‘Listen, I just got skelped in the face by a football while trying to get a man to notice me. It’s safe to say you’re winning at Sunday so far.’
‘Are you going to include that in your column?’ she teases.
‘Am I fuck . . . Jason, don’t go too near the edge. The water doesn’t look that clean.’
Rose swiftly yanks him back before he’s head first into the pond, and we walk back towards the car, past the small but noisy waterfall hidden away at the top of a wooded area. This place reminds me of being a kid, where Helen and I would throw pennies in and wish for My Little Ponies and a VHS player, instead of the shitty Betamax we couldn’t find decent films for. We’d look for bats in the trees, throw sticks in the stream and now I’m doing the very same with my own child. If this was The Lion King, I’d be holding Grace aloft right now, singing ‘The Circle of Life’ in my best Elton John voice.
By the time we get back to the car, it’s almost five. I turn on the radio for the kids. They sing along to ‘Happy’ by Pharrell, and Rose and I both agree how, despite his stupid hat collection, we totally would. I drop them home and continue on to our flat, where Helen is out front, unloading two large spider plants from her car. Grace gets out first and runs over.
‘Hi, Aunt Helen! That’s nice. Why have you got two?’
‘Hello, Gracey. There are two because one is for your mummy.’
‘Cool. We don’t have any plants.’
Helen looks at me. ‘I know. That’s why I bought it.’
I lock the car and join in the conversation about my plant-less existence.
‘We did have a plant once. It died quickly. Anyway, I prefer flowers. They make the flat smell nice.’
‘Plants provide clean air and it’s not toxic for cats—’
‘Stop trying to pitch it to me. You’re not on Dragon’s Den. I’ll put it in the living room and be sure to take my time killing this one. Thank you.’
She frowns at me and closes her car boot. ‘I read your column. I’m happy that you’re proactively seeking a boyfriend, but I’m not a big believer in these American self-help books. Too touchy-feely for me.’
‘The author is Scottish.’ I reply. ‘From Glasgow, I believe, and while I’m glad you approve, I’m only doing it for the magazine. Anyway, it’s not that kind of book. It’s more about turning yourself into the type of woman a man wants . . . y’know . . . reserved . . . feminine . . . devoid of all personality and—’
‘Oh, don’t tell me any more, Cat; it sounds awful. Just be yourself. That’s good enough.’ She presses her car remote and turns to leave, pausing only to squint at me and say, ‘Maybe you should get a fringe? No one in this family was blessed with a small forehead.’
‘Fine just as I am, eh?’ I laugh. My days of being hurt by Helen’s overcritical eye are long gone.
Grace has already disappeared inside with the door key, so I graciously take my new plant off Helen and make my way to my flat. I plop the plant down on the coffee table, wondering which spot looks best. In the end I let Grace decide. She opts for the top of the white bookcase so that Heisenberg won’t poo in it. Wise move.
Another weekend over. I put out Grace’s school clothes, then spend twenty minutes looking for her tie, which eventually turns up wrapped around the neck of a Monster High doll. Heisenberg goes out, Grace goes to bed and I soak in the bath for forty minutes, planning my week and removing any football dirt that might still be stuck to my face and hair. I feel so fucking conflicted about these rules. On the one hand I’m happy to have a new project to keep me busy, but on the other, my first slapdash attempt to follow the rules backfired spectacularly. From now on I must approach these rules with precision, caution and, evidently, safety gear.
Chapter Seven
Monday rolls around and I arrive in the office, twenty minutes late but ready to take on the world, one column inch at a time. The warm morning sun has produced a little sweat moustache above my lip so I pull a tissue out of my pocket and discreetly wipe it away, knowing that, at some point, this tissue was used to wipe something manky from Grace’s face.
Both Patrick and Gordon are sitting at their messy desks, flicking through newspapers. I can hear Leanne on the phone in Natasha’s office.
‘What time do you call this?’ asks Patrick, biting into a bagel. ‘We’ve all been here for hours.’
Oh lovely – Patrick’s back. He’s dropped some yellowish bagel filling down his crumpled pink shirt and it’s making me feel queasy. I put my bag under my desk and sit down. ‘Liar. I had to do the school run this morning. Natasha not in yet?’
‘She’s out today. I think Leanne’s talking to her. Now that you’re here, what are you working on this week?’ He stares at me through small designer frames.
Patrick is a divorced first-class cunt who enjoys Russian food, James Joyce and typos in other journalists’ articles. During working hours this man is the pin to my bubble. He likes to think he ranks higher than the rest of us in the imaginary chain of command he’s somehow had time to invent between gin-tasting sessions and masturbation marathons. He considers himself Natasha’s right-hand man – saving the world one pompous book review at a time, when he’s not verbosely critiquing art shows, theatre or anything else Kerry would politely call ‘wanky’.
I open my diary and try to read my own scribbled handwriting. ‘Well, Patrick, if you really must know: I have two telephone interviews for that surgery piece, my column and an advertorial for some weight-loss clinic in Edinburgh. I’m also trying to get an interview with Gerard Butler. He’s over here promoting next week, but no one’s returning my bloody calls and—’
‘They won’t,’ interrupts Gordon. ‘I trashed that film of his last year, remember? Gave it a real kicking.’
‘Oh, so you did. Bollocks. Trust you to spoil my one chance to meet him. Anyway, why do you ask, Patrick?’
Patrick looks irked at Gordon’s interruption. ‘Well, because I need someone to write about The Voice for the television section. I’m swamped and I, um, don’t have the time. Leanne and Gordon are both busier than you.’
