Chapter 2
HEATHER
Heather can hardly believe the time it’s taken to purchase, pack and sort Georgia’s belongings in readiness for today.
The car is filled to bursting. How can one student possibly need all these things?
Heather is sure she arrived at university with a small knapsack and an ancient trunk of her granny’s.
How had this day been for her parents? Her own mum had seemed unperturbed when she dropped her off aged eighteen.
She hadn’t even kissed a boy by then. A babe to the lions.
Had her father even come? She couldn’t say for sure.
Taxidermy, his most morbid of hobbies, was just taking hold at that stage, so he may have been working on a chance kill.
Her father was at his happiest when he found a wildlife corpse on a forest walk at that time.
She wonders if he is still as obsessed, and if either of them has an inkling that their only granddaughter has such a momentous day ahead.
And that she, as a single mum, has a heck of a lot to navigate today, as well.
She will not cry. She will not cry.
Are there statistics on mothers’ cry rates on drop-off day?
Probably something near 450%.
Heather waves to the young man in high viz and drives, as directed, into one of the designated offloading spaces.
Georgia’s new home, John Logie College, is a purpose-built collection of self-catered buildings, eight bedrooms per house and located right by the beach.
A five-minute walk along the golden East Sands Beach would bring Georgia to the old St Andrews harbour and then into town. The location is stunning.
‘We’re here,’ Heather says in what she hopes is a light and breezy voice.
She glances at her daughter. Georgia’s hair is perfectly styled into a sleek brown curtain, whilst Heather’s is pulled into a messy ponytail. Their hair is similar in terms of tone and texture, but Heather’s now has a few streaks of silver. Probably more given the fortnight she’s just had.
‘Uh, huh.’
Georgia has barely spoken since they left Edinburgh two hours ago and right now seems transfixed by the procession of students carrying boxes from bulky SUVs into the square apartment blocks.
Might one of these perfect strangers become Georgia’s new best friend for life? A life partner? Her future son-in-law?
Heather is getting ahead of herself. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Right. Come on then. What does the e-mail say?’ She leans across Georgia’s knees and extracts the printout from the glove box of the car.
Georgia sighs. Loudly. Heather understands why.
Georgia thinks she’s the only student with a parent so uncool as to bring an actual hard copy of the joining instructions with them.
But what else was she to do? She likes the solidity of it when everything else in life feels as flimsy as tissue paper.
With check-in complete and the keys in Georgia’s hand, it’s time to locate House 62.
The tiny map given to them at the desk is impossible to navigate.
Georgia gives up after five seconds – thankfully she’s not studying Geography – leaving Heather to rotate the scrap of paper by 360 degrees four times before she gets her bearings.
During this time, Georgia is groaning and shaking her head.
The one thing that she makes clear, however, is that they must not ask for help.
Eventually, once Heather establishes which way is north, they find the appropriate building. House 62, like its neighbours, has a royal blue door, is grey and square with four windows on each of its two floors and faces directly onto the sea.
The sea wind whips the loose strand of hair from Heather’s ponytail and causes it to lick across her face.
She’d forgotten how breezy it can be by the coast. She hopes the wind won’t instigate one of Georgia’s ear infections, which can last for ages once they take hold.
Freshers' flu coupled with severe otitis might be enough for that nasty man’s prophecy to ring true.
85% chance of failure, he’d said.
Where did he get that statistic? And why has it stuck in her brain as it has?
Like a persistent tick, it rolled around her head every day through the three weeks it took to get Georgia packed.
85% chance of failure, 79% chance of depression.
There it is again.
‘Lovely to be so close to the sea, don’t you think?’ Heather says.
Georgia grunts.
It takes over an hour to carry the contents of Heather’s small car up the flight of stairs to Georgia’s room.
‘Right, let’s get unpacking,’ Heather says as soon as the last box is in place.
In truth, she knows they could do with a break.
Both she and Georgia burn up food fast. She’s detecting a sugar slump in herself, so Georgia’s bound to be feeling a dip in energy.
However, Heather knows the rules from the online parents' forum: get into the kitchen as early as you can and secure the best cupboard and fridge shelf available. Time is of the essence. Besides, there’s another matter Heather needs to take care of in the communal space that Georgia is entirely ignorant about.
It’s something other proactive parents have advised her to do, given Georgia’s unique circumstances.
‘Why don’t you get started on your room, honey?’ she suggests. ‘Unpack your toiletries and bathroom stuff into that plastic caddy we bought, and I’ll work in the kitchen.’
Georgia eyes her suspiciously, but seems to tire at the idea of a confrontation – any of her new flatmates could walk in on them and make a snap assessment if they are found quarrelling from the off.
She shrugs. ‘Okay, whatever.’
With permission effectively granted, Heather rushes into the kitchen area. She opens and closes each cupboard in quick succession. They’re the first ones here. As expected. Good. The online forum parents would be proud.
SCOTT
Scott carries the entirety of Brianna’s possessions: one rucksack, one suitcase and one grocery bag as they make their way to Room C, Flat 62, John Logie College, whilst Brianna leads the way.
The map provided at the check-in desk is atrociously designed, but is easy enough to use if you apply some common sense.
The location is brilliant. Sea pounds the sand in a procession of promising waves some fifty metres from the flat door. Surf like that directly from her university accommodation? How lucky is Brianna coming here?
‘Surf’s up,’ he says, because everyone knows cool dads refer to weather conditions and link them to adventure sports.
‘Yeah,’ his daughter agrees, her pale cheeks a light red from the sea breeze. ‘Hope you get surf like this in Agadir.’
Scott grins. He’s leaving for a Surf and Yoga camp in Taghazout tomorrow.
He is staying overnight in St Andrews so he can have a breakfast catch up with Brianna before heading to the airport.
It’s a good value four-and-a-half-hour flight from Edinburgh, not bad for some of the best surf in the world.
‘Here’s hoping,’ he replies as Brianna opens the door.
Room C is on the first floor, so he follows his daughter up the stairs and to the end of the corridor.
Brianna’s nearest neighbour is already there.
Brianna stops and raps lightly on the door.
A small-framed waif of a girl with poker-straight dark hair opens the door, a strange electronic device in her left hand.
‘Hey there. I’m Brianna.’
The new flatmate’s face breaks into a wide smile. Her cheeks blush, and her light green eyes shine.
‘Hi.’ She extends her right arm. ‘Georgia.’
The two girls shake hands.
‘Hair straighteners?’ Brianna gestures towards the device in Georgia’s hand, which looks more appropriate for torture than hair care.
‘Yep.’
‘Wow. I love that brand. Check you.’ And, without warning, the two girls enter into a secret language of three letter acronyms and code names for things relating to beauty.
Not for the first time, Scott marvels at Brianna’s ability to put others at ease, an attribute undoubtedly inherited from her mother.
Scott, he knows, has a reputation for spikiness.
Until people get to know him, of course.
However, only a very special few receive that privilege. Even fewer nowadays, truth be told.
‘Erm, Bee?’ he says wiggling his now-aching fingers, straining under the weight of Brianna’s possessions, ‘Can we, you know …?’ He directs his head up the corridor.
But Brianna’s not ready to pause this connection with her new flatmate. She digs the key from her back pocket. ‘Just dump my stuff, Dad. I’ll sort it in a while.’
Scott knows when he isn’t wanted, so he carries the luggage through the neighbouring door, drops it on the bed, grabs the food bag and heads to the kitchen. No point in sitting around when there's work to do.
These infernal self-closers are everywhere.
Scott presses down on the handle with his elbow and kicks against the base of the kitchen door.
It is the only way to get the damn thing open for long enough to get your body and a large shopping bag past the entrance.
He squeezes through the narrow doorway with only seconds to spare before the door catches him in its clutches.
Shit. Another person sees his theatrics.
A lady with a messy ponytail wearing figure-hugging jeans is standing on the work top, a metre above the ground, attaching posters to the doors of the kitchen cabinets.
‘What the …?’ convention kicks in and stalls the swear word on his tongue. But the sentiment is there alright. What on earth is she doing?
The lady whips around, and the change to her centre of gravity catches her out. She begins to sway.
It’s automatic. A knee jerk reaction. The sort of thing he might have done for Lucy without a moment’s hesitation. And, for some obscure reason, the same need to protect kicks in here; only, on this occasion, with a clearly unhinged total stranger. Scott drops the bag and reaches out.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ the stranger asks.
‘I …. I …. I thought you were about to fall,’ he says, like an awkward teenage boy, not the capable, upright father of a promising student.
‘Well, can you, please …?’
His hands are on her surprisingly tight butt, pushing her forwards, helping to stabilise her. Only she doesn’t need stabilising anymore. Now, he’s just a random bloke in a kitchen groping another parent’s ass.
‘Shit. Sorry. I …’
Oh my goodness, what is happening to his diction?
She jumps down from the work surface, her cheeks red, her dark green eyes ablaze.
‘I’m finished now. Thanks for your help.’ Her last two words sound as though she’s speaking to a convicted criminal.
There’s a horrible, awkward pause while she gets her bearings and looks at him appraisingly like a Jurassic predator assessing its next meal.
‘I know you,’ she says.
It doesn’t sound like a good omen.
‘You do?’
She points at him as though her index finger gives her processing power.
‘You’re that guy,’ she says. ‘Mr. Statistic.’
She squints a little as she studies him and delicate laughter lines fan out from the corner of her eyes. But she’s not laughing now.
‘Mr. What?’
‘Mr. Statistic. You’ve got 85% chance of this and a 79% chance of that.’ She does quotation marks in the air for the last bit.
A distant memory after a sleepless, traumatic night scratches at the periphery of his consciousness. He breaks eye contact and looks around the room at the notices the crazy lady has fixed to every cupboard.
“No nuts, please. Georgia in Room D is allergic.”
Suddenly, he realises.
‘Oh My God. You’re crazy mattress topper lady.’
The kitchen door opens with a squeal, and Brianna appears with her new neighbour, Georgia. Brianna puts her arm around her new flatmate’s shoulder and Scott is immediately struck by the resemblance to the woman standing opposite him.
‘Georgia’s my new best friend for life,’ she announces. ‘We’ve got sooooo much in common.’
Georgia is beaming, reflecting his own daughter’s happiness, until she looks around the room, takes in the notices and pales.
‘Mum, what have you done?’
The only saving grace is that the crazy lady with the gentle green eyes looks every bit as dismayed as he feels.