Chapter 10
HEATHER
‘You kissed him?’
Heather pulls the phone from her ear to dampen the shriek of disbelief.
It’s easy to understand her friend’s surprise: Claire is calling to field Heather’s availability during half term when she will be in Edinburgh conducting repairs and essential maintenance on the flat she rents out near the Grassmarket.
She is clearly expecting to discuss diary availability around Heather’s work commitments or potentially an appointment for a smear test or a mammogram.
She is not, Heather knows, expecting to hear that her childhood friend was (potentially) making bad romantic choices and breaking her own romantic code of conduct which, incidentally, has kept Heather safe from heartache for the past twelve years.
Despite numerous compelling reasons for reticence, Claire’s excitement is palpable.
‘Ahhhhhh. What was it like? Was it dreamy? Was he like all handsy and passionate? Was it like being young again? Oh my. I can remember being kissed like that once upon a time. Geez.’
Something about Claire’s heightened tone makes Heather wonder about admonishing her friend for her enthusiasm. Surely, she should be more muted after eighteen years of marriage?
But Heather doesn’t allow the thought to percolate.
The only thing she can focus on is the ball of hot acid in her stomach and the anxiety coursing through her veins.
If she were speaking on an old-fashioned, conventional phone right now, she’d be twisting the cable like crazy around her index finger.
Instead, she prunes the basil plant on her windowsill, brutally severing wilted leaves with the sharp edge of her thumbnail.
‘Well. The thing is. I don’t know for certain that I did kiss him,’ she says.
There’s a pause down the line as Claire considers this new information.
‘You can’t remember? Heather! That's wild!’ The excitement in her voice increases a notch, and Heather winces at the high pitch. Her head throbs as though a maraca band is rehearsing behind her eyes.
And there’s a strange bruise on her shoulder.
Plus she can’t find her scarf.
‘The thing is … I sense I could have.’
And should she add that she most definitely wanted to kiss him?
‘You sense you could have kissed him?’ Claire’s voice echoes over the line.
Heather wonders if she’s hidden herself in her en-suite again. Claire reserves the en-suite for the juiciest, not-to-be-shared-with-the-husband phone calls.
‘Exactly.’
There’s a microscopic pause.
‘And this isn’t Gerry, but is the guy that you absolutely, totally abhor?’
‘Yep.’ Heather’s voice is getting weaker now as her mind continues to ruminate. What did happen last night?
‘So, this is the guy with the great abs, amazing eyes, but rubbished you on social media—’
‘Well, the parents' forum—’
Claire is on a roll and not prepared for interruption.
‘That forum is social media. Then rubbished your manifestation project—'
‘Well—’
In truth, Heather can’t remember exactly what Scott said about her first attempts at a manifestation map. She just remembers feeling somehow less when he commented on it in the St Andrews hotel.
‘Then jetted off to Africa as soon as he dropped his daughter at university.’
‘Yes.’ This one point, at least, Heather can be sure of.
‘And now he’s popping into the student flat and mending dripping taps and getting everyone pissed and maybe …just maybe … making a pass at you when you’re completely off your face. Didn’t you tell me he offered you a one-night stand on that first night as well?’
Heather screws up her face, trying in vain to access her memories. ‘Well—'
‘Hmm.’ Claire’s voice is more muted now.
She might love the fantasy of spontaneous, romantic interludes – particularly if she’s finding her own relationship a little stale – but she always, always has Heather’s best interests at heart.
‘I hate to say it, but is he not exactly the type of guy you’ve been working to avoid these past few years?
Is there a chance he’s not good news, lovely? ’
Heather feels a little surge of frustration. Claire might well be right. Hearing her own words repeated back to herself, though …. well that’s a different matter altogether. And it’s not right that her frustration comes out at her best friend. But ….
‘Oh come on, Claire. I don’t even know if I kissed him and it was definitely nothing more. It’s not like I’m sleeping around with lots of different guys or anything.’
‘Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should be more supportive-'
Heather’s phone vibrates in her hand, showing another call is waiting. Number unknown.
‘Claire. I have to go. There’s another call.’
‘Okay. But listen, Heather, honey. I’ll be up next week to do some work on the flat so we’ll catch up then, but in the meantime, get a distraction from Scott-Bloody-Reynolds. He’s clearly no good for you. Plenty of other fish in the sea. Love you.’
Heather’s not so certain about the vast quantities of eligible, non-fuck-up, fifty-year-old bachelors swimming in the Atlantic these days, but she understands her friend’s sentiment.
‘I hear you. Love you too. Bye.’ She fumbles with her phone interface and accepts the incoming call.
‘Hello?’ A rush of uncertainty consumes her. What if this is him? Or, worse, another random stranger she gave her details to last night?
‘Heather?’ an unfamiliar male voice says.
Heather’s heart plummets. She’s brought all this on herself.
‘Yes?’ Hesitancy leaks from her voice.
‘It’s Mick from the garage. That’s your carburettor all changed. You can pick her up this morning.’
Mick from the garage! Hallelujah!
‘Brilliant. Fantastic. Superb.’ The sheer relief that it’s not Scott on the other end of the line generates a string of superlatives. Even to Heather, in her hungover, yet hyper-focused state, her response sounds excessive, so she attempts to counter it with a more subdued, business-like comment.
‘So, what do I owe you, please?’
In all honesty, Heather would have accepted any value at this stage.
‘It’ll be two seventy, pet. Cash only. We close at twelve o’clock today.’
Heather hangs up, forces down another coffee, collapses onto the sofa and falls fast asleep.
It’s ten past eleven when Heather wakes, under an hour before the garage is due to close.
Remembering she needs her car tomorrow, she pulls on fresh underwear, a clean button-up blouse and yesterday’s jeans.
She rams her feet into a pair of Ugg boots, grabs her phone, keys and coat and runs out the door.
She needs the number 16 bus, and two hundred and seventy pounds in cash from the ATM.
She thinks fast. The bus journey takes around twenty minutes.
She should make it if the gods are on her side.
Heather half jogs, half speed walks down Canaan Lane and onto Morningside Road, pulling her hair into a messy top knot as she goes. She strides past upmarket charity shops, the specialist cheesemonger and the Italian themed bakery. The first ATM she comes to has a sign across the screen.
Sorry, Out of Service.
The bank is closed. The next cash machine she encounters, inside a convenience store, tells her it will charge ten pounds for every withdrawal.
She can’t bring herself to use that on point of principle.
The third, thank goodness, is operational.
She removes her bank card from her wallet, slides it into the machine and punches in her pin.
A message flashes up on the display. The sun’s glare makes it impossible to see the screen, and Heather uses her hands to create a shadow to read the message.
Maximum withdrawal on your card is restricted to two hundred and fifty pounds.
Heather has been planning on adjusting this for months but in true, not-quite-got-her-life-together-after-Georgia style, she’s put it off. She takes the two hundred and fifty, rams the notes into her purse and re-inserts the card.
Withdrawal limit for the day exceeded. The sign reads.
Shiiiit.
Heather pulls the contents of her purse out.
Loyalty cards, old train tickets, defunct bank cards fall onto the floor.
None will provide her with twenty quid. Her mind swirls.
This is the last thing she can cope with today.
When her phone beeps in her pocket indicating something has come in on Messenger, she almost doesn’t look.
Hi Heather. Forgot yesterday that I needed to settle up with you. I gave you twenty quid, but think I still owe you fifteen. Can you send your bank details? Hope your head’s okay this am. This is Scott btw!
Heather doesn’t want to make Scott-Bloody-Reynolds into some kind of hero of the hour, but honestly, if she were to find a crisp twenty in her back pocket, she would—
Deciding not to finish that thought, Heather slides her hand into her back pocket. And there it is. Crisp, purple, with the artist’s eyes adorning the note, drilling into hers.
Are you sure he’s your saviour? they seem to ask. Heather slips the note beside the others in her purse and runs like crazy to get the fast-approaching bus.
Once she secures herself a seat on the top deck, she allows herself some time to consider her response to Scott.
“I’m so glad you messaged. Tell me – did I snog you last night?”
Could be one approach.
“Thanks for a memorable evening. Jokes – can’t remember a thing.”
Could be another.
She takes the duration of the journey to construct her first draft:
Oooh. Thank you! I’m just looking for a twenty to pay for my car repairs. Can’t really remember much about last night. Hope I didn’t do anything too disgraceful? All such a blur. Head agony this morning.
She reads and re-reads, hoping she’s got the tone just right. Breezy enough to indicate she thinks nothing happened between them whilst also tentatively checking she didn’t cross a line. Not too dismissive given that he voluntarily repaired Georgia’s leaky sink, expecting no more than a thank you.
When the bus pulls up to her stop, Heather decides enough is enough. She’s a forty-eight-year-old menopausal woman, for goodness’ sake. She’s not a bloody teenager any longer. Just get it sent.
She presses the blue arrow, and it turns green.
SCOTT
Scott decamps to the gym the minute he sends Heather that text. He can’t let himself sit in his flat when the tingling sensation of her hand grappling for his is etched into his memory. This is just a fleeting moment in time. A phase. It will pass.
His full-body work out takes an hour, and he tops it off with thirty minutes on the treadmill. He doesn’t allow himself to check his phone until he’s back in his apartment with a pint of water for hydration.
Oooh. Thank you! I’m just looking for a twenty to pay for my car repairs. Can’t really remember much about last night. Hope I didn’t do anything too disgraceful? All such a blur. Head agony this morning.
He can’t help his weak grin. Lucky for her, having no memory of last night. Because he’s done nothing other than think about it. In blow-by-blow precise detail.
You’re not so bad Scott-Bloody-Reynolds.
Scott tries to wash away the memory of her fingers in a lukewarm shower. But, in all honesty, his thoughts spiral even more, particularly when his fingers contact the dip between his pecs as he washes his chest – and the area that had drawn her attention in such a sheer mind-fuck of a way.
Ooh. Look! There's a little crevice.
She hadn’t kissed him there. Not quite. Scott moves his hand lower.
The swipe of his fingertips confirms it.
Scott-Bloody-Reynolds is as hard as a rock.
He knows from experience there’s no ignoring this now.
He grips himself and finds his rhythm. He pictures her as he moves, the lather providing a perfectly lubricated surface.
He hears her voice in his head as he comes:
Look! It's a perfect fit.
Afterwards, Scott re-checks her text. There’s a clear expectation that he should reply.
But how can he reply with something suitably non-committal?
He doesn’t do relationships. And certainly not with needy, neurotic, helicopter parents.
Even when they’re ballsy and have the most amazing eyes.
He ponders for a full twenty minutes before stumbling on the perfect solution.
HEATHER
Heather stops the newly repaired car and glances at her phone when the message comes in: a thumbs up emoji!?
Who the hell sends a thumbs up emoji in response to a text asking for clarification of inappropriateness?
What’s his problem?
Is Claire right?
Is he simply the kind of guy to lead people on, reel them in, then prove himself completely and utterly unreliable? The very thing she’s been working so hard to avoid since Paul. She is not going down that particular rabbit hole again.
She throws her phone onto the passenger seat and drives down Canaan Lane, looking for a residents only parking spot.
She parks up and is back home in a few minutes.
Other messages have come in whilst she was driving.
She checks them now. There’s one from Claire asking if her headache has improved; a photo from Georgia of her and Brianna with sparkler-strewn cocktail glasses from last night; and a message from Fraser asking about plans for next weekend. The final message is from Gerry.
“No pressure here, but if you fancied a bit of distraction, the Art Department is hosting a Hallowe’en party on the 31st. Like to come?”
Yesterday, Heather decided she’d gently decline any future advances from Gerry. But that was before last night’s events, whatever they might be. So, against her better judgment, Heather replies:
“The Art Department Hallowe’en party sounds like a real blast. I’d love to come.”
Who knows, maybe Gerry is one of those still rivers that reveals a quirky, erotic side once in fancy dress.
Heather can’t quite imagine it but, still, she needs to try; because the one thing she does know for sure is that Scott has awoken a long dormant sensation that’s almost become foreign to Heather.
Desire. At the very least the Hallowe’en party will get Scott-Bloody-Reynolds out of her head for a while.