‘Oh, no worries. Lucky for you, Grace, I’m the Maths Master.’
What a fucking stupid title to give yourself. What next, the Spelling Sultan? The Algebra Assassin? Surprisingly, Grace finds this funny. I sometimes doubt she’s actually my child.
I thank Emma politely before kissing Grace goodbye and continuing my journey to Dylan’s house, miffed that it’s my one free weeknight and I’m spending it studying his bloody book. I remember exactly where he lives, but I text him anyway in some sort of cunning ruse to convince him that night isn’t still etched in my brain.
In the early evening light, the street he lives on looks nicer than I remember. There are well-kept communal gardens across the road, and the restaurant I noticed last time now looks chic and inviting. I ring the intercom and he buzzes me in.
At the top of the stairs I spot him standing at the open door in jeans and a checked shirt, smiling. The same seductive smile he used on me that evening. ‘Hey, Cat. Glad you could make it.’
‘I don’t want to be here, you know,’ I announce loudly as I enter. ‘We did it here. It could trigger all sorts of shit. This flat could be my ’Nam.’
Dylan laughs loudly as we head into the living room. ‘Did you bring the book, you maniac?’
Dammit. ‘Shit, no. I’ve left it at home.’
He gives me a disapproving look, then pulls open a drawer in the bottom of his bookcase and motions for me to sit on the couch.
‘I’m very aware that we “did it”, Cat, but I’m pretty sure we can control ourselves this time.’ He stops rummaging through his drawer and raises an eyebrow. ‘Unless you don’t want to, that is? I mean, it was pretty hot.’
‘Certainly not! I slept with you when I didn’t know what a terrible shit you were. I have a Tom now. A very nice, HONEST Tom.’
‘I’m just messing with you. Relax. I don’t remember you being this uptight.’
And now I feel stupid. I cross my legs and sit quietly. There’s a beer on the table next to an empty takeaway pizza box. Pig.
‘Found it.’ He hands over a copy of The Rules of Engagement and sits beside me. ‘I knew I had one somewhere.’
I take the book from him. ‘How can you only have one copy of your own book? If I wrote a book, I’d be sitting on chairs made from copies of it and wallpapering my room with the pages.’
‘Meh,’ he replies. ‘I wrote it five years ago. The novelty wears off pretty quickly. After I lost interest in writing, I lost interest in this.’
‘Are you sharing with me, Dylan? Is there some deep, dark secret you’re going to disclose to me next? Did a bad lady kill your creativity?’
‘No, I’m just making conversation. I’m getting another beer before we get started. You want one?’
‘OK, but just one. I’m driving.’
I start thumbing through the book as he leaves for the kitchen.
‘I’ll need snacks to soak up the alcohol!’ I shout after him. The least he can do is feed me.
It might be an awful book but, begrudgingly, I can’t help but admire him for writing one at all. I can barely reach my weekly word count. He returns and hands me a packet of crisps and a bottle of Bud, raising his in the air to clink mine.
‘Here’s to helping you and your Tim,’ he toasts.
‘Tom.’
‘Same thing,’ he continues. ‘And, also, to showing you the error of your ways and . . .’
I open the crisps and my crunching drowns out the remainder of his sentence.
We decide to discuss the book chapter by chapter, beginning with the main rules, before going on to finer points after. This works for about twenty seconds before the discussion gets heated. He just won’t admit he’s full of shit.
‘This makes no sense to me whatsoever, Dylan. Look at this for example: Rule 4 – Don’t harass him. Men don’t chat or text like women do. I mean that’s nonsense for a start! I know plenty of men who text more than I do.’
He shakes his head. ‘Women are notorious for hassling men over the phone. It’s all, “What you up to?” and “Thinking about you!” and “Look at this dog I saw in the park”. Men don’t like that. Stop the calls and texts or he’ll look for someone else, I guarantee it.’
I laugh. ‘Like who? Someone who doesn’t own a phone? OR A VOICE? If we like you, we want to chat – what’s so wrong with that?’
