Chapter 32
HEATHER
The first five days are the worst. Her waking hours pass in a maelstrom of feelings, which she interrogates with Claire or, in her friend's absence, Fraser.
At night, she spirals. How did she fall for his mixed signals?
What did she miss? One minute Scott was orchestrating boutique dinners in her home, the next, he was gone.
Two to three weeks. Even the length of his time away is unspecific.
She visits her parents, focuses on her new business and swims.
She sets herself a target of completing one painting a week, but it quickly becomes apparent that, with planning and a few newly gained tricks up her sleeve, she can achieve more.
She messages everyone who’s placed an order and gives them provisional completion dates.
People are surprisingly obliging when she tells them it might be the end of the year before some orders materialise, and much, much longer for others.
"It will make a fantastic Christmas present in that case," one client replies, "worth the wait," says another.
By the end of the first week, which coincides with the end of term at St Andrews, Heather has slipped into a manageable routine which she enjoys so much more than her previous work. She expresses her gratitude every morning and counts her accomplishments every night.
Georgia comes home on the Friday with two bin bags of laundry, the half-eaten contents of her fridge, a stinking cold, and Brianna.
‘You don’t mind, do you, Mum? We both want to find work in Edinburgh over the holidays, and we thought it would be fun to work together. Some pubs in the Grassmarket are hiring.’
The historic marketplace in Edinburgh’s Old Town has stunning views of Edinburgh Castle and a rich history dating back to medieval times. Its plethora of pubs offers a vibrant, buzzing nightlife.
Although Heather’s initially disappointed she won’t have quality time alone with Georgia, it quickly becomes clear that Georgia needs the company of someone her own age to complete what she terms her “Get Over That Asshole” phase.
Besides, Georgia’s commitment to her studies seems to have declined in recent weeks.
And with end-of-year exams imminent after the break, it might be good for her to have another student, who’s also studying, around.
The girls find bar work almost immediately, and spend the week working hard, playing hard, and other than some raucous phone calls with Trey, who’s spending a week travelling around Iceland with his family and Samir, they do very little to disturb her.
Which is exactly what she needs. Heather is, after all, navigating a “Get Over That Asshole” period of her own.
And that’s how the equilibrium plays out until Wednesday afternoon, when Heather’s congratulating herself on another superb review on her website and Georgia comes home, alone, with heavy face.
‘No Brianna?’ Heather says conversationally.
Georgia’s shoulders rise.
‘Nah. She’s … busy.’
The wine Heather’s been drinking makes her more relaxed than normal, but her radar isn’t so skewed that she doesn’t pick up on her daughter’s evasiveness.
‘Georgia?’
Georgia drops her bag on the floor and scrunches her fists together in a tell tale sign that she’s being economical with the truth.
‘Look. It’s nothing, okay?’
Heather chooses her words carefully. ‘Okay. But from the way you’re behaving, it is something.’
She frowns. ‘It’s not for me to tell.’
Heather and Georgia are still sitting on opposite sides of the lounge in a stalemate when Brianna returns an hour and a half later.
Her eyes flit from Heather to Georgia and then back again the minute the door closes behind her. Finally, her gaze rests on Georgia.
‘You told her.’
Georgia’s slumped body is instantly upright.
‘I did not!’
Brianna’s eyes move slowly towards Heather.
‘Sit down, love,’ Heather says, ‘I know you’re a grown-up and you’re entitled to your privacy, but given where your dad is right now and that you’re living here, I think it’s reasonable for me to ask, don’t you?’
Brianna thumps herself down on the sofa beside Heather in what Heather can only assume is the beginnings of a teenage tantrum, but Brianna holds it in check.
‘You won’t like it,’ she says.
Heather’s eyes move towards Georgia, who’s shaking her head.
Heather sighs. The pressure of parenting two teenagers is already beginning to take its toll. ‘Try me,’ she says.
‘Okay, but before I do, know this. I’ve thought it through. I’ve done my research and frankly, I don’t know why dad gets to say I’m all independent and everything and then—’
Heather holds her hand up, palm outwards. If Brianna’s in trouble, she needs to know right now, not after she’s taken hours skirting around the issue to get to the point.
‘Brianna. What do you need to tell me?’
Brianna sighs and drops her head into her hands before directing her voice in Heather’s direction.
‘I’m learning to drive,’ she says. ‘Dad doesn’t know. But I’ve been having lessons in St Andrews and a few down here. He says I can make my mind up about things in one breath and then turns around and restricts me big time in another.’
They fall into an uneasy truce. Heather cooks the girls a macaroni cheese, one of Brianna’s favourites, whilst thinking about how she should respond to her announcement.
It’s easy to see Brianna’s point. Heather has often found the juxtaposition between Scott’s parenting of her and his reluctance to let her drive contradictory.
Of course, the family history has a bearing on it, but a girl like Brianna, who was raised as a free spirit, simply can’t accept having her wings clipped and her autonomy restricted over this rite of passage.
Heather puts the pasta on to boil and looks through her recent texts with Scott before he'd left. He made it clear he would be out of communication for two, maybe three weeks and that he trusted Brianna to manage her own affairs. Heather’s role, he emphasised, is simply to provide an oversight if things go wrong.
By the time she serves their food, Heather has decided. It’s Brianna’s life. If Scott feels so strongly about his daughter making her own decisions, he shouldn’t disappear off and leave her unsupervised, with no warning and no clear guidelines.
Heather tells Brianna her decision (omitting the judgmental bits about Scott) over their meal.
Brianna’s resulting smile lights the room.
She proceeds to chat unhindered about her driving challenges and successes, her readiness for her driving test, and the support she’s received from her two instructors.
Georgia watches on, beaming at her friend.
Brianna stalls until bedtime before launching her final bombshell. She waits until Heather has loaded the dishwasher and tidied her painting materials away for the evening.
‘Can I ask you one last favour, Heather?’
Heather turns to this girl who’s become like family to her.
‘Of course, sweetheart.’
Brianna looks at the floor. ‘I need to go to Birmingham next Thursday.’
Heather’s eyes widen. ‘Birmingham? What’s in Birmingham?’
‘I know it sounds weird, but I don’t want to say. I promise you, though, it’s something life-changing that I really, really need to do.’
Heather hangs her painting rag over the easel and crouches by Brianna’s feet.
‘Are you sure you can’t tell me?’ A knot of worry tightens in her belly.
Brianna’s head shakes vigorously from side to side, but the way her eyes fill shows Heather that this is no childhood whim. Whatever Brianna needs to do in Birmingham is something that means the world to her.
‘You can decide not to help me. But just so you know, I’ll be going, anyway. Georgia’s got a double shift that day, but Trey will be home then. So, he said he’d come.’
Heather frowns. ‘Trey’s in on this?’
‘We all are.’
‘And are you telling me unreservedly that you’re going to do this with or without my support?’
‘Absolutely. There's a route I can take that avoids motorways. I've checked.’
If ever Heather saw a person with an agenda, it is here and now. Brianna means what she says.
‘Honey. Look. Your dad’s due home any time from next week. How about waiting for him and see if he’ll take you to whatever this is?’
‘Uh, uh. No way. And it’s got to be next Thursday.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ll need to check with your dad, of course.’
Brianna shrugs.
‘Can if you want.’
Heather goes into her room to think. She feels she’s being manipulated into a corner.
Brianna has clearly decided to go with or without her blessing, and going with Trey, a young lad without a European Driving licence, simply isn’t an option.
She needs to get in touch with Scott. But how?
He’s unlikely to receive a personal text until the end of the trip.
He mentioned a group satellite phone for urgent matters.
She could call on that. But does this situation constitute an emergency?
If Scott receives a message via satellite link, he will think of a catastrophic incident or a life-changing injury.
Not a query about a road trip. No, she won’t be that person.
She won’t call; she’ll send a text and hope he can pick up.
Scott trusted her to make sound judgments about Brianna’s welfare if needed. This is her best call.
She returns to the lounge and perches on the sofa beside Brianna and stares into the girl’s eyes.
‘I’m not sure I have a choice about taking you, really, do you?’ she says. ‘But I’ll message your dad to let him know what we’re planning in the hope he’ll pick it up before we leave.’
Brianna throws her arms around Heather’s shoulders.
‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. We can go in my car.’
Brianna rises, skips out the room and allows the door to close behind her before the words can reach Heather’s brain, compute and articulate.
‘Your car?’
SCOTT
Ten days. They complete the route in only ten and a half days.
A general air of euphoria hovers above them from the knowledge that they’ve broken the club’s previous record for the Silk Road Mountain Race by an easy day and a half.
The more experienced riders are more muted in their pride.
It’s clear they don’t want to piss on the younger guys’ enthusiasm, but they quietly mention that weather conditions have been exemplary this trip and areas of road which were an extremely hard slog previously, appear to have been levelled.
Scott listens with half an ear because his own personal pride is just about bubbling over.
Bottom line is, no one thought he could do it, not really.
Other than Luca, who was encouraging and affirming throughout, Scott still remembers the looks of surprise on the other guys’ faces when he’d rocked up as Mikail’s last-minute replacement.
Their reticence was fair enough, he figures.
An old guy with limited experience might compromise the group dynamics and hinder progress, which was the last thing anyone wanted.
His need to prove himself caused Scott to push himself further, deeper, harder than he’s ever pushed himself in his life.
And he can feel the results of it now. Every muscle aches.
His backside feels like a sea of blisters, and the tendons in his hands are ragged from hour upon hour of vibrations passing through the handlebars and into his fingers.
His calves are practically crippled with cramps and muscle fatigue.
He smiles at the oldest and most experienced of their group, a sixty-eight-year-old called Gareth (never Garry, that’s for the young ‘uns) when he gives him a congratulatory tap on the shoulder. ‘You did good there, son,’ he says. His praise is worth a thousand medals.
The rest of the lads are loading the bikes onto the back of the truck. A couple are chucking backpacks onto the back seats. Everyone seems keen to get back to some home comforts.
‘Ready for the three S’s?’ Luca shouts to the back of the van once they’re all loaded up and belted in.
‘The three S’s?’ Scott asks quietly so no one will notice he’s not up with the lingo.
Gareth, on his right, helps him out: ‘A shit, a shower and a shave. First things we need when we return to civilisation.’
Scott nods, although top of his list is a firm bed (he’s forgotten what a real mattress feels like), a cold beer and some decent Wi-Fi.
Once back at the hostel, he digs his phone from his rucksack. It’s been consigned to the depths of the main section, useless in the terrain they’ve just navigated and gazumped in importance by loo roll, blister plasters, kinesiology tape and emergency hydration gels.
The battery’s flat. Surely, he’d put it into sleep mode?
The beginning of the ride was a hazy mix of complex instructions, last-minute nerves, and logistics.
Should he ride with both water bottles on the frame, or use the bladder on his hydration vest?
Is his lip balm better in his back pocket or his rear pannier?
He smiles at how green he was when he’d first started out.
His phone reboots, the battery replenishes, and he logs into the patchy hotel Wi-Fi.
Several messages download. Good luck wishes from work colleagues who’d had to take up the slack when he announced his last-minute travel plans; something from Lorraine which is effectively a long list of emojis, the implications of which are painfully clear to him; and a message from Heather, sent six days ago, about a road trip with Brianna to fricking Birmingham.
Heather might not know what’s behind Brianna’s motivation. But he sure as hell does. Lorraine has contacted her niece, that much is clear.
Is he okay with it the message asks, “because if I don’t hear back, I need to assume you are. Let me know as soon as you get this message”.
He checks, then re-checks the date. She sent it last Thursday. It’s Wednesday today. The day before the visit to Birmingham is scheduled.
And he’s not okay with it.
He’s not bloody okay.