I Followed the Rules

by Joanna Bolouri

  Kerry asks for a glass of rosé, then grabs a table while I make my way to the bar. Everything is free and everyone is happy. There’s a table set out with snacks and sandwiches on the right, and the two women who handed us press packs are now hovering, ready to collect glasses. Gordon catches me at the bar and helps me with the drinks as we walk over to join Kerry.

  ‘I got you Staropramen. That all right?’

  ‘Yeah, cheers, Cat. I’m only staying for one. I need to get back.’

  We sit down beside Kerry, who’s busy reading through my press information. She and Gordon have only met a handful of times but they always get along famously.

  ‘How are you, Kerry? Having fun?’ He leans over and hugs her. ‘Nice to see you. The place looks great, though live-music venues are more my thing. More sweaty, less pretentious . . . Interesting mix of people here, but a little too “art school” for me.’

  She sips her wine and nods. ‘I bet they’re all talking about how creative they are. Creative types are generally up their own arse; sometimes I have to pull Kieran out before he gets lost up his own arty rectum forever.’

  ‘Hey!’ I snarl at her. ‘We’re writers. That counts as cre­ative, right? Are we included in your hate campaign?’

  ‘Nah, you’re not that kind of writer. You’re not reaching into the depths of your soul to write some Twitter sonnet about a lamp post or a fig or something. Basically, until you utter the words “I’m self-publishing a fantasy novella” we can remain friends.’

  I giggle and look around the bar, wondering which of the guests will make it on to Kerry’s hit list by the end of the evening. Gordon finishes his pint with impressive speed.

  ‘Right, I must be off, ladies.’ He smirks and pulls his man bag over his jacket. ‘Date night with the wife.’

  Kerry laughs. ‘I might have known! The only thing to pull a man away from free beer is the promise of sex.’

  ‘Too fucking right. Have a good night, you two!’ I watch him push his way through the crowded bar and feel disheartened that the only thing I have waiting for me at home tonight is my lunatic cat.

  One hour later, we’re sitting at the same table and we’re on to our third glass of wine. The bar is still lively and I count at least twenty people all battling their own personal fashion demons.

  ‘What do you think he does?’ I ask, surreptitiously pointing to a thin man wearing a cowl-neck top and leather trousers. ‘Artist? Dancer?’

  She casually glances over. ‘He’s wearing sandals. I’d say professional hipster. Or wanker. Same thing really. Probably runs a coffee shop and shags his roommate, then wears her clothes to social gatherings.’

  We do this a lot. Judgy little fuckers that we are.

  I knock back the last of my wine. ‘At least he’s shagging someone. Right now, I’d gladly trade my fashion sense for a regular sex life.’

  Kerry gasps. ‘You would not! That’s the booze talking.’

  I look down at my fabulous dress. ‘Good point. Anyway, what about him?’ I continue, making side eyes towards a stylish man in the corner, clearly trying to hit on a girl who’s already looking bored. ‘I’d say he’s the manager of something really unimportant. Like shoes. He’s the regional manager of shoes.’

  Kerry narrows her eyes. ‘Hmm, I’ve seen him before at a BBC event I went to with Kieran. Sean something—’

  ‘Sean Semple,’ interrupts a male voice. ‘He’s head of the graphics department at the BBC. Terribly nice man, but sadly no hope of getting off with that woman.’

  I look over my right shoulder and spot a dark-haired man in his late thirties standing behind me. I quickly scan his face, Terminator-style, trying to size up this rude eavesdropper: jeans, blue shirt, wide brown eyes, a few freckles on his cheeks, heart-shaped mouth. He’s not classically good-looking like Tom, but still every single part of my body approves. Tom has some competition here.

  He shouts Sean’s name and waves before bending down to whisper in my ear, ‘And I think you’ll find that shoes are very important. I’d rate them highly, alongside penicillin and water slides. And, for the record, your shoes are hot.’

  He’s both flirting with me AND he talked to me first! I can’t think of anything to say in response, so I smile and sip my cava. I glance over at Kerry, who’s grinning like a fool, under the assumption that I’m three seconds away from announcing that I want to ruin him. I do want to ruin him. She steps in to help.

  ‘And who might you be?’ she asks. She loves forward men, especially the good-looking ones. Me, I usually just find them arrogant, but Jesus, he’s attractive. Kerry is still smiling widely and I know what she’s thinking because I’m thinking it too. Our filthy minds are in sync. Of course, she’s completely devoted to Kieran and she’d never play away, making her the perfect wingwoman.

  He takes a sip of his Budweiser and smirks. ‘You tell me. Don’t I get the benefit of your psychic abilities?’

  Oh great, now he’s flirting with Kerry too. My wingwoman is too alluring for her own good. I feel a bit miffed. It’s like the universe never wants me to get laid, ever again.

  She looks him up and down and then thinks for a moment while I keep quiet. He’s still standing close to me and I’m almost eye level with his crotch. Oh God, I wish I could see straight through his clothes. I’m starting to forget what a real-life penis looks like.

  ‘Actor,’ she finally declares. ‘You have that air of self-importance.’

  He laughs. ‘Wow, you’re really bad at this. Not even close. Self-importance? Ouch.’

  He sits down in Gordon’s old seat, his leg casually brushing against mine. It’s very possible that I might implode. He looks at me for a second. ‘You were much chattier before you knew I was here. Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘My name is Cat. So . . . y’know. Kind of . . .’

  What the hell am I saying? This man is making me nervous.

  Kerry face-palms and I’m on the verge of grabbing my coat. He just laughs. ‘Hmm. Well, I can see why you keep quiet, Cat.’

  ‘So if you’re not an actor, what is it you do then?’ I ask confidently, trying to redeem myself. ‘I’m guessing marketing or PR? You look comfortable in this environment. Ha, maybe you organized it. If so, terrible wine and boring speeches.’

  ‘Wrong again,’ he replies. ‘I actually hate this shit – half of these people are morons. Adrian invited most of the guests, so it’s his fault really. Anyway, you’re both terrible at this game, so let me put you out of your misery.’

  Suddenly he jumps upon his chair and commands the attention of the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Apologies for my tardiness. I am Dylan Morrison, co-owner of the new Filmhouse, and I’d like to thank you all for coming to what Adrian and I hope will be an exciting and lucrative venture. I won’t bore you with another speech, so please get back to your drinks and enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  He sits down to applause and takes a long swig from his beer. ‘Unfortunately, I’m going to have to go and mingle now, but it’s been a pleasure.’

  Kerry and I sit open-mouthed as he swaggers off towards the middle of the room, instantly surrounded by people who’ve been waiting all night to meet him. I can’t take my eyes off him. Kerry laughs. ‘I did not see that coming. I really like him. You should marry him. We could come here for free.’

  I’m laughing too. ‘You called him self-important and I insulted his business partner AND the booze. Maybe we should leave.’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘You’re probably right, but let’s have one more drink first? Be a shame to see this awful wine go to waste.’ Before I can answer, she’s heading back to the bar and I nip to the toilet.

  On my way back to the bar I bump into Patrick. He’s nursing a whisky and chatting to three women, who strangely enough don’t seem in any hurry to get the fuck away from him. His intoxicated face is the same colour as his dark
-pink tie.

  ‘Did Gordon leave already?’ he asks. ‘I was hoping to share a cab with him.’

  ‘Ages ago. He had plans with his wife.’

  Patrick looks displeased but continues sipping his whisky. ‘Not to worry.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ asks the woman to Patrick’s right. ‘I can drop you.’

  Patrick looks as amazed as I do. ‘Near the Saltmarket,’ he stammers. ‘And that would be great.’

  For fuck’s sake, it look as if even Patrick will be getting some action this evening. I leave him to it and head back to my table, where Kerry is once more chatting to Dylan. I’m stunned he came back. Perhaps we didn’t offend him after all. I reclaim my seat and take a sip of the wine ­Kerry’s placed in front of me.

  Dylan smiles at me. ‘So, we’ve established what I do for a living, and Kerry was just telling me she works in finance. What do you do?’

  ‘I write for the Tribune supplement,’ I reply. ‘Features, interviews, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I work beside him.’ I point over to Patrick, who’s just heading out the door with his female friend. How the hell did he pull?

  ‘Him? That’s odd. I asked him who you were and he said he’d never seen you before in his life.’

  ‘Yes, that Patrick is such a joker!’ I reply drily.

  ‘You asked who Cat was?’ Kerry interjects with a grin. ‘And why might that be?’

  I feel my face go red. He pauses for a moment, then chuckles. ‘Because I wanted to know! I didn’t send the invites, remember.’

  I’m secretly elated that he asked who I was. He totally fancies me—

  ‘But sadly, ladies, I must be leaving.’

  Or maybe not.

  He takes a final slug from his beer bottle before placing it down on the table in front of me.

  ‘Oh. Right. Anywhere nice?’ I ask, feeling sad that the handsome man is going away.

  ‘Home,’ he replies. ‘My bed is calling. I’ve done my bit here – they won’t miss me.’

  I try to find some words – any words to keep him there just a few moments longer – but in my somewhat inebriated state, all I manage is, ‘That’s a shame.’

  He pulls on his jacket and shakes Kerry’s hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’ With those final words he turns around and starts to talk to Adrian. I stare across at Kerry, and she gives me a ‘What the fuck is that all about?!’ look.

  ‘Did that just happen?’ I ask, bewildered. ‘He totally blanked me.’

  ‘Um, he’s staring right at you now, Cat.’

  I swing around and, sure enough, he’s facing me, hands in pockets. Smiling.

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  I laugh. But he’s still standing there. Waiting.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Oh, I am. Come with me. Bring those shoes.’

  I shake my head. ‘You’re crazy. That’s not going to happen. I don’t even know you! I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  My head knows this is the correct course of action, but still my vagina is practically dragging him out the door, shouting, ‘I’LL DRIVE.’

  ‘What do you think, Kerry?’ Dylan loudly continues. By now a few people are starting to stare.

  Kerry glances at me. ‘Well, Dylan, I think that you should take good care of my lovely friend tonight, or me and everyone else in this room will hunt you down and chop your cock off.’

  ‘Sounds fair.’ He laughs.

  Kerry puts on my green jacket and knocks back her wine. Then she leans over and whispers, ‘If you don’t see him naked, I’ll never forgive you.’

  I hold on to her sleeve. ‘But I have a date tomorrow! I can’t do this!’

  ‘Of course you can! You have a DATE, not a boyfriend. You can go back to your rules and be on your best be­haviour tomorrow. Now go and have some bloody fun for once.’

  I’m speechless as she marches away, leaving me to decide on my own. Dylan is still smiling. God, he’s handsome. I stand up and clear my throat.

  ‘I hope you have decent coffee.’

  As we walk towards the lobby, I’m pretty sure I can hear applause coming from the bar.

  We don’t speak on the taxi ride to Dylan’s house. ‘Pompeii’ by Bastille is playing on the radio and I sing the lyrics in my head to drown out the sound of my nervous heart beating in my chest. This is surreal. This is happening! In the not-so-distant future I will be naked and he will be naked and –

  ‘£9.80, mate.’

  We’re here. Cathedral Road. A quick glance out of the window while Dylan is paying reveals a row of tenement flats in a street dotted with expensive cars, and a brightly lit Italian restaurant called Gustoso. I open the door and step out before I lose my nerve completely. Oh shit, this is happening.

  Dylan follows me out of the taxi and we pause on the pavement outside his flat. He’s looking at me but I’m not ready to meet his gaze. ‘Shall we?’ he says, motioning towards his front door. I smile and nod.

  The hallway is nothing special. Clean but basic. Stone walls, a couple of bikes outside flat 0/1 and a tiny de­hydrated plant outside 0/2, which reminds me I need to water my spider plant. We climb the stairs to the first floor, Dylan’s perfect arse leading the way before stopping outside 1/1. I’m already trying to imagine what his home is like inside. I bet it’s a gadget-filled bachelor pad bedecked with randomly placed Ganesha statues and tapestry hangings to show he’s well-travelled both physically and spiritually. Actually, I bet it’s nothing but a massive shag pad, scattered with cushions stuffed with his previous conquests’ used knickers.

  He reaches into his pocket for his keys and I take a deep breath. He turns and grins. He knows I’ve been checking him out. ‘Coffee, wasn’t it?’

  I follow him into a square hallway with dark wooden flooring, spotlights on the ceiling and five doors leading off to different rooms. There’s a smell of vanilla coming from a plug-in near the front door.

  ‘Just through to the right, Cat. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  I wander through, park myself on his couch and sink in. Holy shit, I’m comfortable. The room is nothing like I thought it would be. Bright and airy, lots of plants, and an old-fashioned record player in one corner. He does have a massive wall-mounted flat screen, but the most impressive aspect of the room is the large mahogany bookcase that sits against the left wall. This man is a serious reader, which of course makes him a million times more attractive, if that’s possible. I creep over to have a look. You can tell a lot from the books a man keeps, and I want to find out exactly who I’m dealing with. I tilt my head and run my finger along the spines; Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk, Dickens, King, Koontz, David Nicholls, Tolkien –

  ‘There’s another bookcase in the bedroom, if you want to peruse that next.’

  I spin around as if I’ve been caught reading through his emails. ‘What? Oh no, sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I just like books.’

  ‘Coffee’s ready.’

  I spot a small tray with two black cups and some milk and sugar sitting on the coffee table. So far there’s nothing about this place I don’t like, but the night is still young . . . he could have a waterbed and a sex swing waiting in the next room.

  He puts on some music from an iPod dock.

  ‘Doesn’t your record player work?’ I ask, plopping a brown sugar cube into my coffee.

  ‘It does, but I don’t use it very often.’ He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. ‘I only have really old LPs – you probably wouldn’t enjoy them.’

  ‘Why not? What kind of music are you into?’ I sip my coffee, thinking that this whole scenario is much more civilized than I expected. ‘Please don’t tell me you have a stack of really shady eighties bands on vinyl.’

&
nbsp; ‘Hey! I can get just as excited by an eighties pop tune as I can by Frank Sinatra or Daft Punk. Although I draw the line at country. Even Johnny Cash can’t make that shite cool. The vinyl is mostly from the seventies.’

  I notice that while he’s been talking, he’s also been unbuttoning his shirt. Before I can say anything more, he’s taken it off and is laying it over his jacket. Fucking hell, he’s confident, and one look at his torso makes me understand why. His abs are toned and his skin looks peachy . . . but I guess biting isn’t an option on a one-night stand.

  ‘Um, you seem to be undressing.’

  ‘I do, don’t I?’ He sits down to take off his socks. I place my coffee cup back on the tray and decide to join in.

  ‘I like Johnny Cash.’ I kick off one of my shoes, praying that my big toe hasn’t tried to liberate itself from my tights. ‘“Rusty Cage” is a genius song. And John Denver wrote some amazing stuff.’

  His socks are off and he’s standing up. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Taylor Swift fan too? Dixie Chicks? If you mention Shania Twain, I’m throwing you out.’ He watches me peel off my tights and I straighten to meet his gaze.

  ‘As it happens, I do like Taylor Swift, but I’m also very involved with Johnny Cash. Are you really going to criti­cize my musical tastes when you’ve got Jessie J on your iPod?’ I reach behind to unzip my dress.

  His hand moves down to his belt buckle and he smiles. ‘Yeah, I’ll let you have that one. Though “Price Tag” is a tune . . . Do you need help with that?’

  I have one hand behind my neck and the other trying to grasp for the zip, which is caught on the fucking fabric. I must look like a really shit contortionist, so I laugh and nod. Dylan walks towards me and I can see the little line of hair running from his belly button and disappearing under his undone jeans. My heart begins to race.

  ‘Turn around,’ he says forcefully.

  Don’t sing the next line from ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’.