She walks back down the corridor and tries to use her body weight to open the door against the vice-like grip of the self-closers.
‘Let me.’ Scott pushes against the door, his hand just above Heather’s shoulder, forcing his armpit into her face. He smells divine.
‘No, I’m …,’ Heather continues to push. The word “fine” comes out of her mouth just as the self-closing mechanism relents and they’re both propelled into the kitchen.
Heather stumbles. Scott falls over her feet. The box of groceries upturns. And Heather and Scott land in a tangled heap on the floor.
‘Oh shit. Sorry.’ She fumbles to get back upright, inadvertently kicking cans of soup across the kitchen floor. The bag of brussels sprouts (what on earth made her imagine a student would cook, let alone eat sprouts?) splits, and thumb-sized pieces of vegetable scatter like shot blast across the tiled floor.
Scott’s face is pressed into her belly, and one of his hands is clutching at her leg. She isn’t hurt, she knows this, but there’s a strange long-forgotten fire shooting through her limbs right now. Scott’s muscles are taut. And they’re skimming hers. And it feels … sensational.
‘Are you staying in St Andrews tonight, so you’re ready for the slippery weasel in the morning?’ he asks, once the food stuff has been located and packed into Georgia’s cupboard. He’s clearly thinking of the visit to the second-year house the girls are hoping to sign up for.
‘I was planning on going home, then driving back up tomorrow,’ Heather says.
He looks at the floor and shakes his head. ‘Right. Yes. Makes sense.’
Heather looks at him. Is it her imagination or did his face just fall? Is he disappointed?
‘You okay with that?’ she asks. Somehow, don’t ask her how, her hand has slipped from where it was safely positioned on her hip and moved onto his arm.
‘Yeah. Sure. I thought we could go for a bit of a walk. You know. Once they’re unpacked and all.’
It’s Scott’s turn to blush. And Heather can’t help it; she finds it adorable.
‘A walk would be lovely,’ she says.
The girls are so overjoyed at being back together, they don’t register Heather and Scott preparing to leave.
‘We’ll see you tomorrow around ten to go to the house,’ Scott tells them.
‘Sure, sure, sure.’ Brianna manhandles them both out of the house, waves them goodbye at the threshold and closes the door behind them.
Heather turns to Scott, the offshore wind messing with her hair. She tucks the offending strands into a woollen hat.
‘No signs of anxiety this time, then,’ she says, gesturing towards the girls' rooms.
He grins. ‘None at all. The pier?’
They turn together and begin the walk on the path running along the East Sands Beach. A cagouled figure walking by the water’s edge picks up a piece of driftwood and throws it into the water. A brown Labrador gives chase, hurling itself through the waves.
‘Looks cold today,’ Heather says, noticing the open water swimmers further out and the distant triangles of two windsurfing boards. The wind picks up, and spots of rain begin to fall as they walk along the coastal path, but Heather hardly notices. She’s aware of the seagulls cawing overhead and the fact that Scott is barely talking.
‘Those swimmers ought to be getting out now,’ he observes, looking up at the sky, which is beginning to darken. The weakwintry sun lowers in the horizon and takes on a burnt orange hue.
Despite the threat of rain, they keep walking, past the lobster pots on the harbour wall, past the now-boarded-up café which sells ice creams and hot drinks to tourists during the summer, and they walk along St Andrews’ famous two-level stone pier. The wind is buffeting by the time they step onto the uneven cobble stones, and Heather moves closer towards the lower wall. The ancient stone pathway underfoot looks as though it might be slippery, and it’s a certain fall into the North Sea in the event of a misplaced step. The regularly placed iron bollards along the rough stone edge do little to reduce her fear of falling.
They arrive at the end of the pier, and Scott points to the upper level, where a metal railing is the only thing to save people from falling out to sea. Elsewhere there is no protection at all on the upper level.
‘Fancy it?’ he asks, ‘to see the sunset?’
Heather’s heart skitters as she clambers up the slippery metal rungs, and Scott follows closely behind. He’s probably just being protective, Heather thinks. Even as a keen wild swimmer, he won’t want to take part in an emergency rescue mission at dusk on a January evening.
They stand together, hands on the railing, and looking out to sea.
‘The girls are so lucky to be here,’ says Scott.
‘I know, right?’
