Would it be crass and inappropriate to say: ‘I am?’ Because, man, oh, man. Last night was …
She props herself up on her elbow, exposing the gentle curve of her breast and kisses him softly on the mouth before he can respond. The contact, half a square centimetre – maybe0.05% of his total body surface area – sends sensations shooting through his entire frame, signalling to every neurone, every blood vessel, every organ that she’s here, with him, and he wants her. So, so, badly. But there’s something that must be said first. He needs to pull himself away from these thoughts and focus on the important thing.
‘There’s something I should have told you,’ he says. Because surely it must be time to tell her what’s happening in his world? A hint at the very least?
Heather shuffles higher onto the pillows and takes a glug from the glass by her side of the bed. ‘Sorry. Morning breath. Smells rank,’ she says. She swirls the water around her mouth, over her teeth. It’s the sweetest, most endearing movement.
‘Okay. Tell me,’ she says, returning the glass to the nightstand.
But before he can continue, Heather’s phone begins to vibrate from the place on the floor where she plugged it in last night.
Heather’s eyes go wide as she looks from Scott’s face and back to the phone. It’s inevitable she’s going to answer. She slides her feet over the edge of the bed and sits, her back to him. She has a perfect swimmer’s body. Her back is strong and muscular, her long hair skims her shoulder blades, which stand like a perfectly formed mountain range.
Within seconds, she’s pacing across the floor to her phone. He’d expected a little modesty but is thrilled that she embraces her nudity so brazenly in front of him. How did he not notice when they first met that she was so hot?
The atmosphere in the room changes the moment she sees Georgia’s name and slides to accept the call, which goes straight to loudspeaker.
‘Mum! Where are you? I can see your car in the car park, but your location’s not updating. We’re going to be late for Mr. Lafferty.’
Heather’s mouth drops, and Scott’s on his feet in an instant. They’d been so caught up in each other they’d completely forgotten the appointment with the prospective landlord at 10 am. Heather was meant to be driving up from Edinburgh this morning. Scott glances at his watch. 9:50. He’s pulling on his boxers, mis-stepping his way into his jeans, pulling his t-shirt on inside out. It’s still a little damp from the deluge last night and smells a little musty, but there’s no time to select a clean one from his case.
Heather puts the phone on the bed and begins dressing herself.
‘Sorry, love,’ she shouts in the general direction of the microphone as she pulls on her knickers, which Scott’s sure must still be sodden, up her thighs. ‘I arrived early. Went for a walk in town.’
Heather winces as she topples slightly while pulling her jeans on.
‘Scott’s not here, either,’ says Georgia. ‘B’s been trying to call him, but it’s going straight to voicemail. Mum, hurry. We’ll lose this house if we’re not there on time.’
‘Okay, look. I’ll swing past Scott’s hotel on my way past and see if he’s there. He’s maybe lost track of time over breakfast. We’ll be there in five. Promise.’
Heather places a hand on either side of her gaping mouth, presumably mortified by the lie. The blush which lingers on her cheeks when she removes her hands is, Scott thinks, adorable.
***
Scott’s no stranger to Estate Agent patter, he knows how images are enhanced to show a property in an exaggeratedly favourable light, but nothing prepares him for the façade on his daughter’s prospective second year home. The rendering, which is grey andcracked, has broken away under the first-floor windows and is coated in a thin layer of green algae from the ground to knee height. A rusted bike frame has been chucked in the front garden along with a shopping trolley which looks to be twenty or thirty years old.
Subconsciously, he and Heather take a step apart from each other as they come into the girls’ view.
‘Here you are. Finally,’ Brianna shouts when she notices him.
‘Muuuuum,’ wails Georgia, ‘we’re ten minutes late.’
He and Heather sneak a glance. As if neither of them has never been kept waiting by their girls over the years.
‘Sorry. Sorry, girls,’ Heather gives them both a hug which, Scott reckons, can count as a combined welcome from them both. The front door of the property opens with a discernible squeak to reveal a man who appears to be an exaggerated 1980s caricature of a slime ball. Pulled over his pot belly, the landlord is wearing a shiny, purple tracksuit in a material Scott thinks might be velour. He’s wearing a baseball cap on his head and a greasy rat’s tail over his shoulder, which Scott can only assume is a carefully styled ponytail.
‘Mick Lafferty,’ he says, extending a hand towards Scott first, then Heather second, despite Heather being closer to him. ‘Mum and dad, I presume?’
‘Yes. Well—’
‘Aye, grand. So, in you come. In you come.’
Scott mouths the words “Five grand deposit” as they follow Mick Lafferty into the dimly lit hallway.
Scott’s seen student doss houses before, but nothing prepares him for this.
‘Make yourselves at home,’ Mick Lafferty says, squeezing his sizeable girth into the entrance of a downstairs room so Scott, Heather, Brianna and Georgia can fit into the hallway and close the front door behind them.
