‘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!’
