The Year of No Rules Read online

  The Year of

  No Rules

  Rose McClelland

  Copyright © 2017 by Rose McClelland

  Image: Adobe Stock © Tijana

  Design: soqoqo

  Editor: Alice Cullerne-Bown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Crooked Love Cats Edition, Crooked Cat, 2017

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  and something nice will happen.

  To Joe and Colin,

  for holding me up

  when the chips were down.

  Acknowledgements

  To my publishers Laurence & Steph Patterson of Crooked Cat – thank you for your patience and perseverance.

  To my editor Alice Cullerne-Bown – thank you for your beady eye and funny emails!

  And thanks to you, dear reader, for buying this book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  About the Author

  Rose divides her time between the sofa and bubble bath. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. It’s a bit of an addiction actually. That, and the chocolate Freddos.

  She can often be found on Facebook posting photos and stories about her cat, her cooking or book reviews. Unashamedly a crazy cat lady, Snowy has the run of her house with a cat tree, a tunnel and a tent.

  Rose writes women’s fiction/drama with a splash of romance and comedy.

  She has written a few short plays and finds it a buzz to see actors performing her words on stage.

  Please follow her on Facebook or Twitter – she’d love to hear from you!

  The Year of

  No Rules

  PART ONE

  The Year with Rules

  Chapter One

  Hindsight was a wonderful thing, Sasha thought. If she looked back and reviewed her relationship with Kirk, she realised that there had been red flags from the very start. Clear, bright red, obvious flags that had waved at her earnestly, but which she had ignored. As though she was a driver on a train and she was about to veer drastically off the rails, yet she ignored every single warning.

  The first red flag was the day, three months after they’d got together, when Kirk sat down with her and suggested they should compile a list of rules.

  Sasha looked at him blankly. Rules? Whatever did he mean?

  They were sitting on her bed, fully clothed; the afternoon drawing to a close. This was that awful window in her week; Sunday afternoon, when the reality of their situation descended on them. The long-distance relationship. With Kirk living in Dublin and Sasha living in Belfast, that two-hour bus journey between them often seemed to leave them worlds apart. Soon Kirk would have to make the arduous journey home to Dublin; having to remove himself from the cosy warmth of her flat in Belfast to brave the cold winter air. He’d have to jump in a taxi and make painful small talk with the driver. Then would come the train station with the monotonous wait on cold, hard seats at the platform. Then onto the train, with his battle to find a secluded window seat away from any crying children, drunk teenagers or overly chatty women. He would sit on the train, the night journey meaning that the only view he’d have through the window would be his own sad reflection peering back at him; cold, tired and fed up. He’d return home so late that it would take him a while to wind down before he’d eventually fall asleep. Then would come Monday morning, all too soon, with no refreshed weekend feeling. Perhaps this was why his mood was so heavy; why his mind reached for reasons to fix and control, make better.

  “Rules?” Sasha repeated, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. At her fingertips sat the remote control, ready for her to press play on their favourite TV drama. Next to the remote was her Easter egg, waiting for her to peel off the glistening foil and break a thick chunk of chocolate away in a satisfying snap. Next to her was a mug of hot frothy coffee, ready for her to dunk the chocolate into, while it melted softly and would deliver sensual velvetiness onto her tongue. She just wanted to relax and savour the last bit of Sunday together as much as she could.

  “Yes. Rules,” he repeated, before he cocked his head to one side and corrected himself. “Well, not rules exactly – more suggestions.”

  Sasha sighed inwardly, realising that this was going to be one of their epic-proportion ‘talk-a-thons’; that she might as well drink her coffee otherwise it would go cold; that she might as well try to get this over and done with as quickly as possible so that they could snuggle down and watch TV.

  She sat upright on the bed and tried to look attentive. “Okay, what kind of suggestions?” she conceded.

  He looked pleased at her willingness to conform so quickly.

  “Okay, I was thinking,” he began, clearly about to launch into a speech he had been preparing earlier. “I was thinking that we could each write a list. For example, you could write a list of things that you’d like me to change about myself; things you’d like me to improve on…” He looked at her eagerly, as though she’d love to do that; love to change him. “And vice versa!” he added quickly, making it look like an after-thought.

  Sasha knew what the quick ‘vice versa!’ meant. ‘Vice versa’ meant that he too could write a list of things he would like her to change about her. This was his chance to sit her down and make a list of all the things he wanted her to do differently. Yet he was sugar-coating it with a carefully constructed ‘mutual’ list.

  Sasha nodded her head and furrowed her brow as though concentrating deeply; as though wondering how she could add to this ludicrous idea he had just come up with.

  She thought, looking back, that this was the point she should have said, ‘Rules? What rules? You’re joking? What couple sits down and writes a list of rules for each other? That’s nuts. And incredibly controlling. This is just your backhand way of trying to tell me what to do. If you can’t accept me as I am, you shouldn’t be with me. There’s the door!’

  But she didn’t say all that. Instead she was thinking about her Easter egg; the silver foil of which was glistening in the light. It was calling out to her, saying, ‘eat me!’ Then there was the remote, teetering on the pause position, desperate for her to hit play and proceed with the TV drama. She knew that if she disagreed with the rules, it would lead to an epic discussion; the strength for which she didn’t have.

  Instead, if she just signed it, they could get it over and done with, cuddle up on the bed, watch TV, eat yummy chocolate and possibly even fall into a blissful nap.

  She also thought about his marriage proposal. Yes, after only three months together, he had proposed, popping the question after a particularly fun-filled and sex-filled weekend in Dublin. She had said yes, of course, and her spirits had soared. At thirty-eight, she had endured seven long years of being single. How that had happened, she did not know. Perhaps because she had always gone for the bad boy type; the guys who wanted only a ‘fuck buddy’. Guys who would use and abuse her, before tossing her aside. The nice guys, the ones that wanted a relationship, had never crossed her path, or if they did, she hadn’t noticed them. So she had bounced from pillar to post, remaining single. How she longed to be in the relationship club, like all her friends on Facebook. Girls who posted photos showing idyllic couple poses in restaurants; on beaches; on walks.

  Finally, Sasha thought, here was a man who loved her as mu
ch as she loved him. She thought of how he had appeared, mirage-like, an oasis in a very dry desert. She thought of how her pride and self-esteem lifted when she was able to announce to her family that she was in a relationship. R.e.l.a.t.i.o.n.s.h.i.p. The word rolled happily around on her tongue. Finally she was one of them. A relationship person. Loved. Normal. One of the crowd. Acceptable. As if someone had given her a stamp of approval; put a tick against her name. ‘Yep! She’s normal!’

  She had visions of her family whispering excitedly to each other. ‘Did you hear? Sasha’s in a relationship! Thank God, it’s about time! I was seriously beginning to think she had a problem. Thank God, I hope it lasts.’

  Sasha shivered at the thought of it; her toes curling in embarrassment and shame. But now? Now, though, she could hold her head high. She could feel pride and self-esteem. She was one of the ‘normal’ ones.

  “Okay, what’s the list?” she conceded, after he had scribbled his pointers.

  “Okay,” Kirk cleared his throat, holding his A4 piece of paper aloft.

  “Would it be possible if:

  You could not raise your voice.

  There was no conflict.

  You could go to your doctor about your PMT and try to keep it under control.

  You could not be jealous of females that I’m friendly with?”

  Sasha widened her eyes as she listened to each pointer; a knife dragging through her heart with every suggestion.

  If she was feeling strong enough, argumentative enough, brave enough, she would have said, ‘Never raise my voice? But that’s ridiculous! What’s wrong with raising my voice? You want me to sit like some sort of subservient servant, never lifting my gaze, waiting patiently beside you? I am a woman, with my own thoughts and feelings and needs and wants. What if something angers me? It’s only natural that I should raise my voice! And as for the conflict – well, it’s only natural there would be conflict at times. That’s how people express their disapproval of something. And the PMT. Well, pardon me for having a female body (a body you were attracted to when you first met me by the way) – a body which, by nature, has a monthly cycle of hormones coursing through it. And the jealousy – well, that’s just natural too. Actually it shows how much you mean to me – that I’m scared of losing someone I love – and that jealousy manifests itself as a fear that another person will take away someone I hold so precious. If I wasn’t jealous, it would show I have no fear of losing you.’

  However, without wanting to prolong the discussion any longer, she nodded her head as though in approval. I mean, how hard can it be? she thought. After all, if she argued all these points, it would just lead to a long-drawn out row; the energy for which she simply did not have.

  “I was thinking…” Kirk continued, as though he was a teacher making suggestions to his pupil. “We could read over these lists every morning, like reading a morning prayer, and it could set us up for the day?”

  Sasha’s head whirled with incredulous responses. It seemed so artificial; so dogmatic. But she really wasn’t in the mood to argue.

  “Okay,” she nodded again, like one of those nodding dogs on the back seat of a car.

  “Okay,” Kirk agreed happily. “So if you could sign at the bottom – kind of like a contract – to say that you are committing to it…”

  He proffered a pen in her direction, clearly delighted that he was controlling the bollocks out of the situation.

  “Sure,” Sasha agreed, taking the pen and scribbling a lazy signature over the dotted line.

  The red flag billowed profusely in the wind, but her train had already careered quickly off the track.

  Chapter Two

  “What is the problem?” Kirk asked. But the question wasn’t just in his words; the question was in his tone of voice; in the fierce look in his eyes; in his accusatory body language. The question asked a lot more than ‘what is the problem?’ The question was impatient, intolerant; loaded with anger and accusation. The question was like a black cloud, heavy with moisture, desperate to open and off-load a torrent of rainfall.

  “Nothing,” Sasha shrugged her shoulders defensively. “I’m fine.”

  Kirk rolled his eyes impatiently.

  “Something’s wrong,” he insisted.

  Sasha recognised one of these moods. These were the persistent ones. Like a dog with a bone, who would chew, chew, chew until scattered remains lay defeated on the ground.

  “I’m fine, honest,” Sasha replied, even accompanying her comment with a forced smile.

  He walked over to one of the hotel room chairs and slumped into it dramatically. He ran one hand through his hair; rested his elbows on his knees and gave her an intense stare. “Can we talk about this?” he asked her, aggressively.

  She looked over at him from where she was standing at the mirror, applying her make-up. Why did he manage to look so handsome, even when he was being aggressive and stern?

  She viewed the scene – him on one hotel chair, an empty chair waiting for her presence, and a circular table between the two, laden with kettle, tea cups, saucers, sachets of coffee and sugar. It looked like such an idyllic Sunday morning picture on the face of it. Hotel room, young couple, cups and saucers, a cosy romantic scene. But she sensed it would be anything but. The stern look on his face, his brow furrowed in anger; his body language speaking of defiant angular poses and angry leg crossing. She knew what she was in for. This was going to be another one of his infamous talk-a-thons; the lengthy and heated discussions where he would talk down to her, remind her of her faults, ask her what she was going to do about them and again reinforce her need to change. She didn’t know at what stage in their relationship these talk-a-thons had started but, ever since they had, they had become more frequent.

  “Why are you huffing? Why is there a funny vibe? Why is your tone short?” These were the questions he was asking her today. It wasn’t the questions that bothered her – it was the body language. Angry. Impatient. Like a storm brewing. Her only desire was to calm the storm and get out of this hotel room. She thought about the fact that it was half nine in the morning. She thought about how they had to check out by 11am. She wondered how long the talk-a-thon would last this time. There was her make-up to do, her bag to pack. She desperately wanted breakfast. Her stomach growled in angry protest.

  “What’s with the vibe?” he persisted angrily. “Why don’t you just tell me and then we can sort it out?”

  She felt like one of those prisoners, locked in a small cubicle whilst being interrogated by the inquisition. Next he’d be depriving her of her basic needs of food and water so that she would give in and release information.

  After what felt like half an hour of questioning, she finally succumbed and admitted her problem. She was embarrassed to admit it. It was something that she would have been happy to sweep under the carpet and forget about. However, here they were, discussing it, so she blurted it out.

  She spoke about her embarrassment; her feelings of rejection. How they had woken that morning in their plush hotel room after a weekend of his birthday celebrations. How she had curled towards him like an eager and grateful cat, hoping that he’d return her advances and greedily lap up her attention. She thought of how she never initiated sex with him; how she preferred to wait patiently until such times as he was in the mood. She thought of how she never, ever refused his advances. Even if she had a sore head, or the onset of a period, she’d always open her arms (and her legs) for him, believing that to refuse a man sex was akin to damaging his self-esteem.

  But this morning, she had been adventurous; reckless even. Her groin was hammering and she longed to have it played with. It would have been the perfect end to a perfect birthday weekend. She had booked this lovely hotel for them. She had booked his favourite band. They had even hung out with one of his gorgeous female friends and she had not exhibited any jealousy whatsoever. She had been a model example of a good girlfriend. But when she curled up to him, he was half-hearted in his response. It seemed as if
he was just going through the motions, ticking the boxes to get it over and done with. She orgasmed, satisfied. She turned over onto her stomach to let him finish himself off behind her, like he always did. But this time, he lost interest.

  “Sorry, it’s just not happening for me,” he told her abruptly. And the next thing he was padding into the hotel bathroom, shutting the door behind him and then she could hear the heavy pitter-patter of the shower water hitting the tray.

  She gulped, and felt a strange heavy beating of her heart. The slap of the water against the cubicle felt like a slap across the face. He’s washing me off. He’s washing that horrible experience off him.

  After she revealed her explanation to him, as calmly and as apologetically as she could, he nodded, almost triumphantly.

  See? I knew there was something wrong. It was just as if he was saying it. His face tightened with anger and aggression again.

  “When are you going to sort yourself out?” he exploded impatiently.

  “Sorry?” she stammered, unsure she could believe her ears. She honestly expected him to be sympathetic. To curl his arms around her and tell her not to be so silly. That the sex thing was no big deal.

  But no.

  “When are you going to sort yourself out?” he repeated. “These vibes, these huffy moments – you said you were going to stop this?”

  Sasha sat silently, her mouth agog. She really couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Haven’t you started that therapy work yet? Why is it taking you so long? These moods have got to stop.”

  Yes, it was true, she did have moods occasionally, especially when it was PMT time. But didn’t every woman?