Scott carries the entirety of Brianna’s possessions: one rucksack, one suitcase and one grocery bag as they make their way toRoom C, Flat 62, John Logie College, whilst Brianna leads the way. The map provided at the check-in desk is atrociously designed, but is easy enough to use if you apply some common sense.
The location is brilliant. Sea pounds the sand in a procession of promising waves some fifty metres from the flat door. Surf like that directly from her university accommodation? How lucky is Brianna coming here?
‘Surf’s up,’ he says, because everyone knows cool dads refer to weather conditions and link them to adventure sports.
‘Yeah,’ his daughter agrees, her pale cheeks a light red from the sea breeze. ‘Hope you get surf like this in Agadir.’
Scott grins. He’s leaving for a Surf and Yoga camp in Taghazout tomorrow. He is staying overnight in St Andrews so he can have a breakfast catch up with Brianna before heading to the airport. It’s a good value four-and-a-half-hour flight from Edinburgh, not bad for some of the best surf in the world.
‘Here’s hoping,’ he replies as Brianna opens the door.
Room C is on the first floor, so he follows his daughter up the stairs and to the end of the corridor. Brianna’s nearest neighbour is already there. Brianna stops and raps lightly on the door. A small-framed waif of a girl with poker-straight dark hair opens the door, a strange electronic device in her left hand.
‘Hey there. I’m Brianna.’
The new flatmate’s face breaks into a wide smile. Her cheeks blush, and her light green eyes shine.
‘Hi.’ She extends her right arm. ‘Georgia.’
The two girls shake hands.
‘Hair straighteners?’ Brianna gestures towards the device in Georgia’s hand, which looks more appropriate for torture than hair care.
‘Yep.’
‘Wow. I love that brand. Check you.’ And, without warning, the two girls enter into a secret language of three letter acronyms and code names for things relating to beauty.
Not for the first time, Scott marvels at Brianna’s ability to put others at ease, an attribute undoubtedly inherited from her mother. Scott, he knows, has a reputation for spikiness. Until people get to know him, of course. However, only a very special few receive that privilege. Even fewer nowadays, truth be told.
‘Erm, Bee?’ he says wiggling his now-aching fingers, straining under the weight of Brianna’s possessions, ‘Can we, you know …?’ He directs his head up the corridor.
But Brianna’s not ready to pause this connection with her new flatmate. She digs the key from her back pocket. ‘Just dump my stuff, Dad. I’ll sort it in a while.’
Scott knows when he isn’t wanted, so he carries the luggage through the neighbouring door, drops it on the bed, grabs the food bag and heads to the kitchen. No point in sitting around when there's work to do.
These infernal self-closers are everywhere. Scott presses down on the handle with his elbow and kicks against the base of the kitchen door. It is the only way to get the damn thing open for long enough to get your body and a large shopping bag past the entrance. He squeezes through the narrow doorway with only seconds to spare before the door catches him in its clutches. Shit. Another person sees his theatrics. A lady with a messy ponytail wearing figure-hugging jeans is standing on the work top, a metre above the ground, attaching posters to the doors of the kitchen cabinets.
‘What the …?’ convention kicks in and stalls the swear word on his tongue. But the sentiment is there alright. What on earth is she doing?
The lady whips around, and the change to her centre of gravity catches her out. She begins to sway.
It’s automatic. A knee jerk reaction. The sort of thing he might have done for Lucy without a moment’s hesitation. And, for some obscure reason, the same need to protect kicks in here; only, on this occasion, with a clearly unhinged total stranger. Scott drops the bag and reaches out.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ the stranger asks.
‘I …. I …. I thought you were about to fall,’ he says, like an awkward teenage boy, not the capable, upright father of a promising student.
‘Well, can you, please …?’
His hands are on her surprisingly tight butt, pushing her forwards, helping to stabilise her. Only she doesn’t need stabilising anymore. Now, he’s just a random bloke in a kitchen groping another parent’s ass.
‘Shit. Sorry. I …’
Oh my goodness, what is happening to his diction?
She jumps down from the work surface, her cheeks red, her dark green eyes ablaze.
‘I’m finished now. Thanks for your help.’ Her last two words sound as though she’s speaking to a convicted criminal.
