Chapter 29
HEATHER
The days before Heather’s first proper date with Scott fly by in a haze of receipt sorting, conversations with Georgia ( How is it possible for Todd to treat her any worse than he already does?) and the odd rushed conversation with Claire.
At every spare opportunity, and there aren’t many, she considers Scott’s motivation for this afternoon's date. If it’s to move things between them to the next level, how does she truly feel about it herself?
She knows she’s falling for him, but can she really allow herself to freefall into a new relationship after years of avoiding them at all costs?
Can he? Years of programming need to be undone on both sides.
One thing is certain. Scott has ramped up his efforts.
And, truth be told, it makes her love him even more.
The day has been planned in precise detail.
He’s giving Heather space to paint in the morning and will bring a picnic lunch for them to eat at home before a walk up Blackford Hill with Maisie, followed by a lazy evening in front of the fire.
Everything about it screams “proper date”.
Heather knows her resolve has already weakened to the point of being non-existent.
After a productive morning, she feeds Maisie, showers, washes her paint brushes and takes a quick photograph of the incomplete painting to show Fraser her progress so far.
Scott arrives at twelve thirty on the dot with meats, cheeses and fresh artisan breads from the Morningside bakery along with a selection of antipasti from the local deli.
He’s even brought some tiny dog biscuits to keep Maisie occupied while he sets up the feast on Heather’s dining room table.
‘How did you get the area around his eyes so realistic?’ he says once he’s unpacked the feast and Maisie is napping in her dog basket.
He’s standing mere centimetres from the canvas and inspecting her brush stroke.
He’s not looking at her, but Heather has rarely felt so seen.
She forces her thoughts onto safer ground and the brush technique she discussed with Gerry a couple of weeks ago.
‘It’s about building up the colour palette,’ she says.
‘There’s a temptation to think that as a Westie, Maisie’s coat can only be shown in creams and whites, but the way the light falls on her fur means that there are greys and greens and purples in there.
That’s why it’s so important to have a live model, if possible. ’
Scott turns to her and looks. Really, really looks. Heather feels suddenly aware of her toes gripping against the carpet, holding her steady.
‘You’re really talented, Heather.’
His praise has an intoxicating effect. Her muscles relax. She leans into him, and as his arm slips around her waist, he turns to kiss her on the head.
‘I couldn’t have done this without you,’ she says, thinking of the practical and moral support he’s given her recently. ‘It makes such a difference to know people are cheering me on from the sidelines.’
He turns her body to face him and places one hand on each cheek. The contact makes her face burn, and her lips tingle. What is it with this man and his effect on her?
‘Some of us might not want to be on the sidelines any longer,’ he says.
Heather’s brain fizzes as he pulls her in for a kiss, and it’s at that exact moment, when they’re about to fall irreversibly into each other, that Heather’s phone rings.
‘Mum.’ The panic in Georgia’s voice has a physiological effect on Heather. Her heart races, sweat springs into her armpits, her vision blurs. It’s always been this way.
‘What’s going on?’ Heather chokes out as her mind oscillates from one catastrophe to another:
Georgia has been in a fatal accident (improbable – she’s calling and lucid).
Someone is holding Georgia at gunpoint (again, unlikely, given she’s located her phone and called her mother).
They caught Georgia plagiarising, and the university expelled her (inconceivable, given she hasn’t submitted any assignments in the past month).
‘It’s Todd.’
Heather’s heart calms a little. She can handle boy trouble.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s ended it, Mum. He’s already posting about his new girlfriend on Insta. I can’t believe it. I’m such an idiot. Everyone’s laughing at me. And it’s Valentine’s Day soon. Imagine that! Valentine's!’
Georgia’s voice rasps, and Heather’s hand slips to her chest as she hears her daughter’s heart breaking down the line. And, of course, she knew it. She bloody knew that lad was no good. If she could see him now, she would …
‘Honey. I’m so sorry. But maybe this is a sign he’s not the right boy for you?’ she says tentatively, forcing a focus on the right things to say.
Scott, who’s been watching Heather’s body language with concern, visibly relaxes when he realises why Georgia is calling.
‘Why don’t you try to distract yourself for a while?’ Heather suggests. ‘Why not go into town? Have a few drinks with your friends. Or go out for a meal. There’s that lovely new pizza place, isn’t there? I can pay if you like.’ She tries to add a jaunty “boys aren’t forever” uplift to her voice.
‘Which friends do you suggest?’ Georgia says, her upset making her voice bounce with a catty undertone.
‘Well. I don’t know. What about Brianna?’
Heather and Scott lock eyes, and Scott nods assuringly.
If the girls are together, Georgia will be okay, and the adults can get back to their date and the heart-to-heart Scott has clearly been planning down to the smallest detail.
This much is apparent from the variety of wines cooling in her fridge and the bottle of red already airing on the table.
The candle Scott’s just lit flickers in the afternoon air.
‘Don’t think that’s an option, Mum,’ Georgia says.
Heather’s eyes flit to the side, and she gives Scott a shrug to show that they’re not yet in the clear.
‘Brianna hates me now,’ Georgia says, as though shifts in friendships are unequivocal and permanent.
‘She doesn’t hate you, honey.’ She turns to Scott, who’s sitting on the sofa with widening eyes. ‘I suspect she just feels a bit hurt. You went all out when you and Todd got together. I imagine Brianna and Trey felt a little sidelined.’
She doesn’t miss a beat. Heather’s clearly hit a nerve. ‘Yes. Exactly. They’ve got a whole new group, and I’m not in it.’
Georgia breaks into full-blown sobs.
‘Honey. I’m sure it’s not that—’
‘Yes, it is, Mum. I wish I was dead.’
Heather’s reaction is visceral.
‘Georgia! Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? Because it’s true. It's just like you said. Men reel you in, change your life and abandon you. Every time.’
‘I didn’t say that, Georgia,’ Heather says, shocked by the inflexibility in her words when she hears them repeated back to herself.
‘Every time you broke up with someone you told me that,’ Georgia says. ‘And you said it about Todd. And you’re right. Men are shits, and our friends dump us.’
The air in the room is heavy when Heather hangs up after ten more minutes of listening, cajoling, and supporting an uncompliant Georgia.
‘Everything okay?’ Scott says when she sits heavily at the dining room table. He rises from the sofa, walks towards her, pours a large glass of wine, then slides it and a bowl of olives towards her. ‘Kids, huh? I guess a teenage heartbreak is something we all need to get through at some point.’
Heather takes a slug of wine. It’s a gorgeous vintage, she can tell.
There are mellow undertones and a fruity bouquet which hits her nasal passages when she sips.
Nevertheless, it tastes sharp when she swallows and swirls aggressively when it contacts the newly released acid in her stomach.
Did her daughter mean those things? She takes an olive from the bowl and nibbles around the stone.
‘She said she wishes she was dead,’ Heather says, her voice a monotone.
Scott places his hand on her arm. He can probably feel the muscles knotting under her skin.
‘Teenagers say that kind of rubbish, Heather,’ he says.
Heather’s blood is ice. And fire.
‘Do they?’
She casts her mind back. Is Georgia prone to outlandish, dramatic statements like this? She can’t think of a single time.
‘Yes. Sure, they do. It’s just words, not—’
She wills him not to say it, but equally finds herself goading him into being explicit.
‘Not what?’
‘It’s not something they’re really planning on acting out.’
Heather glances at the table laden with gorgeous foods. In a matter of seconds, she has dissociated from this date, as though she’s watching another person’s life on a screen. She loves this man, but how can she possibly engage with this when her daughter is—
‘But what if?’ Heather can feel her eyes widening in their sockets, and the skin on her forehead pulls taut. Scott pulls his hand away.
‘Don’t do this, Heather. Please,’ he says. He gestures to the wonderful assortment of food, drinks and snacks. ‘I need to talk to …’
But Heather’s sitting upright, her stomach muscles contracting, her mind in overdrive, and she tries – she really, really tries – to let his calm voice of logic override the rising tide of panic.
But it’s taken hold now and she’s on her feet and, in her mind, Georgia’s two years old again and it’s all down to her and she must, at all costs, protect herself and her baby, because she can’t rely on anyone else.
‘Scott. I’m so …’ She doesn’t complete the sentence. She’s already reaching into the fruit bowl where she keeps her house and car keys.
‘Heather …’ His voice is beseeching. But it’s pointless. Heather watches as he appears to deflate in front of her. ‘Okay. Fine.’ He grabs the shopping bags he’d unpacked just a few minutes before and begins to pile the food from the table back into them.
Heather takes his arm and pulls him towards her, albeit briefly. Please understand. Please understand. But he shakes her off.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.