‘Don’t think so. I’m sorry, Tom, I really do like you, but as much as I’ve been dying to see you without any clothes on, I’m going to walk to the main road and flag down a taxi now.’
I grab my bag and walk into the hall, taking my coat from the mahogany coat stand. As I pull it on, I hear him say, ‘It’s pouring down. You don’t have to go.’
He’s standing at the living-room door with his arms folded across his chest, looking marginally less scared than he was two minutes ago.
‘I do,’ I reply. ‘You’re really great, Tom. I’m sorry about all of this; I just followed some bad advice.’
I step into the rain and begin walking up the street towards the main road, breathing a huge sigh of relief. One more column and I can put all of this behind me. Glasgow Girl is back to square one.
Chapter Seventeen
For the purposes of ‘cheering me up’, Kerry has the bright idea that we should eat lunch in the park – if you can call two limp tuna sandwiches and a sharing bag of pretzels lunch. It’s a cold and drizzly Sunday, but I welcome the opportunity to get her insight on my evening.
‘I must admit I’m surprised.’ Kerry breaks off a piece of her sandwich and throws it towards a small duck that’s been patiently eyeballing her for the past few minutes. ‘After we spoke, I totally thought you’d have shagged Tom, not dumped him. You seemed so determined.’
‘It was the right thing to do.’ I gesture towards the pond. ‘That fat one over there is an arsehole. Did you see him try and steal the wee one’s bread? YOU’VE HAD ENOUGH BREAD, BEAKFACE.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘No idea, except that I now have to write a column entitled “I dumped Mr X because I have a fucking conscience” or something. Natasha won’t be pleased. I think she was expecting a more electrifying conclusion to the whole thing. We all were.’
‘You could always write about Dylan . . .’
‘Ha, and say what? “I momentarily lost my mind because this random guy was nice to my kid and my cat didn’t hate him”?’
‘Heisenberg liked him? Wow.’
‘Don’t be impressed, my cat is perverse. He’d probably take a shine to Hitler.’
She stuffs her wrappers into the rotting grey bin beside our bench. ‘But he did kiss you. He told you he can’t stay away from you. Aren’t you curious to hear what else he has to say?’
‘By which you mean you’re curious.’
‘Yes! But you must be too.’
‘I’m not. I’m fed up of hearing what he has to say. I’ve read his book. He goes on and on about how men will pursue women if they’re into them. Nowhere does he write that they will shag you, manipulate you, then assist you in wooing another man before kissing you passionately and fucking off immediately after. You can’t just kiss a girl like that and then leave! Those kinds of kisses are supposed to mean something.’
‘You really liked him, didn’t you?’
I nod and throw a pretzel at the mean duck. ‘Doesn’t matter now. He’s a professional player. Everything is a game to him. At least Tom wasn’t like that.’
‘And you’re sure Tom is a definite no-go?’
‘He likes golf and classic cars, Kerry. I will never believe that these are acceptable hobbies for anyone to have.’
‘Golf?’ She gives a little shudder. ‘Enough said.’
*
Eventually we submit to the cold afternoon air and leave our little bench, walking quickly towards Kerry’s red Mini in the rapidly emptying car park. She turns on the heater to thaw out our stinging faces and suggests we stop for a takeaway coffee on the way home.
‘They’re doing that pumpkin coffee crap now,’ she says, clicking her seat belt in. ‘It’s “in season”. It’s also hipster bullshit, but I really want to try it. I’ll probably hate it.’
She does hate it, and I end up returning to the flat with a milky tea and three-quarters of a skinny pumpkin-spice latte, which has been sworn at repeatedly by my pissed-off best friend. Grace arrives back at half past five, wrapped up in a fluffy hat and matching gloves, with a rosy face just made for kissing. Peter doesn’t get out of the car, presumably sulking about my text reply.
‘I tried on two dresses for the wedding, Mum! One was pink and had little beads on it and the other was purple and had a massive sticky-out skirt. I liked that best. I could swish in it.’
‘Swishing is important,’ I agree. ‘Sounds like you had a great weekend.’
