‘I’d give it eighty-nine per cent. It lost points because Netflix wasn’t working.’
‘Take your stuff off and I’ll make dinner. What do you fancy?’
‘That spaghetti stuff Dylan made. Can we have that?’ She throws her hat on the floor, causing Heisenberg to arch himself into something resembling a hissing croquet hoop.
‘Another day, honey. I’m not sure of all the ingredients and—’
‘Phone Dylan, then. Maybe he can come and make it for us again? Do you remember when he was making the celery talk? He’s funny.’
My heart sinks. Right about now I expect a Parent of the Year award to plummet down on me from the sky and cause considerable bleeding from my stupid inconsiderate head. ‘He’s working away just now, Grace, but we’ll arrange it when he comes back.’
Happy with my excuse, she darts into the living room to see if Netflix is up and running again, leaving me to pull together a lame dinner of fish, oven chips and microwaved beans. It’s hardly haute cuisine, but it’ll have to do.
It’s half past ten before I sit down again, having organized Grace’s school clothes, made her packed lunch, washed the dishes, bathed her and finally insisted she go the fuck to bed. I’m exhausted, but my brain is far from sleepy. I need to come up with something for my article this week that doesn’t make it look like I just gave up on The Rules of Engagement. I could say Tom turned out to be a massive racist . . . no, that’s just mean. Maybe I can lie and say that Tom dumped me? Being dumped is far more interesting than taking the moral high ground, right? But then that implies that the rules don’t work . . . What if Tom dumped me to get back with his ex-wife? That could work. Who am I to stand in the way of true love . . .?
Reluctantly I pick up The Rules of Engagement and search for advice on being dumped. As I suspected, it’s an onwards-and-upwards approach, designed for people with no emotional inner life. From what I gather, I must not walk around with a face like the Wailing Wall. He then goes on to talk about some of the emotions a lady might experience and I make my own notes underneath each point:
Sadness – (Why didn’t he love me? I’m totally loveable.)
Anger – (Who does he think he is? He’s a fucking dead man walking.)
Crazy – (If I can’t date him any more, I’m going to cut my hair off with this spoon.)
Vengeful – (I’m going to buy him a dog and then STEAL the dog and then I’ll have a dog and HE’LL HAVE NOTHING LEFT.)
Denial – (He’ll be back. I’ll just eat everything until that happens.)
Dylan says the most important point is to have self-respect. I must not become a weeping chick-flick cliché. I must not beg for him to come back because I will inevitably cry, and not just a single Sinead O’Connor solitary tear. No, it will be massive showers of salty despair, streaming down my face, soaking through the baggy T-shirt I’ve been wearing since I stopped caring about my appearance. Women who stop caring how they look will eventually shrivel up and die, while their ex-boyfriend is probably off in Cannes, shagging someone better on a yacht. Unsurprisingly it doesn’t mention how to react when a man gives you a kiss that still haunts you and then fucks off out of your life forever.
If Tom had actually dumped me, this chapter would be no help at all. Still, at least I have something to work with for Saturday’s column. I close The Rules of Engagement and throw it in the bin.
*
Helen and Adam are back from their holiday, looking suitably rested and pleased to see Grace when I drop her off before school.
‘Did you bring me something?’ Grace asks first thing.
‘Yup. Go inside and see what Uncle Adam has for you.’
Grace kisses me and then vanishes into the flat, giving Helen exactly sixty-seven seconds to interrogate me before I have to leave for work.
‘How’s it going with Tom?’
There is no way I’m getting into this before work. ‘Fine, Helen. I’ll fill you in later. I really need to go.’
‘Just fine? Have you seen him this week?’
‘I really have to go. Later. I promise.’
I trot off down the hall as she yells after me, ‘I BOUGHT YOU SOME RASPBERRY VODKA. YOU’RE NOT GETTING IT UNTIL YOU SPILL THE BEANS.’
Bollocks, I love raspberry vodka. She’s so unfair. She’s going to lose her shit when she finds out I dumped Tom. With the week I’ve had, I really wish it was acceptable to start drinking on the train to work.
*
‘What is that awful smell?’ I’ve only been in the office for two minutes and I’m opening windows and looking for signs of a dead animal. Great start to Monday. I look at Leanne, who’s spraying everything with cheap air freshener she borrowed from the staff toilets.
‘I have no idea, but these cleaners need to be sacked.’ There’s something different about her today . . . her face . . . Oh, I see what it is. Jesus wept.
