Midnight comes, and twelve canons from the castle ramparts explode into the night sky. Several seconds later, the shock waves travel through the air and reach her in Morningside with loud reverberations. She watches as the crowd on the TV meltsinto a sea of messy cross-armed variations of Auld Lang Syne and lifts her glass towards the TV, toasting the New Year.
It takes a moment or two for the messages to come in.
Fraser sends an image of himself at a pub lock-in near Glencoe with a new beard and a whisky in his hand.
“Happy New Year, Sis. Hope it’s a good one!”
Claire’s message comes in moments later. “You’re going to rock this new year, babe!" her message says. "Think of this as the perfect opportunity to reinvent yourself!”
Gerry’s message, a simple, “Hope you achieve your heart’s desire this year,” concludes with a single “x”.
Heather still hasn’t seen him since their disastrous date on Hallowe’en when Georgia ended up in hospital.
Georgia, Brianna and Trey’s message comes in around ten minutes later. The three of them have arms draped around each other’s shoulders and the picture shows a blurred impression of fireworks in the background.
Did they send this same image to Scott?
Heather replies to the messages, checks the teenagers still have a key to get into the house and prepares for bed. She’s flossing (New Year’s resolution number one: don’t neglect your gums, even for a single day) when her phone pings.
Scott.
“Hope you’ve had a great night,” his message reads. “Thought I’d share a fact from an interesting book I was given at Christmas.” The attached photograph is an image from page 235 of the statistics book she gave him last week. One statistic is circled in red.
“80% of New Year’s resolutions fail by the end of January – Hope you manage to buck the trend!”
SCOTT
It’s poor form, he knows, to be at a mate’s house, huddled around a bonfire, awaiting the carefully curated fireworks display while being on your phone. But it’s Heather. He pictures her vivid green eyes, the gentle upturn of her mouth before a massive explosion of laughter and, somehow, he can’t help himself. The grey dots beside his New Year’s message reel him in. How will she respond? A witty remark? A sulky reply? A challenge to his authority? There’s no way to predict it. He moves to the edge of the garden decking area, hoping no one notices. Sharon Grieg from two doors down has already tried to give him the tongue tonight. He’d been going in for a friendly New Year's peck. The contrast between Sharon’s approach tonight and Heather’s on Christmas Day could not have been more different. Neither could the effect each encounter had on him, both physically and emotionally.
‘Going somewhere, Scott?’ Sharon shouts after him.
‘Just a mo,’ he replies, ‘be there in a sec.’
His eyes are back on his phone the moment it seems acceptable to do so. Heather’s response is in: “Luckily for you, the odds of being injured by a firework on New Year’s Eve are quite low – 1 in 50,000 so I reckon you’re safe for tonight:)”
What is the saying? There’s nothing lonelier than being in a crowd when they’re not your people.
These are Scott’s friends, associates, companions and neighbours – people he’s known locally for the past six-and-a-half years. Many have stepped in during childcare crises or helped him out when the front door lock jammed. But all he wants to be doing right now is snuggling up on a sofa inEdinburgh, under a blanket and sharing achievements from the year just gone and goals for the one ahead. It’s the exact thing he’s tried so hard to avoid over the last few years. But there he has it: Heather has reeled him in.
He sits on a wooden step and types:
“Things I know you should be proud of from last year: supporting Georgia in getting to university; negotiating your empty nest; dumping Gerry (Sorry, I’m biased).”
“Things I hope for you next year: Give up that job you hate so much. Start painting again (remember offer to help with website). Get wild swimming – you’ll love it!”
He presses send without thinking. Normally, his messages are carefully constructed (and even then, he gets it wrong so much of the time), but this one has come unedited and from the heart.
The sky fills with whites, blues and greens as fireworks flash, sizzle and explode overhead, to accompanying “Oohs”, “Aahs” and, when they’re over, “Magnificent display this year, Mike.”
Scott senses a change in the air by his right shoulder. He turns to find Sharon standing beside him, a glass of mulled wine extended towards him.
‘Wondered if you could do with something to warm you up,’ she says. There’s a suggestive glint in her eye.
Scott accepts the glass and smiles, but even he knows the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
Sharon sighs. ‘Happy New Year, Scott,’ she says. ‘I hope it’s a good one for you.’
