Thursday arrives with a whimper. The anticipation of this date with Tom is weighing heavily on my mind and it’s a distraction I don’t need as I still have this week’s column to write.
I throw on some jeans and direct my car towards the nearest drive-through Costa but not even a toasted teacake and latte is enough to make me the slightest bit perky.
I greedily scoff my buttery teacake on the drive home while my latte cools, and by nine thirty-five I’m on the couch with my laptop and my reference copy of The Rules of Engagement. I begin to type:
This week I met someone. Imagine a cross between Ewan McGregor and Jude Law – I’ll wait while you finish hating my good fortune.
I pause for a moment and recall Tom’s face. It’s a happy moment. I keep typing.
Fifty words in and I’m already referring to the book to read up on what will be required of me on what will technically be our second date. The book advises that I shouldn’t read too much into the fact that this man wants to see me again, and I certainly shouldn’t become overly excited by this:
Most women turn up on dates hoping to be swept off their feet, but the majority of men are just planning to eat dinner and maybe get laid.
Temporarily forgetting about my column, I read on. Who cares if the rules worked on Tom that one time; this man is a MONSTER. The book’s basic message is essentially ‘fuck romance’. He’s telling women that there is no Prince Charming – there is only a man who will one day decide that out of all the women he’s met, he finds you the least annoying.
Keep the second date light-hearted. Don’t discuss heavy or personal topics.
Like what? Ebola? Politics? Rodgers and Hammerstein? My feelings? My brain begins to create countless scenarios where I have the potential to fuck everything up:
How are you, Cat?
Cold. Emotional. I FEEL EMPTY. How are you?
Returning to my column, I warn my readers that ‘emotion = danger’ and, according to the rules, they are not to discuss anything thought-provoking, lest they upset the poor man’s equilibrium. Thirty minutes later, I close the book and finish off my column.
In any case, Mr X and I are scheduled to go out for dinner on Saturday (the day this column comes out, so you’ll have to wait until next week to find out if he actually called me or if I spent the evening at home alone singing ‘Soulmate’ by Natasha Bedingfield into my cat’s face).
Reasonably happy with my effort, I email it to Natasha, not expecting a response unless she wants something changed. With that out of the way, I turn on Radio 1 and begin washing up the breakfast dishes. Fearne Cotton’s show has just started but I’m not paying attention to who’s on in the Live Lounge because I’m SURE I just heard a message come through on my phone. I scramble to turn off the taps.
Three and a half seconds later, I’m leaping across the room to snatch my phone off the living-room table. No new messages . . . no new messages but also no signal! I wave it around in front of the window for a few seconds until the bars appear.
Nope, definitely no new messages.
I throw my phone on the couch in disgust and slink back to the kitchen, sickened that I’ve so quickly become a phone-checking desperado. This book is turning me into the type of person I used to make fun of.
*
As arranged, Kerry comes over after Grace is in bed. Kieran has gone up to Aberdeen for work and she’s bored stiff. I think she hates her own company – I couldn’t say the same for me, but when you’re a single parent it’s not like you have much choice anyway.
When Kerry and I were at school, we were very different. We first became best friends in primary school. We stayed close throughout high school, where I excelled at English and history but failed miserably at maths and science, two areas Kerry shone brightly in. There was no reason for us to be friends; we liked different music, different films and even different boys, but when we get together everything just clicks. She keeps me sane. She was, and still is, the yin to my yang.
Remembering my promise, I reluctantly hand over my green mac, warning her not to spill anything on it because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to afford from Selfridges. I make myself comfy on the couch and look around for my nail polish.
‘So, exactly how good-looking is good-looking?’ she asks, looking through my bookshelves. ‘Jesus, Cat, you don’t have one non-fiction book in here. How many horror novels does one person need?’
‘All of them,’ I reply. ‘And Tom is absurdly good-looking. Like, Hollywood hot.’
She picks up a book and scans the back cover. ‘Brad Pitt hot or Jared Leto hot?’
‘What? Um, Brad Pitt.’
‘But you don’t fancy Brad Pitt.’
‘Yeah, but Brad is more wholesome-looking. Like Tom. Jared Leto looks like he’d fuck you then murder you.’
She puts Gerald’s Game back on the shelf. ‘You need to stop reading this shit. So you’re seeing him on Saturday? That’ll be good. Who’s looking after Grace?’
‘It’s Peter’s weekend. Well, we’re supposed to be going for dinner, but Tom hasn’t called yet.’ I finish painting my toenails blue and start on my fingers.
