Heather allows her eyes to track her friend’s towards the icy expanse of water.
‘It’s meant to be good for you,’ she says. Right now, she’s wishing Scott had given her a box of chocolates or a bottle of wine for Christmas like normal boyfriends do.
There it is again.
That grating feeling when she thinks of their relationship. She can’t technically use the word boyfriend, can she? Not just because they’re both in their midlife but, more significantly, because they are not officiallythere. They are not partners. They are not attached. But they’re something, right? The thought she’s been keeping buried for several weeks chooses now – on the freezing Portobello promenade wearing what could be described as S and M gear – to present its ugly head: WhatisScott to her? Whatisshe to him? If this thing between them is nothing more than no-strings-attached sex, isthatwhat she wants?
‘So, guys,’ Angus, the instructor, announces to the group, ‘remember this first session is about acclimatisation, developing our technique in the water and some life-saving strategies so we’re well equipped to get out on the open sea next session. First things first, let’s get ourselves into the water. Take your time. There’s no rush. Although I can recommend a quick immersion.’
Claire was right, Heather thinks, as she lowers her bottom half into the mind-numbingly cold lido, millimetre by millimetre. She can’t think of anything other than survival whilst in these waters. She watches the other class participants following Angus’ suggestion and jumping in via one instantaneous, irreversible action, takes the deepest of breaths and plunges her top half into the water in one go.
‘You did amazing. Brilliant.’
Instead of bringing her a towel, as per their agreement, Claire makes Heather stand by the side of the lido and takes several photographs whilst praising her tenacity and gutsiness. ‘How are you feeling now?’ Claire is clearly enjoying the juxtaposition of their situations: she, the long-married bystander looking for an injection of adventure in her life, and Heather, the singleton trying out bonkers activities to appease her new beau.
How is she feeling now?
Is Claire really expecting the purported results to be instantaneous?
‘Perished. Numb,’ Heather tells her. ‘And mad. Bring me the sodding towel.’
Thankfully, Claire springs into action at Heather’s harsher words, and within minutes, Heather is dried, changed into warm clothing and sitting in a beach-side café with a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hands.
‘So, tell me, how about now?’ Claire asks her urgently. ‘Does doing crazy things outside your comfort zone really help?’
Heather glances down at her fingertips, which are pale and bloodless. ‘Still freezing, to be honest, but there is something else,’ she says, trying to explore the feeling. ‘It’s a kind of buzziness. A sort of electrification, I guess. I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s definitely something there.’
Claire gives a little whoop. ‘So, Scott’s on to a good thing with this, then?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. I guess so.’
Heather can only imagine how elated Scott will be when he hears a positive report from her activity. It evokes another sharp, internal prick of consciousness. Should telling him really be the first thing on her mind given they’re not a couple? Is it a sign she's already fallen for him, despite her concerted effort to self-protect? Thirty-nine years of close friendship enable Claire toread Heather’s mind. She tilts her head in a manner Heather recognises as: “tell me more”.
‘It’s a bit weird between us, to be honest. I like him. I really like him. Even though we agreed to keep things casual. But sometimes, when we’re together …’ She stalls, trying to find the right words to explain the sense of betrayal she feels when Scott fields calls in her presence. How she has a constant feeling that there’s someone else, on the fringes, trying to gain his attention. ‘Someone called Lorraine keeps calling him,’ she says.
‘Ah.’ Claire frowns and returns her cup to the saucer.
‘It’s not like that. I’m sure it’s not. It’s just that …’
‘So, who is she, then, this Lorraine?’
‘That’s the thing. He doesn't say.’ Heather looks down at the table.
Claire waits a long, exposing moment.
‘Right.’
‘It’s not like that.’ The warmth returns to Heather’s frozen cheeks as she rushes to Scott’s defence. ‘He’s attentive, he’s kind, he helped me build my website. I just have a feeling he’s holding something back. Something big. And I don’t know what it is.’
‘I guess we all have some baggage we’re carrying when we get to our age,’ Claire says, twisting at her wedding ring.
‘Exactly. I just wish I didn’t feel this horrible uncertainty. It’s like being a teenager again, second guessing every communication and every gap between our meetings. Although teenagers these days seem to handle things differently. Georgia’s all-in with her boyfriend Todd, and seems oblivious to all the warning signs the rest of us are noticing.’ Heather drains her cup and rubs her arms to restore the circulation to her fingertips. ‘I suppose I’m wary that we’re both going to get hurt. Guys let you down. I know this. Yet here we both are.’
Claire looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe this one’s different?’ she offers generously.
‘Hmm. He did have the audacity to seem jealous when I asked Gerry to help me with my painting last week.’
‘Did he really?’ Claire quirks her eyebrow.
