SCOTT #2
“Fine,” she texts back once immersed, and her fingers dry of bathwater.
“Nice. Better than sitting in the house on my own,” she qualifies.
Because, in all honesty, that’s the benchmark she is going to measure dates against from now on.
Better than Eastenders will be a positive, but not to be repeated experience; worth missing a re-run of Downton Abbey will be definite second date potential.
Claire replies with a wiggly mouthed emoji.
When Gerry messages moments later, asking her for a second date, Heather has to coach herself to reply positively. She isn’t expecting fireworks and high drama. She no longer believes in that and no longer subscribes to the allure of guys like Scott-Bloody-Reynolds.
Not at her age.
Heather replies to Gerry, then books her car into the garage for its almost overdue MOT.
SCOTT
Scott should know better than to check social media when he’s on an adventure holiday.
Its absence, along with the sea air, the wholesome food, and the engaging company, combine to provide a feeling of altogether oneness with nature.
He’d noticed it most acutely this morning when surfing the longest, deepest wave he’s seen on the Atlantic Coast. He’d caught it just right, having anticipated the swell, and paddled forward furiously at exactly the right moment.
The feeling is still with him. The ultimate exhilaration: a combination of flying and walking on water.
Like he was Jesus Fucking Christ. That’s how Scott feels today. Unstoppable. Unassailable. Until …
My daughter Georgia and her friend Brianna are going to Genealogy tonight. If you DM me, I can ask them to look out for him. They’re inclusive. I’m sure they’ll be happy to take him under their wing.
From Heather McVey.
And a second message, a DM from his sister-in-law, who has taken to stalking Brianna remotely through the St Andrews University online parents' forum, “Oh Bless her. What a lovely lady. Pretty too ;)”
He’s about to make a snarky (possibly anonymous) comment, when a message from Brianna comes in via WhatsApp:
“Hey Dad. Check out my mattress topper.”
It is the first message he’s had from Brianna since arriving in Agadir and their first interaction since her “given the circumstances” comment before he left St Andrews and, so, on some level Scott knows he wants their conversation to be about so much more than this.
But still: a mattress topper? If those bloody helicopter parents in that online forum could see him now, they’d have a right old laugh at his expense.
“You’re joking, right?”
But she isn’t joking. And she sends an image to prove it.
“My bed’s lumpy.”
He’s scared to ask this next question, because he’s afraid of where it might lead. But, in for a penny …
“Did you order it online?” he asks, hoping to distract them both from the fact he made a point about those bloody mattress topper things.
“Heather bought it for me.”
Scott had been reclining across one of the roof terrace loungers in the surf school in Taghazout, his body recumbent across the width, his legs draping over the opposite arm. Now, he sits bolt upright.
“What???”
“It’s not as if you’ve been around much to check in on me,” she adds, as though Heather McVey has planted a worm hole in his daughter’s ear as well as his own. And there’s no disputing the little edge of frustration in Brianna’s message, implying he isn’t a good enough dad.
In an ideal world, Scott would be magnanimous, express gratitude towards Heather, and enquire more deeply about his daughter’s welfare. But somehow … somehow … he finds the conversation taking an altogether different, unchartered course.
“Well, you’ll need to get me her number,” he texts.
“Whose number? Heather’s? Why?”
“You know why. To arrange a transfer.”
There’s a herald of grey dots as a message is compiled, deleted, reformed.
“No Dad. I know you don’t like us relying on other people, but Georgia and I have sorted it. We’re going to trade meals and stuff.”
Maybe it’s silly, but the last thing he will allow is for himself or his daughter to become somehow indebted to that woman. Brianna, of course, senses this.
“What’s your problem with her? She’s just a kind person trying to help. She’s asked us to keep an eye out for Trey at Genealogy Society tonight. What’s so wrong about her looking out for us?”
What’s his problem, indeed? The question he’s been asking himself for days. It’s not something he can honour with a response.
“Just get me the number, Brianna.”
Muttering under his breath, Scott stomps to the shower. And as the warm water washes the salt tracks from his abdomen and the sand grains from his hair, Brianna’s question ricochets around his brain. Other than the blindingly obvious about her parenting style, what is his problem with Heather?
***
It’s customary for all surf camp attendees to gather in the lounge area after dinner and review any progress made that day with Hamid, the lead instructor, and Caleb, the photographer.
Scott can’t imagine a more knowledgeable coach than Hamid, who’d represented Morocco in international competitions until a few years ago before retiring from the sport.
The first shots shared are of the newlyweds who are making Taghazout their home for the next four weeks.
Hamid points out Verity’s improved posture and the way her new husband is now stacking his weight over his knees.
The other course participants, Scott included, clap encouragingly, appreciating the hard-earned progress.
Verity beams and shares a supportive glance with her partner.
Scott’s pictures are next, and it’s clear, even to an inexperienced eye, that he’s becoming an accomplished and confident surfer.
Today’s photograph is even better than the one from the day before when he’d caught a wave just as it was breaking and stood for a few seconds before crashing headfirst into the surf.
The image shows perfect posture, fantastic positioning, and breaking waves against a bright blue cloudless sky.
Whoops and cheers go around the room as Hamid and Caleb stride towards him, their arms raised for a high five.
‘First on the Shisha pipe tonight is Scott. Look at that form! Way to go man!’
And this is it. This is the reason Scott is here, surrounded by thrill seekers and other adventurers because here there is a sense of purpose, of achievement, of support and encouragement.
Here he can find the space to both be in the moment and, most crucial of all, here he has permission not to think.
They practice some yoga, watch the sunset, then sit in a misshapen circle on the roof terrace chatting.
A guitar is passed around the group for anyone who wishes to play, and a Shisha pipe follows suit for those who wish to partake.
One of the Surf camp attendees, a hardcore Hyrox competitor, has recently returned from the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgystan, and Scott mines him for details about the most challenging, epic cycle rides in the world, and the possibility of being race-ready in two years.
Scott always likes to have a new adventure in his sights, and this just might be the next one.
It will serve the purpose of distracting him, that’s for sure.
It's only later, once most of the camp attendees have turned in for the night, that Scott allows himself to reflect on life back in the UK.
‘You okay, man?’ Hamid asks as he passes with a silver tray filled with empty tea glasses.
Scott’s instinct to deflect and minimise kicks in automatically.
‘Yeah. Good. Great. I’m loving the vibe here,’ he says, hearing the flatness in his own voice.
Hamid places the tray on the carved wooden table and sits on the cushioned bench beside him.
‘But?’
Scott stares across the roof terrace and out to the blackness of the ocean.
‘I guess I’m wondering if I’m that good a parent,’ he says, his voice scratchy.
Hamid reaches over and squeezes his knee.
‘Why you thinking that?’
Scott tells him about Brianna, the job he’s done as a parent and how Heather has made both him and Brianna question everything.
Before he knows it, he’s passing Hamid his phone and showing him not only interactions on the online parents' forum, but Heather’s profile picture, too.
The one where her skin is smooth and her hair falls down her back like a dark brown curtain.
‘Wow! She’s pretty, dude,’ Hamid says, returning the phone. ‘You could do worse.’
The response is visceral.
‘Oh no. No way,’ replies Scott as he tucks his phone into his trouser pocket. ‘I could never be with an over-the-top parent like that.’
‘Well, mate. Something I learnt from doing this job is that, for most people, the reason they do stuff - even crazy things - is it’s the only thing they can do, given their circumstances. Maybe something’s made your little lady behave the way she does?’
There is it again. That phrase. Given the circumstances.
‘You think?’
‘Everyone has a reason for everything they do,’ Hamid replies. ‘You’ve just not seen her reason yet.’
***
Three days later, Scott is in Hamid’s minivan, being taken to the airport, when an unknown number shows up on his phone. He takes the call without thinking twice.
‘Hello, Mr Reynolds? This is Theresa Kelly from—’
Shit. He doesn’t need to hear any more. He recognises the name from the numerous letters he’d kept hidden from Brianna. Scott ditches the call and blocks the number. He knows what this call is about and he’s not ready. He’s just not ready.