My phone rings. It’s Dylan. THIS IS NOT THE MAN WHO IS SUPPOSED TO BE CALLING ME.
‘Even if he does ask you, don’t rush to meet him the very next evening. He needs to believe you’re busy and have a life. When’s your deadline?’
‘Friday at the latest. And again, that is a stupid rule.’ I open the fridge and grab a yogurt.
‘Why is it stupid?
‘Because being keen is not a character flaw!’
‘Hmm, fine, you can see him Thursday then.’
‘I have a kid, for Christ’s sake!’ I reply, spooning Müller into my mouth. ‘I can’t just go swanning off every bloody evening.’
‘. . . What’s that noise? . . . Are you eating?’
‘Yes.’
‘God, you’re worse than I thought. What the fuck is it? Soup? I can hear metal clanging off your teeth. Don’t do that with him.’
I bash my spoon on the handset. ‘You are so obnoxious. And it’s yogurt! Yogurt is silent! Only you could hear someone eating the quietest food ever.’
‘Look, Cat, we made a deal, and you promised you’d do this properly. Wednesday night. Seven. Bring the book. If you can’t remember the address, text me.’
He hangs up and I continue with my yogurt. As much as going over to his flat pains me, I’m going to settle this Rules of Engagement nonsense once and for all. He’s so infuriating and so bloody certain that he’s right about everything.
Then, miraculously, Tom texts.
So great to see you. Sorry we couldn’t chat longer. Can I take you to dinner on Wednesday?
I’m about to reply YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES! when I stop and evaluate the situation. Dylan got this one right. I did what he said and Tom texted. Just like Dylan said he would. Ah! This is nuts. I wait for a couple of minutes and reply as if I don’t care one way or the other. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?
Can’t do Wed. Very busy. Could manage lunch on Thursday?
He speedily responds:
Great. 1pm suit? I’ll find us somewhere nice.
I’m so delighted I do a little jump and spill yogurt down my top. How classy. I do need help.
*
I pick Grace up from school at four on Wednesday, later than usual as she’s decided to give football a try and participate in an after-school game held in the gym. When she climbs into the car, her face tells me that it didn’t go very well.
‘Ryan Rogers missed the ball and kicked my shin. The lady in the office put a plaster on it for me.’
‘Aww, honey. You all right? Does it hurt badly?’ I inspect her little leg and laugh at the smiley face she’s drawn on the brown plaster.
‘It only stings a little. I didn’t cry. Ryan drew that to say sorry. I think he’s my boyfriend now but I haven’t decided.’
I wonder if ‘Let him kick you in the shin and then draw on your plaster’ is listed anywhere in The Rules of Engagement, because it seems to be working well for my daughter.
I glance at the time and realize I’m running late for Dylan’s ‘love clinic’.
‘That’s nice. Listen, Grace? I’m going to drive you to Dad’s now. We won’t have time to go home first. I’ve brought your stuff.’
We arrive at Peter’s house, but he doesn’t even bother coming to the door. Instead I’m greeted by Emma, dressed all in brown, looming over me like a perfectly toned Wicker Man.
‘Hi, Emma. No new homework, but Grace needs to go over her maths again. She’s stuck on her division.’
