I switch my phone off and drop it back into my bag. I know Dylan is only desperate to know how my date with Tom went so he can gloat over how clever and right he is. Well, he can wait a bit longer.
At six we all head home. Grace finishes off her homework while I tidy her bombsite of a bedroom, making the bed around Heisenberg, who refuses to move. I open her desk drawer to throw some crayons in and find a picture of me, Peter and Grace from Grace’s first Christmas. I’d forgotten about this photo. Peter’s dad took it with the camera we’d just given him. We’re all dressed up in party hats, sitting round my old dinner table, and we look happy. We look like a normal family. The longer I stare at the photograph, the more my heart hurts. To Grace it’s just a photograph of me and her dad – she can’t remember it any other way – but to me it’s a reminder of hopes and dreams that came to nothing. I place it back where I found it and close the drawer.
I finally text Dylan back at 11.30 that evening, hoping he’ll either be in bed asleep or in someone else’s bed and too busy to reply. Of course I didn’t mention Tom’s cheesy outburst – I refuse to give him any ammunition.
Date went well and he wants to see me again. This will be date four – can I bloody organize it for once?
His reply is swift.
Read your ‘bloody’ book.
I sigh and grab it from my bag, flicking through the pages half-heartedly. I didn’t fucking study this much when I did my degree.
From date four you should be more open with your date. Share more of yourself but always leave him wanting more. Don’t try to take the reins just yet.
BUT WHY? Why do I need to drag this nonsense out? I need clarification and, partly to annoy Dylan for making me mad at this hour, I call him. He answers sleepily.
‘Hi, Dylan. Did I wake you? . . . Good. Now, date four – you say I can’t ask him out yet, but why not? Why can’t I?’
‘It’s midnight, Cat. THIS IS THE VERY REASON WHY THE BOOK SAYS NOT TO CALL MEN.’
‘Oh, behave – that applies to men I want to date, not authors who promised to help me after threatening to ruin my career.’
He’s silent for a moment. ‘Look, we – and by “we” I mean men – need to feel like we’re in control. If you suggest somewhere shit to go, we’ll agree, but we’ll resent you for it and question your judgement.’
‘The fact that I’m talking to you means my judgement has already been brought into question.’
‘Oh, very mature, Cat. If you act like this on dates, it won’t be long before he’s tired of that noise coming from the hole under your nose.’
‘At least I don’t have a shower cap with bananas on it.’
‘IT WAS A STUPID GIFT FROM MY SISTER, ALL RIGHT? I forgot it was in there.’
‘Why are you shouting at me? And, what? You have siblings? Damn, I totally had you down as an only child. Possibly raised by wolves and—’
‘I’m ending this call. Goodnight.’
‘And—’
He hangs up before I can finish. I hate that. I have an overwhelming urge to rile him, so I wait almost an hour – until I’m sure he’ll be asleep and unable to reply. Then I text: ‘AND YOU WERE BORN OF A JACKAL.’
I turn my phone off, because if he replies I’ll be up all night trying to get the last word in. I know me.
*
On Friday morning I’m leaving with Grace for school when I meet the postman outside. We exchange pleasantries, I admire his moustache and he hands me my post, which consists of junk, a council-tax bill and a fancy white, card-sized envelope. I pause and look at it for a moment, wondering if I’ve managed to forget my own birthday.
‘I KNOW WHAT THAT IS!’ Grace shrieks, even though she’s standing right beside me. ‘OPEN IT!’
‘Did you send me this, you lovely thing?’ I start tearing open the envelope, which has small bells embossed on the back. Bells? Grace tugs on my jacket.
‘No, Daddy sent it. Hurry up, Mum!’
They’re wedding bells. Oh shit. I know exactly what this is. I don’t want to open it. I want to pretend it contains spiders and anthrax and kill it with fire. I look down at Grace, who’s bursting for me to see the invitation to her dad’s wedding. I want to explain how weird and awkward this is for me and how her dad should have factored in how I’d feel before sending this, but I don’t. Instead I beam back at her.
‘We’re going to be late for school; Grace, jump in the back seat. I’ll open it in the car.’
I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine, while Grace clicks her seat belt on. There’s no way I can’t open it, she’s too excited. I gingerly ease the white card out of the envelope and my lap is suddenly showered in tiny silver stars. Grace squeals, ‘I put them in!! I gave you extra. Isn’t it pretty? Mum, you’re not looking – LOOK. AT. THE. CARD.’
