I Followed the Rules Read online

  Praise for Joanna Bolouri

  ‘Very, very naughty and lots of fun – it’s a cracker of a debut’

  Sun

  ‘Scotland’s answer to Bridget Jones’s Diary’

  Daily Record

  ‘Hilarious’

  PopSugar

  ‘Bolouri has a fresh voice and Phoebe’s journey of sexual discovery is both laugh-out-loud funny and touching. This is chick lit with a Sex and the City vibe’

  Library Journal

  ‘A fantastic feel-good read’

  No. 1 Magazine

  ‘Raunchy and hilarious . . . you’ll be laughing all the way to the beach!’

  Scottish Sun

  ‘An absolutely hysterical main character that you can relate to and page after page of pant-wettingly hilarious scenes . . . I can’t wait to see what Joanna Bolouri does next!’

  Novelicious

  ‘A fearless approach to sex and romance’

  List Magazine

  ‘Sexy, smart and scandalous, I’d recommend to anyone with a taste for adventure’

  Victoria Fox, author of Temptation Island

  ‘A very naughty but nice read that will have you gasping one minute and laughing out loud the next’

  Abby Clements, author of Vivien’s Heavenly Ice Cream Shop

  About the Author

  Joanna Bolouri worked in sales before she began writing ­professionally at the age of thirty. She’s had articles and reviews published in the Scotsman, the Skinny, the Scottish Sun, the Huffington Post and HecklerSpray. She lives in Glasgow with her daughter.

  Title

  Imprint

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by

  Quercus Publishing Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2015 Joanna Bolouri

  The moral right of Joanna Bolouri to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  PB ISBN 978 1 78429 107 5

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 84866 902 4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Claudia

  A Note from the Author

  The fictional dating book that Cat Buchanan follows in my novel was loosely inspired by the much-loved international bestseller The Rules by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider (Thorsons/Element, 2000). Cat’s experience is very different from my own, and I very much recommend picking up a copy for anybody looking to do some research on the do’s and don’ts of modern dating. Finally, I’ll add that all the characters appearing in this work, as well as the dating book The Rules of Engagement itself, are entirely fictitious.

  Joanna Bolouri x

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  Keep reading for an extract of The list

  January

  Introduction

  The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 8 September 2014

  Does a good relationship always involve living together?

  Glasgow Girl doesn’t think so.

  When you’ve been single as long as I have, you start to ponder if you could ever be truly happy as part of a couple again. I’m a creature of habit now, so the thought of allowing someone into the little world I’ve created for me and my daughter is a daunting prospect.

  Being a lone, working parent is tough, and I wonder if I’ll ever have the time or the energy to direct towards someone new. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine a future where I’m not doing everything alone. Still, I am a woman of a certain age and I have needs, dammit. I need to flirt and be kissed and feel wanted and cuddled by someone I didn’t give birth to.

  The dating part doesn’t worry me; I’m sure when I meet the right man, it’ll be a whirlwind of laughter, sex, sleepovers and boxset mara­thons before one of us spoils it all by saying something stupid like, ‘Let’s move in together.’

  Dating? Sure, but actually living together – the committed, financially draining, I never knew you were quite this messy, TAKE THE BLOODY BIN OUT, YOUR JOKES AREN’T FUNNY, I WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN kind of relationship – isn’t high on my agenda. And I know what happens, because it’s happened to me before and I’m scared it will again.

  Before we even start going out, I already have restrictions set in place for a man I haven’t even met yet. Restrictions like: you will never come first in my life. You won’t meet my kid unless I’m sure you’re not a massive weirdo (at least six months), and don’t ask to come over while she’s there, even if she’s asleep, and then sulk when I say no. Don’t bore me with tales of how mean your ex was: women with broken hearts are very aware that there are two sides to every story – however much I like you, I’m not stupid.

  I think couples who are committed to each other but never actually live together have the right idea: like Mia and Woody. Actually, that’s the worst example I could have given, but you get the idea. I have close friends that I wouldn’t want to live with or see every single day until one of us dies – everyone needs their own space.

  God, I’m a nightmare. Form an orderly queue, boys.

  Chapter One

  He’s late. He’s half an hour late.

  I nervously tuck my hair behind my ears and continue scrolling on my smartphone. That’s all right, I tell myself; people are late all the time. Maybe they’re not HALF AN HOUR LATE on a first date, but he’s obviously been held up. Could be a number of reasons – he could be stuck in a traffic jam . . . had a car crash . . . he could have fallen down a sinkhole; these things happen. I’ll just continue scrolling through the BBC News website, pretending that everything’s fine. The people in this bar don’t know I’m waiting for someone. As far as they know, I’m just a woman, sitting in front of a table, asking it to bear the weight of her large glass of red wine. Yup, nothing to see here.

  But by the time I order my second glass, he still hasn’t arrived and I’m fuming. He clearly isn’t coming and I’ve wasted a Friday evening that could have been spent cuddling up to my eight-year-old daughter, Grace, in
her fluffy pyjamas, being ignored by my equally fluffy cat Heisenberg. My sister Helen is babysitting for me, no doubt feeling pleased with herself for being the person responsible for getting her unmarried sister on her first proper date in weeks –

  ‘Just meet up with him, Catriona. Have a drink. Colin’s really nice . . . arty type. Goes to the theatre quite a bit.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ I’d asked suspiciously. My sister generally only knows two types of men: those who are married and those she wants to set me up with.

  ‘He works with Adam. He thought Colin would be perfect for you.’

  ‘So you haven’t actually met him? All you have to go on is your husband’s word? The same husband who set me up with already-engaged Kevin?’

  ‘To be fair, no one knew he was engaged.’

  ‘Well, I’m guessing HIS FIANCÉE did! I walked past the church as they were having their wedding photographs taken. He told me he was in Chester looking after his sick mother.’

  ‘Yes, that was shameless. His mother died years ago. Anyway, we’re no longer friends with him. But Colin is definitely single.’

  I look at the clock behind the bar again, shaking my head. Why did I listen to her? Take a chance, she’d said. You deserve some fun! And now here I am, drinking alone, with a terrifying red wine smile and three per cent battery life. Fuck it. I drain the rest of my drink, pull my coat on and throw my phone in my bag. I have better things to do than wait around for a man who –

  ‘Catriona?’

  I turn around and I’m suddenly chest to face with a short, rain-soaked, gold-cravat-wearing stranger. The sinking feeling in my stomach that follows makes it clear to me that this bizarre man is Colin.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, m’lady,’ he apologizes. ‘Work ran over and then I couldn’t get a taxi from the West End. Can I get you a drink?’

  (M’lady? I hate you, Helen.)

  ‘Sure,’ I reply, staring at the tiny drop of rain hanging from the end of his nose. ‘I’ll have a small glass of Merlot.’

  He nods approvingly, strolls over to the bar and I sit back down, placing my bag under the table and clasping my hands in front of me, mentally preparing myself for the forthcoming awkwardness. He returns carrying two glasses of red and clumsily puts them down before removing his sodden tweed jacket, which looks like it weighs a good 200 pounds.

  ‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’

  I stare at him blankly. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Shakespeare! I was quoting Willie Shakespeare.’ He smiles weakly, running a bony hand through his small mop of thinning brown hair. ‘This bar isn’t the kind of place I’d normally frequent. These people . . . lots of bad grammar and tattoos, I imagine.’

  I look around and see a bar full of completely normal people: two women in their twenties deep in discussion, perhaps about the fact they’ve both come out wearing matching tops and boots; a couple in their thirties sharing nachos; and a group of middle-aged men doing rows of brightly coloured shots, ensuring that they’ll be throwing up on their own shoes by midnight. It’s a normal Friday night, with normal people. That’s it – one drink and I’m out of here.

  ‘Shakespeare, eh?’ I reply, adding, ‘A HORSE, A HORSE, MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE!’

  I expect him to be at least moderately impressed by the only line I know from Richard III, but he remains expressionless, no doubt wondering just how much I’ve had to drink. And he’s still dripping. Jesus, this man has no ability to self-dry. Silence ensues and I take an overly long gulp of wine.

  Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? Am I cursed? It gives me comfort knowing that once I finish my drink I can make my excuses, but until that happy, happy moment, I’ll have to continue making conversation.

  ‘So. Colin. Helen tells me you enjoy the theatre?’

  ‘I do indeed, but nothing too flashy. I enjoy the classics – none of this We Will Rock You or Mamma Mia! musical-­theatre nonsense.’

  ‘I love musicals,’ I reply, secretly pleased that we have nothing in common. ‘I know every word of Evita. And Rocky Horror.’

  ‘I see.’ He sniffs, looking horribly disinterested. ‘Well, each to their own. And what is it you do for a living, Catriona? Or should I call you Cat?’

  Only people I like call me Cat. ‘No, Catriona is fine. I’m a journalist. Features mainly – I write for the Lowdown.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that.’ He sighs, moving his arm and leaving a wet smear on the table. ‘Quite lefty, isn’t it? Lots of snarky feminist witterings. Not my cup of tea. Fine for a first job, but are you hoping to eventually write for a more reputable publication?’

  And with that, the date is over. I’ve had enough. Normally I like talking about my job. I write for the Scottish Tribune – the biggest-selling newspaper in Scotland – on their weekend magazine and it’s a great gig: one day a week in the office, hours to fit around my daughter and a shiny press award for my highly amusing column ‘Lowdown and Dirty’, where they give me five hundred words to rant about love, life and men, under the pen name ‘Glasgow Girl’. The New York Times and Ellen De­-Generes follow me on Twitter, for Christ’s sake! But I know this information would be wasted on Colin – he doesn’t deserve to know how utterly fucking interesting I am. I push my half-empty glass into the middle of the table and stand up.

  ‘Well, it’s been lovely meeting you, but I must get home.’

  ‘But I’ve only been here for ten minutes!’

  I mumble something about babysitters, hoping he’ll just take the fucking hint.

  ‘Ah. I understand,’ he nods, standing up and wrapping his hand around mine. ‘Dear Catriona, parting is such sweet sorrow—’

  ‘Oh, fucking hell, STOP THAT!’ I announce loudly, moving my hand out from under his clammy paw and throwing my bag over my shoulder. ‘Seriously, Colin, WHO DOES THAT?’ I march towards the door, head down, ready to battle the rain on my short walk back to Helen’s flat (where I will murder her), and accidentally barge straight into a chipper elderly man in a tartan bunnet.

  ‘Careful, pet.’

  ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!’ I cry. ‘My fault completely!’

  ‘Not to worry, hen. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

  I look up at the sky. It’s clear; there isn’t a single cloud. It’s the kind of happy sky Julie Andrews would sing about while spinning around on a mountaintop. I look down at the pavement. Dry. Colin has only been in the bar ten minutes . . . a recent downpour would have been evident.

  It suddenly occurs to me that it hasn’t rained at all, and I stride off towards Queens Park to thank my sister and her husband for setting me up with the creepiest mother­fucker who ever lived.

  Chapter Two

  2007

  After seven years it’s finally over. We’re finished.

  I open the white door of my cosy three-bedroom semi, walk down the perfectly smooth path we had resurfaced six weeks ago and unlock the doors of my blue Honda. Strapping my sleepy ten-month-old baby girl into her car seat, I quietly shut the door, just as Peter angrily throws more of the black bin bags on to the front lawn. One bursts open and I see Grace’s bibs and bottles spill out on the grass. I try not to react as I casually go to retrieve them; I won’t let him get to me. I duck as another bag flies past my head. Defiantly ignoring this, I continue to stride towards the ripped one.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you!’ he yells at me. ‘Never.’

  ‘Forgive me for what?’ I mutter, stooping down to scoop up her favourite teddy-bear bottle. ‘For having the guts to end this sham of a relationship? I want Grace to have a happy life, not raised by people who hate each other. I want—’

  His laughter interrupts me. ‘You have no idea what you want! Enjoy being a single mother, you fucking waste of space. You’re an idiot, Cat. But then again, you always were. I knew that the moment I met you.’ He sneers at me with
such venom I physically recoil. Looking at him, I don’t recognize the man I once knew: the blond stranger I met at the White Stripes gig who looked after me when I’d had too much to drink and got separated from my friends. The man who sent me flowers every day until I agreed to go out with him. The man who said I was everything to him. That man was gone.

  I need to leave. I ignore the rest of the loose items strewn on the lawn, grab the last bag and get into my car. As I drive away, Grace begins to cry loudly. And so do I.

  ‘But he was so wet. WHY WAS HE WET?!’

  Helen closes the kitchen door and frowns at me for being loud when she’s just put Grace to bed. Adam, her husband, snorts and puts another sweetener in my coffee.

  ‘Maybe it was sweat?’ he laughs. ‘He is known for being a tad sweaty in the office, but it’s never usually that noticeable . . . In hindsight, though, I perhaps should have paid attention to that nickname some of the female staff have for him.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘. . . “Sweaty Colin”.’

  I hear Helen sniggering as she sits down at their bespoke maple kitchen table, carefully placing her cup on a yellow coaster. I want to laugh but I’m too annoyed.

  ‘For the love of fuck, this just gets worse! You’ve known me for eight years, Adam. Why on earth would you think I’d go for someone like Colin? Do I seem like the kind of woman who would go for someone who quotes Shakespeare and has unexplained drippage?’

  Helen decides to chime in, simultaneously thrusting a piece of carrot cake into my hand. ‘We have no idea what your type is, Cat!’

  I take a bite of my cake and talk with my mouth full, just to annoy her. ‘Peter. Peter is – was – my type.’ A shower of tiny cake crumbs sprays from my mouth and lands on the table near her mug. She looks at me like I’ve blown my nose in her auburn hair.

  ‘Peter? After all he’s done?! I despise that man. Actually, we need to have a chat about him—’