‘Brilliant. Fantastic. Superb.’ The sheer relief that it’s not Scott on the other end of the line generates a string of superlatives. Even to Heather, in her hungover, yet hyper-focused state, her response sounds excessive, so she attempts to counter it with a more subdued, business-like comment.
‘So, what do I owe you, please?’
In all honesty, Heather would have accepted any value at this stage.
‘It’ll be two seventy, pet. Cash only. We close at twelve o’clock today.’
Heather hangs up, forces down another coffee, collapses onto the sofa and falls fast asleep.
It’s ten past eleven when Heather wakes, under an hour before the garage is due to close. Remembering she needs her car tomorrow, she pulls on fresh underwear, a clean button-up blouse and yesterday’s jeans. She rams her feet into a pair of Ugg boots, grabs her phone, keys and coat and runs out the door. She needs the number 16 bus, and two hundred and seventy pounds in cash from the ATM. She thinks fast. The bus journey takes around twenty minutes. She should make it if the gods are on her side.
Heather half jogs, half speed walks down Canaan Lane and onto Morningside Road, pulling her hair into a messy top knot as she goes. She strides past upmarket charity shops, the specialist cheesemonger and the Italian themed bakery. The first ATM she comes to has a sign across the screen.
Sorry, Out of Service.
The bank is closed. The next cash machine she encounters, inside a convenience store, tells her it will charge ten pounds for every withdrawal. She can’t bring herself to use that on point of principle. The third, thank goodness, is operational. Sheremoves her bank card from her wallet, slides it into the machine and punches in her pin. A message flashes up on the display. The sun’s glare makes it impossible to see the screen, and Heather uses her hands to create a shadow to read the message.
Maximum withdrawal on your card is restricted to two hundred and fifty pounds.
Heather has been planning on adjusting this for months but in true, not-quite-got-her-life-together-after-Georgia style, she’s put it off. She takes the two hundred and fifty, rams the notes into her purse and re-inserts the card.
Withdrawal limit for the day exceeded.The sign reads.
Shiiiit.
Heather pulls the contents of her purse out. Loyalty cards, old train tickets, defunct bank cards fall onto the floor. None will provide her with twenty quid. Her mind swirls. This is the last thing she can cope with today. When her phone beeps in her pocket indicating something has come in on Messenger, she almost doesn’t look.
Hi Heather. Forgot yesterday that I needed to settle up with you. I gave you twenty quid, but think I still owe you fifteen. Can you send your bank details? Hope your head’s okay this am. This is Scott btw!
Heather doesn’t want to make Scott-Bloody-Reynolds into some kind of hero of the hour, but honestly, if she were to find a crisp twenty in her back pocket, she would—
Deciding not to finish that thought, Heather slides her hand into her back pocket. And there it is. Crisp, purple, with the artist’s eyes adorning the note, drilling into hers.
Are you sure he’s your saviour? they seem to ask. Heather slips the note beside the others in her purse and runs like crazy to get the fast-approaching bus.
Once she secures herself a seat on the top deck, she allows herself some time to consider her response to Scott.
“I’m so glad you messaged. Tell me – did I snog you last night?”
Could be one approach.
“Thanks for a memorable evening. Jokes – can’t remember a thing.”
Could be another.
She takes the duration of the journey to construct her first draft:
Oooh. Thank you! I’m just looking for a twenty to pay for my car repairs. Can’t really remember much about last night. Hope I didn’t do anything too disgraceful? All such a blur. Head agony this morning.
She reads and re-reads, hoping she’s got the tone just right. Breezy enough to indicate she thinks nothing happened between them whilst also tentatively checking she didn’t cross a line. Not too dismissive given that he voluntarily repaired Georgia’s leaky sink, expecting no more than a thank you.
When the bus pulls up to her stop, Heather decides enough is enough. She’s a forty-eight-year-old menopausal woman, for goodness’ sake. She’s not a bloody teenager any longer. Just get it sent.
She presses the blue arrow, and it turns green.
SCOTT
Scott decamps to the gym the minute he sends Heather that text. He can’t let himself sit in his flat when the tingling sensation ofher hand grappling for his is etched into his memory. This is just a fleeting moment in time. A phase. It will pass.
