‘Beth someone. Kieran knows her. I think she was in EastEnders once? I’m just about to google her so I can pretend I’m familiar with her work. Want to come?’
‘I don’t want to be a third wheel. I won’t know anyone. I can see it now: you and Kieran getting all kissy and me standing in the corner wondering why I came.’
‘Oh, say you’ll come,’ she pleads. ‘It’ll be you and me in the corner while Kieran talks about design with the rest of the arty twats. I need you to come. He always forgets about me at these things and I end up getting far too pissed to compensate.’
‘Hmm. I dunno. I have an article due and—’
‘Fuck work. We’ll pick you up in a taxi at seven. And let me know if he calls!’
Then she hangs up the bloody phone before I can argue. She always does that and it always works. I switch off Criminal Minds and begin writing my column for Saturday.
The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 1 November 2014
I Followed the Rules
Glasgow Girl has some news.
I had my second date with Mr X this week. Yes, I know. I’m awesome. Quieten down . . .
As I describe my date with Tom, it occurs to me that although I wasn’t funny, entertaining or even particularly charming, I didn’t spending the evening vying for his attention either, so I’m begrudgingly giving Mr Wright a point for that. I end the column in my usual cynical manner:
Date three is on the cards, and hopefully at the end of all this I’ll either have a brand-new boyfriend or just be much, much older than I once was.
Forty-seven delightfully distracting minutes later, I email the copy to Natasha, feeling pleased that writing about Tom has taken my mind off him and all of the reasons he might not have called.
WHY HASN’T HE CALLED?
*
The next morning, I’m sitting at the table writing an advertorial for a handbag company when Natasha phones.
‘Hey, Cat; I’ve got your copy for Saturday’s mag.’
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes! Online comments are increasing every week. I just wanted to check you’ve got something exciting lined up for next week?’
‘Oh, of course. I have another date with Mr X in a couple of days,’ I lie. ‘I’m sure things will start to get, erm, exciting!’
‘Great. I’ll look forward to it. Speak soon.’
Bollocks. If that fucking dentist doesn’t call, I’m up shit creek. As if writing about handbags wasn’t bad enough, this conversation has officially ruined my morning. I glance at the clock on my laptop – 11.30, which means it’s coffee time. I save my Word document and switch on iTunes. Sometimes music is the only thing guaranteed to lift my mood. While I’m putting the kettle on, the shuffle function decides to play Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash, and my desire to sway is suddenly overridden by thoughts of Dylan and his contempt for country music. Then I start thinking about how he began undressing, how he unzipped me, and by the time I get to him holding me down on his bed, the kettle has boiled and I’m so aroused I want to dry-hump the kitchen table. Damn him. I wonder if he ever thinks of me.
*
Instead of me driving Grace to Peter’s house, he picks her up – they’re going to the new American diner that’s opened in town. Grace decides to wear her best frilly dress, along with a leather jacket and some plastic shoes, and I don’t object. There will be plenty of time for wearing clothes that actually match each other when she’s a grown-up. I wave her off and start getting ready for the birthday party Kerry is dragging me along to.
An hour later I’m wearing a pretty polka-dot dress, killer heels and frantically painting my nails before the taxi comes. This party had better be worth it; I could have been in bed watching Orange Is the New Black.
The taxi arrives at five past seven. I grab my black poncho and hurry towards the front door, almost tripping over Heisenberg in my rush to get out. He miaows while doing a little sprint towards my bedroom and I’m sure I’ll come back to find he’s spitefully pissed in my slippers for having the cheek to be walking where he was.
It’s a surprisingly chilly evening, but I run the risk of messing up my perfectly set curls if I attempt to pull this poncho on, so instead I gallop over to the taxi, mumbling, ‘cold, cold, COLD!’ until I’m safe and warm inside the car. I climb into the back seat beside Kerry and say hello. Kieran, who’s busily tapping on his phone in the front seat, doesn’t look round but manages a short ‘All right, Cat?’
‘Fine,’ I reply, giving Kerry a hug. She smells like a mixture of Gucci Rush and hairspray. ‘So, Kieran, tell me about this party.’
‘Friend of mine. Beth. Birthday party.’
‘What’s she like?’
