‘You’re such a snob!’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think you’re going to meet the man of your dreams outside Poundworld on Sauchiehall Street. And won’t most men worth dating be at work on a Friday afternoon?’
She has a point. ‘Fine, I’ll jump on the underground to Byres Road and do a cafe crawl at lunchtime. Men have to leave their desks to have lunch. I’ll get them when they’re hungry.’
There’s no reply. I’m pretty sure she’s gone back to sleep, but I hold on for a second, just to make sure.
‘Kerry?’
Still nothing.
I hang up the phone and shrug.
I lay out a pretty yet understated summer dress and yellow cardigan, then take a long, hot shower. The radio on the windowsill plays the censored version of ‘Starships’ by Nicki Minaj, but I add in the swear words with as much delight as if I was fourteen years old. After I’ve dried and curled the ends of my hair, I copy a Jennifer Aniston make-up tutorial on YouTube. Not my proudest moment, but the results are pretty good, and with that I’m ready to go. I feel like I’ve spent all morning excitedly getting ready for a date I haven’t been invited on yet. I decide that after my half-arsed attempts in both the park and the supermarket, I’ll give it one more chance before I declare the entire experiment a waste of time and invite women of the world to publicly burn this book.
Following The Rules of Engagement on the underground is extremely easy, as I never make eye contact anyway. It’s just not tube etiquette. As I sit down, I catch a glimpse of the man sitting across from me and kick myself for picking a seat opposite a man with the coolest afro I’ve ever seen. Afros make me happy. I want to look at it. And touch it. And then congratulate him on his amazing hair. I so want to fucking smile at him using all of my face, but I don’t because he’s a man and Guy Wright specifically forbids the disgusting forwardness of women smiling at men. I continue staring at the advertising banners above his head, and two stops later he (and his hair) walk out of my life forever.
Emerging from Hillhead underground, I resist the urge to acknowledge a guy walking past with his baby in a papoose. Instead I lower my eyes and grin at the baby like a hormonal loon. The baby notices me. Ha, I’m fucking brilliant at this. The baby starts to cry. I speedily set off in the direction of anywhere that wailing baby can’t see me.
My plan is to start at Ashton Lane, one of the trendier spots in Glasgow, then work my way down Byres Road, all the way to the next station on Dumbarton Road, with a stream of men following me like I’m the Pied Piper. That, or I’ll have consumed too much coffee and it will be a stream of piss and shame trailing behind me.
I wobble up the cobbled backstreet of Ashton Lane, regretting my choice of wedged sandals, and head into Jinty McGinty’s Bar. I figure I’ll order a cappuccino, sit down and hopefully attract the attention of someone who isn’t a nineteen-year-old student from the nearby university, which might be a long shot. It’s an older crowd inside – small groups in booths and geriatric regulars – propping up the bar, so I take my coffee outside to the huge beer garden around the back of the pub. It’s lunchtime and it’s mobbed with people who all look younger than me. I spot a couple leaving and grab their table, thankful that I won’t have to stand there in front of everyone, awkwardly holding a hot cup or, worse, trying to sit gracefully on the grass.
I take out my phone; a missed call from Kerry and a text from Peter, which I feel obligated to look at in case something’s wrong:
Where is that purple dress we bought Grace last year?
I was right to check – something is wrong: Grace’s dad has finally lost the plot. Last year? He seems to forget that, unlike him, children are unable to wear an item of clothing from the previous year, what with all the growing they selfishly do. Maybe he thinks I sold it to pay for Botox. Maybe Emma wants to wear it for the wedding. Maybe he does? Who knows?
I calmly reply: I’m guessing it stopped fitting her and went to live in a charity shop. Before you ask, I don’t have the shoes you bought her in 2008 either. Busy. See Grace at 5.
I turn my phone off and try to relax. I’m here to meet someone new, not be reminded that I once thought I was compatible with a dress-hunting pharmacist who sits down to pee.
I drink my coffee slowly – I’m aware that getting up to order something else from the bar will result in the loss of my table – but I spend so long nursing it, it goes cold and I’m forced to push it to one side. Moments later I see a man walking towards me and nonchalantly look somewhere else so he doesn’t think I give a crap (even though I do). He’s coming right towards me; I can feel him looking at me. Oh fuck, is this rules of engagement shit actually working?
Be calm, Cat. Act like this sort of thing happens all the time. WAH, HE’S STANDING BESIDE ME.
‘Hi. Is this seat taken?’ His strong Geordie accent is rather charming.
I glance at him (nice jeans, dodgy belt, yuck – T-shirt tucked in, but when he loves me I’ll tell him to stop doing that) and then at the wooden stool before casually replying, ‘No. It’s free.’ I run my hand through my hair, waiting for him to sit down.
He utters a quick, ‘Thank you,’ lifts the stool and takes it over to a table where his girlfriend is already sitting. Oh fucking hell! Now I’m just the woman on her own, with a cold coffee and no extra seat. I feel like walking over, giving them my handbag and yelling – ‘TAKE IT. NOW I HAVE NOTHING. ARE YOU HAPPY?’
I decide to move on from Jinty’s and try somewhere else, away from Ashton Lane. It’s only T-shirt-tucking wankers that go there anyway.
I head back to Byres Road and spot my next cafe across the street. I carefully cross the busy road – being pulled from under the wheels of a bus is not the type of attention I’m after.
As soon as I step foot in the first cafe, my heart sinks. It’s full of women – specifically four middle-class women huddled in a booth to my left, each clutching a paperback copy of Eat, Pray, Love. It’s an afternoon book group. Who the fuck has a book group in the middle of a weekday afternoon?
To the right of me there are four tables, one occupied by a woman who’s having a pot of tea alone but is dressed to impress in navy and white. I fear we might both be on the same pointless dating quest. I peek around the side of the counter to see if there’s a hidden back room, but no, just three more empty tables, a large rubber plant and the door to the gents’ toilets. I consider looking in there, but before I take that drastic step, a server asks what she can get me.
‘White coffee, please.’
‘Sure. Large?’
‘No, just a regular, thanks.’
‘Can I get you any cookies, cakes or pastries?’
