‘You can’t do that, Mum. You just can’t.’
Heather narrows her eyes. ‘So what? What’s the alternative?’
‘I don’t know …. I’ll use my words. Just like you’ve taught me since I was two. I’ll go up to my new flatmates and I’ll say, “Guys, I don’t do nuts. Any chance of keeping them in your room?” And that will be that.’
‘In their rooms? But how’s that an option? Remember that train journey to London? We had to get off at York and rush you—’
But the sentence is left incomplete. Because Georgia extends her flat palm in front of Heather’s face.
‘Whatever, Mum. Whatever. I’ll sort it. Okay? Trust me.’
Heather leans back against the wall, knowing she has no choice other than to accept defeat. She also knows that she will now need to be constantly prepared for a middle-of-the-nightphone call, demanding she handles a preventable crisis that has escalated into a catastrophe, all because she was ignored. And Heather will need to pull a thick winter coat on over her pyjamas, grab her car keys, drive for two hours (one and a half if she is creative with the speed limit) and get herself up the road to solve the problem.
No wonder her chances of needing anti-depressants by the end of the year is so high. The pulse in Heather’s neck is already racing after only two hours. Multiply that by twenty-four hours each day, seven days each week and thirty weeks of the academic year, and you’ve got a high chance of cardiac arrest by mid-June. Which, of course, will give Brianna’s dad no end of pleasure. And for some reason, that’s even more of an affront to Heather than her inevitable health crisis. Bizarre.
Georgia’s face pales as she lets out a long, exasperated breath.
‘Look, Mum. Can we start again? I’m going into the kitchen to take those notices down, then maybe we can set up my room together. Would that be okay?’
Heather knows a peace offering when she hears one. And there’s so much to do. Boxes and bags litter every conceivable surface.
‘That would be lovely, darling. Yes, let’s do that.’
She can do that, right? She’s single through choice and her only child is leaving her soon. It’s important they leave on good terms. Heather stands, Georgia takes a step towards her, and they hug. Heather tries to absorb the very essence of her daughter. She won’t get any more hugs like this for weeks.
‘I love you, Mum,’ Georgia says.
Grief at the thought of leaving her today seizes Heather’s throat. Her baby. All grown up. Leaving home.
Shit.
The tears are threatening.
Deflect, deflect.
Heather turns away from her daughter and looks at the butt print on the bed, created just a moment ago.
‘Gosh,’ she says, ‘this bed’s lumpy. Good job you’ve got that mattress topper.’
SCOTT
‘Listen. They’re fighting!’
He’s like a nosy neighbour in an exaggerated American sitcom with a glass pressed up against the partition wall.
‘Dad. Get your ear away from there,’ Brianna hisses.
Scott does as requested and fights to regain his position as the cool, not embarrassing parent.
‘Yeah. Sorry. Right,’ he says. Not eloquent at all. But at least he isn’t putting bloody notices up and bossing everyone else around in his daughter’s new flat. Lack of dynamic vocabulary, he can live with.
Brianna stops unpacking and stares out the window. The flat may be placed in an idyllic spot on the seafront, but her room faces the parking courtyard. Swarms of people are carrying numerous boxes of superfluous items into the student houses. If you listened to what those helicopter parents on the online parents' forum said, you’d fill an entire van with paraphernalia for a first-year student.
Apparently, some have.
‘I don’t seem to have as much stuff as everyone else,’ Brianna says.
‘What, you think you’re missing out on bringing your childhood cuddly teddy or a cushion with your dog’s face printed on it?’ Scott asks.
