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.
His silence is deafening. But Heather can’t worry about that. She has a daughter who wishes she was dead to get to. She rams her sockless feet into her trainers, pushing Maisie out of the way as she nuzzles at her laces.
‘Maisie. Shit. What do I do with you?’
A glance at Scott tells her she’s on her own on this one. Fine. Crisis planning she can do, if needed. She’s used to this.
‘Right. Come on. You’re coming, too.’ She grabs the bag of dog snacks and the tartan dog lead, scoops Maisie under the belly and holds her against her chest.
‘Can you let yourself out?’
‘Uh, huh.’
‘Oh, and Scott,’ she says, turning on her heel in the doorway, ‘I really am sorry.’
Scott continues to fill the grocery bags with his gourmet food selection. He doesn’t look up.
SCOTT
