at the park.
‘Do we have to go with Jason?’ she asks, scrunching up her face. ‘He says I’m a crybaby. He’s the crybaby. I cried because I hurt my knee. He cried when the lunch lady gave him peas.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of his pea phobia. Boys can be silly at this age, Grace; it does get better. And you like him most of the time. Just try and play nicely.’
She sighs and continues dancing while I get her clothes from her bedroom, feeling bad that I just lied to her. Boys don’t get better with age; they just get taller.
After arriving at Rouken Glen and then driving around for ten minutes, we finally manage to park near the exit. We make our way towards the swing park, and while the kids play we try to find a picnic table, but it seems every person on the south side of Glasgow has decided to spend their Sunday here too. Eventually we spy a nice spot near a tree and lay out the blanket Rose has thankfully thought to bring. She’s also brought crustless sandwiches, cucumber slices, dips, olives, snacks, water and cups. Me? I’ve brought three Kinder Eggs, a bottle of something that resembles piss, a multipack of beef Monster Munch, some brown bananas and one napkin for the four of us.
