They walk into town, shoulder to shoulder along the sea front. If Heather thinks he’s weird, she doesn’t let on. She chats about Christmas plans and suitable gifts for teenage children. Luckily, he can help. A good thing. It stops him looking like such an incompetent dork.
The coffee shop is warm and welcoming. They stand in an orderly queue, eyeing up the cinnamon pastries and the festivebrownies. He steals a glance at Heather who wears a khaki bobble hat which brings out the green in her eyes. Her long brown hair kisses her shoulders.
‘Americano. Black,’ he says to the barista when it’s their time to order. He turns to Heather. ‘And …?’
‘A decaf gingerbread oat milk latte, extra hot, please,’ she says. Then she stops. Looks at him. Sees him staring. ‘What?’
‘What’s wrong with a straightforward coffee nowadays?’ he asks when they take their drinks and look around for a table. It’s what any sensible bloke would think.So why not say it?
Heather sits, shrugs, then takes a sip. There’s a coating of foam and cinnamon on her upper lip and, don’t ask him where it comes from, but there’s a temptation to reach over and wipe it off with his finger and then – perish the thought – put his finger in his own mouth. An act almost as intimate as sharing a toothbrush.Where the hell did that come from?
‘To be honest, Scott. I’ve spent so much of my life skittering around the edges of what I want. Always afraid to ask outright for what I need or what makes me happy. And I don’t know … now I’m in my late forties… I find I just don’t give a damn. I know what I want and I ask for it. Simple.’
Scott uses the wooden stick to stir the brown sugar into his straight-talking, manly drink and finds himself reassessing all these awkward orderers and menu interrogators that have put him off so much in the past. It’s just that nobody has ever explained it in this way before.
‘Fair play,’ he says.
The girls are awake by the time they return to John Logie Hall, and after ninety minutes of packing and dumping of bags into their two cars, Scott and Heather are ready to leave. The girls hug.
‘Can’t wait to see you at Christmas,’ Brianna says to Georgia as they embrace.
‘Me too. Me too,’ Georgia replies.
He glances at Heather. Catches her eye. He doesn’t say it. Particularly because in theory, he’s not that bothered. But, in all honesty, he thinks the same.
FRESHMAN PARENTS' ONLINE FORUM: ST ANDREWS UNIVERSITY
So, DD has come home with nits. Nits!
I see your nits and I raise you thread worms. Seriously. It’s like they’ve regressed to nursery school.
In my day we came back with STDs!
And mild to moderate alcoholism!
How to get rid of nits, please? I need a secret potion, so our family Christmas pictures are not ruined with one bald scalp amongst our luscious locks.
Fine toothed comb working for us. Takes ages, though! Really hope it doesn’t spoil your Christmas photos.
Chapter 17
HEATHER
Heathersitsatthebreakfast bar at home; the scarf Scott “borrowed” wrapped around her hands. Five days on, Scott’s smell has begun to fade from the fabric. She holds it up to her nostrils and inhales deeply. There are still traces . Faint, but there, nonetheless.
What on earth has got into her? She’ll be kissing a printout of his profile picture next. Come on, Heather. Enough!
