DD sent photos of last night's meal. Am surprised by the variety she gets on the plate.
Not a vegetable in sight on my DS’s plate.
Spent the summer coaching my DD on balanced diets and trialling different recipes. Seems to have paid off.
Mine’s the same. What is the chance of scurvy come Christmas?
60 - 70%
Chapter 7
HEATHER
Heatherdropsherbagson the floor of her Georgian terrace in Edinburgh’s Morningside, and the front door thuds closed behind her. Morningside, three miles to the south of Princes Street, is home to several artisan shops, cutesy bakeries and cosy restaurants. The Pentland Hills are visible in the distance giving the area both an upmarket and an edge-of-town vibe. Typically, Heather arrives home with an enormous sense of gratitude, but now, for the first time, she’s opened the door to a hollow sensation in her chest. This is the point Scott-Bloody-Reynolds said she was most afraid of: her homecoming.
And now she understands.
Has the hallway always echoed like this? She grasps now his suggestion about buying a dog. The idea of furry feet scampering to greet her at this moment is quite compelling. Heather hasn’t had a dog since her childhood pet, Nooky, died. But for a split second she considers it, at least for the distraction. A dog would certainly provide more sustained relief than sex with a socially awkward statistician who just happens to have a fit body and captivating blue eyes.
She climbs upstairs and walks into the kitchen of her three-storey town house. The home would have been completely out of her price range twenty years ago as a newly qualified teacher of art, but Dougie, her partner at the time, insisted they bought it. She was carrying his baby, after all. Together they re-purposed the space before they moved in. An open plan kitchen-cum-lounge-cum-diner occupying the entire floor had been her dream and Dougie, both rich and compliant in those early days, was keen to give her her heart’s desire. Ridiculous to think he left her and Georgia around a year later, bequeathing the house to Heather, so she and Georgia could have somewhere safe and comfortable to live. Guilt does that, she supposes.
Heather stares into the fridge. Two eggs, half an onion and the sludge at the bottom of a carton of oat milk greet her. The larder is no more promising. The jar of Manuka honey appears to taunt her: “You might fancy me, but you have no bread, yogurt or porridge to put me on,” it seems to say. The realisation that Heather has made the last few weeks – no, let’s be honest – the last few years, entirely about Georgia hits her acutely. How can she have left the fridge empty with so little consideration for herself? Have there been any points in the past eighteen years when she’s prioritised her own self-care? Heather thinks back.
None.
She reflects on her response to Scott-Bloody-Reynolds’ comment last night. 'Try the dating game' he’d said, as if aman was the answer to everything. And so what if her response appeared disproportionate? Heather is done with men, and now, it seems, she’s done with motherhood as well. Leaving her where, exactly? The fabled Empty Nest. She imagines Scott walking along the seafront in Morocco, admiring the waves. Maybe he has the right idea, after all? He won’t be sitting by the phone waiting for a check-in fromhisdaughter or feeling this sudden loss of identity and purpose.
A sense of something she can’t quite place: melancholy? humiliation? wafts over her. Heather turns her back on the pitiful fridge. She can cope without food tonight. It saves one decision, at least.
***
Heather’s in loungewear watching the TV when the doorbell rings later that evening. ‘Fraser,’ she says with a gasp when she answers. Her brother is dressed for work in a kilt of lightly coloured greys and greens with a band of bright blue running through the weave. His muscular calves lead to walking boots which are coated in thick mud. The white t-shirt which clings to his torso is well overdue a wash. His new puppy, Maisie, a skittery and highly excitable West Highland Terrier, scampers around at his feet, mud clinging to her lower legs and paws.
‘I dropped the group off at the train station and came straight here to check how you were doing.’ Fraser works as a tour guide in the Scottish Highlands. Heather has never gone on one of Fraser’s tours, but she’s certain his deep abiding love for his homeland would rub off on even the most cynical tourist.
A wave of love sweeps through Heather as her brother, who needs no introduction to the complex range of emotions she’s processing right now, takes her in his arms and hugs her tight while Maisie jumps up at their legs, desperate to be included.Over the years, Fraser has been the one constant male presence in Georgia’s life and Heather is eternally grateful to him for his care and compassion at difficult times. She knows why she is single, but why on earth is her brother?
‘I’m so glad to see you,’ she says when they disentangle.
‘Been tough?’ Fraser’s eyes, green also, search hers.
‘You could say,’ she replies.
Fraser’s not impressed with Heather’s plan to forgo food, so after a quick steam in her shower and a change of clothes from the stash he always keeps at her house, he settles Maisie for a nap and takes Heather out for a meal.
Fraser knows all the best places to eat in town. He takes her to a small bistro tucked away down a side street in Edinburgh's student area, far from the craziness of the tourists. They sit on rickety stools around a cut down barrel and order local delicacies at half the price of the restaurants in town.
‘So. Tell me. How did she get on yesterday?’ he says when their meals arrive. ‘How’s the flat? What are the folks like?’ A few days in the Highlands always bring out the broadness in Fraser’s accent.
She gives her brother a quick summary on the location and layout of Georgia’s accommodation but stalls when it comes to the people. She tries to fill the awkwardness by asking the server to replenish their water, but Fraser catches her change of tone.
