‘It’s a snake,’ Georgia says, ‘it represents the intransigence of capitalism and the oppressive pressure to submit to nine-to-five employment which is pervasive in our society. It’s an outward expression of his individuality and how he refuses to fit into those societal norms.’
‘Which societal norms? Getting a job and working for a living?’
‘Exactly. Isn’t he just dreamy?’
‘Is he kind, Georgia?’ Heather can’t be certain, but she’s pretty sure Todd is the first boy Georgia’s ever been serious about. There’s a chance he’ll be the one who takes her virginity and shapes her understanding of how adult relationships work, which, in turn, could inform all future liaisons Georgia ever embarks on. Todd’s taking an enormous responsibility on his snake-tattooed shoulders.
‘Kind? Yes, Mum. Sure. He’s cool. We’re going out again on Friday night.’
Cool?
There’s a beat as Heather processes what to say.
‘Oh. Okay. Be careful, though, honey. I know you like him, but … well … not all guys are as trustworthy as they’d have you believe,’ she says whilst slathering a layer of Sudocrem on her upper lip.
Georgia’s response is instant, sharp.
‘Yes. Yes. I get it, Mum. Guys are unreliable. They reel us and then they dump us … I know … You’ve told me often enough. But Todd’s not like that.’ Georgia takes a breath before delivering her killer blow. ‘Maybe I’m a better judge of men than you are.’
Heather recoils and grips the phone extra hard to prevent it from falling from her now slippery grasp. She takes a deep, diffusing breath before responding.
‘Just make sure you stay safe, honey,’ she says.
‘Course, Mum. Todd’ll look after me.’
Which is exactly what Heather fears.
***
Scott meets Heather off her train on Friday evening around the same time Georgia leaves for her own night out. Heather knows this because she and Georgia had a conversation about protection when she was on the train somewhere around Berwick-Upon-Tweed. It was slightly awkward, because Heather had splashed out on a first-class ticket and was in a designated quiet carriage. The couple in forward-facing seats 12 and 13F perhaps learnt a little more about modern day contraceptive methods than they were prepared for.
St Albans station is compact, brown brick and boxy. Heather leaves the train and her tummy flips when she sees Scott standing on the far side of the ticket barriers, waiting for her. He’s wearing a distressed brown leather jacket and faded jeans with a hole in the front where a small, but extremely tantalising area of thigh peeks out. Heather tries to stop imagining him with those items of clothing removed (What is happening to her brain?) and keep her focus on getting herself and her baggage through the ticket barriers with maximum grace and minimal fuss. She’s fallen foul of the automatic gates before, having had them close on her when she’s halfway through the narrowentrance, cutting her off from her luggage and bisecting her somewhere mid-thigh. It’s a look she’s keen to avoid today.
‘Good journey?’ he asks once she’s made it to him unscathed and with her dignity intact.
‘Great,’ she says, ‘spent it comparing the virtue of the condom versus the reliability of the pill.’
She winces at her perpetual over sharing.What’s wrong with her?
‘Riiight.’ He takes her wheelie case from her and rolls it towards the car park.
‘Georgia’s got a boyfriend,’ she says as they walk.
‘Ah. Yes. Todd. I’ve heard.’
They descend the steps. Scott picks her case up as though it’s filled with feathers. It’s not.
‘From your tone, I’m guessing not all good?’ she says, her chest tightening around her sinking heart.
‘Let’s get you into the car,’ Scott says.
Great.
It's unseasonably warm. Scott pulls his racing green MG with its top down out of the carpark. Heather pulls her hair into an ad hoc ponytail against the wind and watches the scenery as they pass the stunning medieval cathedral. The historic buildings of the Roman centre, the plethora of small, independent shops and the well-heeled businesspeople walking purposefully around the small city give it an air of productivity, affluence and style.
Heather steals a glance at Scott. He appears focussed on the drive, although his eyes are shielded from the low lying sun by aviator sunglasses. He’s had a haircut. Probably not for her. Most definitely not for her. But what’s he thinking? Is he wondering if this is all a bad idea, or is he thinking, as she was on the journey down, that they’ll be doing very well indeed if they manage to keep their hands off each other and their clothes on, and if any work gets completed at all?
The irony that she was having a conversation with Georgia about safe sexual boundaries, contraception and consent when she, herself, is hurtling towards a potentially fraught weekend is not lost on her.
