‘Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a fantastic time for surfing in Agadir,’ he says.
‘You’re going toMorocco?’
‘Flying from Edinburgh this afternoon. Yeah. That’s the plan. Leaving the car – not the keys,’ he points across the table at Brianna to stress this point, ‘and back in a month.’
Heather looks askance. What is it with men and their ability to detach like this?
‘But what if … what if …’
She moves her head in Brianna’s direction. The girl’s cheeks colour.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, ‘I’ll be fine. I’m used to it.’
‘Youare?’ Heather can’t hide the uplift from her voice. ‘But what if you need support, encouragement? Cooking advice?’
Scott’s eyes harden.
‘I’ve raised Brianna to be independent,’ he says. ‘She’s more than capable of managing her transition to university. Isn’t that right, darling?’
He directs this question to his daughter.
‘Yeah. Sure, Dad,’ Brianna says before turning to face Heather. ‘I’ll be good. Honestly.’
Georgia rolls her eyes. ‘Lucky you, getting some peace. I’ll have Mum all over me this first month.’
Heather jerks backwards, shocked.
‘Georgia!’ she says.
SCOTT
The absolute bloody nerve of the woman. Not only does she accuse him of sexual impropriety, deems it acceptable to parent her own kid into complete and utter dependency, but now shethinks she has the authority to cast judgment on his parenting style? And that look when he’s working at the table! What was that? Okay, he gets it, it’s a fancy restaurant, but he’s trying to replace the work lost whenshethrew a whole glass of water over his clothes and keyboard. Essentially, it is her bloody fault he needs to work over breakfast in the first place.
Scott closes his laptop with a loud, pronounced thud, which seems to echo off the vaulted ceiling, then pulls his chair closer to the table to feign exaggerated interest in the conversation. She wants engagement? He’ll bloody give her engagement!
‘So, Georgia,’ he says, turning to the daughter. ‘Your mum tells me you have serious allergies that we all need to be mindful of.’
Heather snorts as though she’s said nothing of the kind, but she has. Part of the conversation as he escorted her up the stairs last night (like a gentleman, incidentally!) involved a near-miss story involving a Snickers bar and a teenage snog behind the sports centre at school. Heather had used it as evidence that she – not Georgia – but she, needed to be always on guard in case a gangster peanut edges its way into her daughter’s olfactory tract. Because smell is enough, you know, smell is enough.
Georgia rolls her green eyes in a full circle as only teenage daughters can. ‘Muuuuum.’
Heather's cutlery lies on the table, and even though she doesn’t speak, her lips are parted in an exasperated: What?
‘Why would you say that, mum? That’s so embarrassing!’
Brianna, a natural acquirer of gossip, zones past the mother-daughter tension and shakes Georgia’s arm. ‘What happened?’
‘It was nothing!’ Georgia answers, despite keeping angry eyes and pursed lips directed towards her mother.
‘How can you say that?’ Heather retorts.
The argument is so intense, neither Georgia nor her mum seem aware of Scott and Brianna’s presence.
‘You nearly died! Your windpipe closed completely, and your heart stopped. They kept you in the hospital for forty-eight hours, Georgia. It. Was. Not. Nothing.’
A couple on a neighbouring table sneak a glance at them over their glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. Georgia sighs, pulls at her dark brown ponytail, and directs her eyes towards the ceiling.
‘All I needed was my EpiPen.’
