‘Seven, and no, actually, it’s for Tom.’
My heart sinks and my face takes on a look commonly known as I FUCKING KNEW IT.
‘Tom who? Helen, why is there suddenly a Tom coming for dinner, when last week there wasn’t?’
‘I only asked him this morning. He’s my new dentist. Handsome guy. English. Doesn’t know anyone here. Thought it might be nice if—’
‘If you sat him in front of me and tried to marry us off? Oh, Helen, I specifically asked you NOT to do this any more. You promised!’
I’m raging inside. At dinner parties, I always end up doing all the talking and joke-cracking; it’s exhausting. Now I’m going to have to spend a whole evening . . . Oh. Hang on . . . I stop internally ranting and begin to smile.
‘Not everything is about you, Catriona. This was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Besides, I think you two will get on really well . . . why are you smiling?’
‘Am I?’ My grin grows wider. Helen has forgotten that I’m following the rules. ‘No reason.’
‘Did I say something funny?’
‘Not at all. I’m just really happy to be having dinner.’
She’s trying to read my face but I’m giving nothing away. ‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘I’ll see you tonight at half seven.’
I go back inside and tell Grace to get ready for her dad’s house while I get changed. Skimming through my wardrobe I find the patterned maxi-skirt I bought last year during my gypsy phase and match it up with a vest top and cropped cardigan. I don’t want to look like I’ve made too much of an effort, plus I refuse to get spruced up to the nines for some middle-aged dentist and my sister.
Once we’re ready, I take Grace to Peter’s house, safe in the knowledge that with me following The Rules of Engagement to the letter at dinner, Helen’s little plan to set me up with yet another unsuitable and unstable suitor will be well and truly fucked. If I’m going to meet someone, it’ll be on my terms.
I plug my phone into the radio and play songs for Grace on the way there. I’m singing along to Lorde when I feel a foot poking my lower back.
‘Don’t kick the chair, Grace. What is it?’
‘Mum, can you stop singing? I want to hear the song.’
I smirk. ‘But I like singing. My singing is beautiful and perfect, Grace. I sing like an angel.’
She giggles. ‘You kind of sing like a ghost.’
I pull up outside Peter’s and let Grace out while I grab her schoolbag and empty packed lunchbox. She stops to say hello to the neighbour’s dog before ringing the doorbell. Emma answers.
‘Hi, Grace!’ she chirps. She’s wearing black gym trousers and a vest top that reveals her perfectly flat stomach – mine has never quite recovered from having eight pounds of baby kicking around in there. ‘Hi, Cat, how are you? Peter’s on his way back from work. I was just doing some yoga on the Wii board.’
Ouija board more like, I think, because I really am a childish wanker. I kiss Grace and she trots off down the hall.
‘Hi, Emma. I’m good, thanks. No worries. I don’t need to speak to him anyway.’
‘Cool. You look nice. Off out?’
I could explain that my sister is sneakily trying to make me eat dinner with someone I’ve never met because she finds it odd that I haven’t been in a relationship since Peter, but instead I blurt out: ‘Yes, I have a date! He’s a dentist. He’s very keen but I’m keeping him on his toes.’
‘Oh good for you!’ she replies, trying not to sound patronizing but failing miserably. I wonder if she can hear the little voice in my head shouting, ‘CAT, YOU LYING SHIT. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN MET HIM YET.’
‘Yep, so I’d better get off.’
I make a gauche cheerio! hand gesture as she closes the door, then head home to meet my new imaginary fucking boyfriend. Please don’t let him be weird.
*
I can hear Helen laughing as I linger in the hallway outside her door; she’s using her ‘Isn’t everything fabulous!’ laugh, which she saves for social engagements, instead of the usual snorting chuckle I love so much. OK, here goes: this is my opportunity to really start doing the rules of engagement properly, no more messing about. No talking first, no flirting, no reasonless chattering, no giggling. Just smile, be cool, get this inevitably uncomfortable evening over with, and with any luck I’ll have plenty of material for this week’s column. It would be nice to try this stupid experiment on someone I fancied for once, but after my run of horrible luck with Helen’s previous set-ups, I completely expect to be sat across from a pearly-toothed hobgoblin.
I smooth my hands down over my skirt and adjust my bra strap just as Helen pulls the door open and drags me inside.
