Later that evening, I’m sitting on the couch wondering about my next step for the rules when there’s a familiar knock on my front door. It makes me smile.
When I was ten, our elderly spinster neighbour Mrs Pollock died, leaving behind a house that lay empty for two years and a rickety brown garden shed that Helen and I adopted. After mum cleaned it, painted it white and removed any potential health hazards, we officially declared it to be our clubhouse – taking several days to perfect our secret knock: essentially the ‘Shave and a haircut . . . Two bits’ knock from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? For five years Helen and I hung out there, and those will always be the happiest memories from my childhood. I think Helen feels the same; twenty-six years later, she still uses the knock.
‘I know it’s late, Cat, won’t keep you. I just wanted to say I’m sorry I couldn’t take Grace to school this morning. Staff meeting. Couldn’t get out of it.’ She’s already sitting on the couch by the time she’s finished the sentence.
I close the front door quietly. ‘Yeah, you already said. It’s fine – my boss wasn’t in anyway. Everything OK at the uni?’
She takes a peek at the open Word document on my laptop. ‘Oh sure. Just the normal budget cuts and staffing problems. How’s the dating project going? Any luck yet?’ She’s avoiding looking me in the eye. She’s up to something.
‘No, but it’s early days . . .’ I reply suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, just showing in an interest. Y’know . . . a sisterly interest . . .’
She’s definitely up to something.
‘Spider plant looks good there, Cat.’
She’s stalling, but I’m too busy for this. ‘OK, so I’m actually working just now . . .’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘I’ll let you get on. Oh, before I go –’
Here it comes.
‘– I was just wondering if you’re free for dinner a week on Wednesday?’
Boom. She knows Grace goes to Peter’s on a Wednesday, so therefore I’ll be free.
‘I’m free this Wednesday. Why not then?’
‘We’re busy. Going to the cinema,’ she snaps. ‘Has to be next Wednesday. Well?’
‘Well, it depends, Helen – dinner with you or dinner with someone you’re secretly trying to set me up with?’
‘Just me and Adam. Thought it might be nice! No set-ups.’ Her mouth is saying one thing, but her face is telling a different story: the story of a woman who is lying through her fucking teeth. But it’s now nearly eleven, and if I don’t get some planning done I’ll be behind schedule. I unenthusiastically agree to dinner and usher her out of the door, knowing full well that next Wednesday I’ll be sitting opposite the next serial killer my sister thinks would be perfect for me.
I tear a sheet of paper from my notepad, open The Rules of Engagement and scribble some notes on how I’m going to approach this. It’s tough – most of the rules only apply if I actually have a man to use them on – so I’m still stuck at square one.
I finish around midnight and crawl into bed. Although I’m completely exhausted, my brain is working overtime. I have three days to come up with something on the rules of engagement for Saturday’s column, which means I’m just going to have to suck it up and get my arse out there, however embarrassing. I could make something up . . . but Natasha can spot a bullshit story a mile off. It’s hard enough meeting men when you have all the time in the world; how the fuck am I supposed to do it on a deadline?
*
The next evening I find myself staring blankly into my fridge, wondering what the hell to make us for dinner. I watch Masterchef religiously, I should be able to do this shit but I’m clueless.
Grace has already decided that pizza is the only food she will eat this evening and after surveying the limited options on offer (tomato puree, two eggs, three slices of ham, margarine and a garlic bulb that’s been there for at least a year), I have to agree with her. I call Domino’s for a medium pepperoni and a side of wedges, insisting they use low-fat cheese like it actually makes any difference. I then set the table and begin to write a shopping list entitled ‘Healthy as Fuck’, to make up for the shit I’m about to let my child shovel into her mouth.
I tip the pizza girl – her car looks as if it’s being held together by rust and hope – while Grace runs through with the pizza and starts without me.
She’s already peeling back the lid of the free dip when I sit down beside her. ‘Do you have homework tonight?’ I ask, watching her rearrange the pepperoni into a face.
‘Just reading.’
I wipe my mouth on some kitchen roll. ‘Do you need any help with it?’
‘Can Dad do it? He helped me last time. He did a really funny reading voice. Maybe I’ll just keep it for tomorrow, when I see him.’
Stuff like this kills me. When Grace was born, I never thought that one day Peter’s help would be conditional, depending on which day of the week it was. Why couldn’t we get our shit together long enough to give her a normal family life?
‘That’s fine, honey,’ I say, taking my plate to the sink. ‘Listen, if you don’t have anything else to do, why don’t we go and get some shopping?’
