At three she pulls on her shiny yellow wellington boots and hunts through the hall cupboard looking for her bumblebee umbrella while I hang my one and only little black dress on the back of my bedroom door to de-wrinkle. It’s my secret weapon: not too tight but clingy in all the right places. I’ll be completely overdressed for a takeaway, but then again, I don’t intend to stay dressed for all that long.
The puddle count outside is impressive. I’m wearing my old Converse so I skip over them like a baby deer while Grace plunges into every one with great delight, spinning her umbrella as she splashes.
Windscreen wipers on full, we drive slowly through the Southside, past seas of umbrellas and unhappy wet faces. Grace’s bright idea to play I Spy is quickly cut short when I keep driving past things she’s spied.
‘No, the answer was “dog”, Mum.’
‘Where’s the dog?’
‘Back there. Turn around – you might still see him!’
‘I’m driving, Grace.’
‘This is rubbish.’
At long last we arrive at Peter’s house and I move Grace from the car to the front door as swiftly as possible. Peter, who looks like he’s been in bed all day, helps her take off her wellies at the front door.
‘Go and get dry,’ he says, shaking her umbrella dangerously close to me. ‘I’ll be there in a sec.’
‘Bye, Grace! Hi, Peter, nothing to report,’ I say, getting wetter by the minute. ‘I’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘The wedding is next week and you haven’t RSVP’d. We were just wondering if you were coming and if you were bringing anyone. You know, to get an idea of the numbers.’
NEXT WEEK? That can’t be right, surely.
‘Yes. To both,’ I reply, knowing I can’t go alone, but wondering who to bring. Peter and Kerry hate each other. Helen maybe? Tom? A big drop of rain targets the back of my neck and I shiver. ‘I’m getting soaked here, Peter. I need to run. I’ll see you later.’
I can tell he wants to chat, but I’m off like a shot back to the car. I have a date to get ready for.
Forty minutes before I’m due to leave for Tom’s house, the elusive Dylan turns up at my door, looking unkempt and mischievous.
‘Dylan? What are you doing here? Why have you been ignoring my texts?’
‘Sorry, MUM. Been busy,’ he replies, squeezing past me. ‘And you practically drop-kicked me out of your house last time . . . but since your last column is coming up, I thought I’d give you a final pep talk. Nice dress.’
I close the door behind him. He’s already making himself at home. ‘Thanks all the same, Dylan, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Don’t hang your coat on the door handle – I do have hooks, you know.’
He hands it over. ‘There are things you need to consider. I myself have never had sex with a dentist, but what if it’s all too dentisty? What if he makes you open your mouth and say, “AHHHHHHH”?’
‘Shut up.’ I try not to laugh.
‘Oh, and the most important thing to consider: what if he has a small knob? I’ve heard that’s quite common with dentists. Well, dentists and also men who aren’t me. Make me a cuppa, will you? I’m freezing.’
Before I can reply, he’s striding up the hall towards the kitchen, asking if I have anything to eat. I’m left holding his jacket. He munches on some biscuits he’s found in the cupboard while I organize the tea. I can tell he’s waiting for a response. ‘So, what do you think, Cat?’
‘Are you trying to make me anxious, Dylan? Cos it’s working.’
He stops munching. ‘Why are you anxious?’
‘Ugh, I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel right.’ I stare blankly at the kettle while it boils.
He brushes biscuit crumbs from the table into his hand and disposes of them in the bin. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Did he get weird with you? What did he do?’
‘Nothing! This isn’t his fault. I’m just not being fair to him. Or me.’ I stick two teabags in the pot and pour in the water. ‘Sugar?’
‘Um, one,’ he replies. ‘You’re over-thinking this again. You like him – he likes you; what’s the problem?’
I thump a mug down on the worktop. ‘He likes me? How can he like me? He doesn’t know me! He knows “Cat”, the woman who doesn’t have any fucking discernible personality. He doesn’t know that I read horror in bed, that I can’t cook for shit and that I’m—’
