‘No way. I’d rather die.’
‘Don’t say that. Well, I need to go, and I can’t leave you here.’
‘I’ll go to Aunt Helen’s. Anywhere but the shops.’
I call to make sure Helen’s home, then send Grace over with the last of the pizza, promising to pick up some prawns for Adam and a magazine for Grace.
As I drive towards the supermarket a thought occurs to me: single men have to eat too. I could use my food shop as an opportunity to be seen by men, who will no doubt be overcome with desire as I wheel around my shopping trolley and seductively compare the prices of loo rolls. This could work.
I park near the entrance and take a look at myself in the mirror, immediately wishing that I hadn’t bothered: skin dry and pale, mascara crumbling, pores open. All I need is a bed and a priest standing over me shouting, ‘THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!’
Applying the emergency lipstick I keep in the glove compartment, I pinch my cheeks, hoping to look less like a corpse, and head towards the trolley park. Naturally I grab the wonkiest trolley and push it into Sainsbury’s, going over the main rules of engagement in my head (Be confident. Make sure they notice me) and casually saunter into the fruit-and-vegetable section.
Feeling like some sort of predator, I stalk slowly up and down the aisle, trying to spot any lone men. I have a sudden vision of my future self, spying on men through bunches of bananas and tell myself to get a grip before I’m spotted by security. Even though it’s seven thirty on a Tuesday evening, the only men I see are two pensioners and one tired-looking, wedding-ring-wearing dad with three unhappy children; the youngest is stupidly cute and my ovaries do a little happy dance. I remember what Grace was like at that age. I miss that.
I leave my broodiness beside the iceberg lettuce and move on to the chilled goods, where I spot an attractive man lifting a vat of milk with one strong arm. I wheel myself closer for a better look, but then remember that I’m supposed to be inconspicuous. I turn to the side, but now all I can see is cheese. My internal shouting voice becomes louder. HOW IS IT POSSIBLE TO SEE THINGS I’M NOT LOOKING DIRECTLY AT? I’m not a fucking bird.
So I decide to just walk past him. Twice. My rapid side-eye captures enough to let me know that he’s mid-thirties, slightly greying and fit as hell. Of course, I have no idea if he’s also seen me, and now I’m a woman walking back and forth near some cheese. He heads off to the checkout and I return to my trolley, feeling like an absolute maniac but strangely proud of myself for sticking to the plan.
I continue making my way up and down each aisle pretending to shop, occasionally stopping next to men who, unsurprisingly, don’t ask me out there and then. I flip my hair. Nothing. I resist the urge to corner them all with my trolley and shout, ‘I HAVE FLIPPED MY FUCKING HAIR. WHAT MORE DO YOU MEN WANT?’ It has become apparent that these men either find me hideous, are already seeing someone . . . or perhaps just don’t think it’s appropriate to pick women up in supermarkets.
I’ve had enough. I throw some prawns in my trolley, grab the first magazine I see with a free toy and walk towards the checkouts, bumping trolleys with a striking man in a dark blue suit. I smile at him and say sorry. But before he can reply, I tut loudly, abandon my trolley and storm off – I’ve just broken a rule (no speaking first) and ruined any chance I had of marrying him.
I return home empty-handed and tell Helen and Grace that the shop was closed. A stern glare lets Helen know not to question this obvious lie.
Back in the flat, I turn on some music, throw myself face first into a pillow and scream. I’m so frustrated. Not only do I still not have anything funny to say in my column, but I also don’t have any fucking food in the fridge. I feel sorry for women who follow these stupid rules for months on end while the author, Guy Wright, lies back and makes cash angels on massive piles of money. What kind of lazy pseudonym is that anyway? That in itself is reason enough not to take the man seriously.
*
On Wednesday I spend the afternoon finishing off some articles for the Lowdown and a freelance blog post for a property website (‘How to make moving day run smoothly’), as well as being ignored by everyone who works for Gerard Butler and shouting at Heisenberg when he tries to claw my sofa to death. The only thing left to write is my dating column, and I have no idea what to say. I wonder if perhaps I should have buckled down and made more of a serious go at doing these stupid rules. As it is, I’m deleting words as fast as I can write them:
Things haven’t gone very well this week . . .
This week I set out to find my true love . . .
Glasgow Girl thinks Guy Wright is a little scrote . . .
This is useless. I shut my laptop, rest my head on the back of the couch and stare at my overpriced pink-and-silver butterfly lampshade from Debenhams, the one Peter wouldn’t let me get because he said it was childish and weird. Of course it was the first thing I bought to furnish the flat after we split because, well, fuck him. To be honest, I haven’t really looked at it properly in years and I can kind of see his point, but I’d never tell him that. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so stubborn, but not half as much as I wish that my neighbour upstairs would take her fucking shoes off before walking around.
*
The Wednesday-evening schedule runs smoothly – Grace goes to Peter’s house, I take the car to the car wash, successfully purchase our weekly shopping (not a man in sight) and watch a little television before applying my new Clinique night cream and going to bed. I might be soft and fragrance-free, but I’m bored as fuck. If Helen hadn’t been busy tonight, I know I could have at least gone over and shared a bottle of wine. But no, I’ve chosen to stay in and be the old fart I swore I’d never become. My boring, ordinary routine is starting to make me ordinary too. I bet Emo Emma’s not ordinary . . . Maybe she’s the extraordinary type Guy Wright was referring to. I bet she’s a pungi-playing, cock-charming high priestess with a fucking magical vagina. Ugh, piss off, Wednesday evening and your quest to take me to the dark side. I’m not playing. I turn off the light and try not to panic at the fact I still have no column for the weekend. I really do need to start making things happen.
Chapter Eight
‘I’m going to spend today being noticed. I’m going to look nice and smell nice and just walk around Glasgow, letting my enigmatic yet approachable vibes wash over all who notice me. Kerry? Are you there?’
It’s 8 a.m. and I’ve woken Kerry up on her day off to take my very important call. I can picture her talking to me with her eyes half shut and her hair covering most of her face.
‘I’m here,’ she replies, before yawning loudly in my ear on purpose. ‘Kieran is too – in fact he’s waving at you with his middle finger as we speak.’
‘Yes, I’m aware it’s early. I just had to tell someone my plan so that I’d actually go through with it and not bottle it in favour of watching Criminal Minds.’
‘Right. So where are you going to be noticed?’
‘Does it matter?’
She snorts. ‘Course it does. There are areas in Glasgow where you do not want to be noticed, Cat. If I were you, I’d stick to the Southside or the West End.’
