Page 11 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter seven
Nell kissed the tip of Daniel’s nose before slipping out of bed, stretching her arms high overhead. “Fancy a glass of wine? I spotted some in the kitchen earlier.”
Her room in the halls could only be described as spartan.
A single bed with a wafer-thin duvet, an MDF wardrobe, its door hanging off one hinge and a sink tucked in the far corner.
But somehow, Nell had made it her own. Black gossamer draped the bed, paired with velvet cushions that screamed gothic chic, while her artwork covered every inch of wall.
Daniel particularly loved the charcoal sketches of Glasgow landmarks—the Kingston Bridge, the People’s Palace, and the suspension bridge over the River Clyde that led to the Sheriff Court—which lent the toom a gritty, romantic air.
She slipped on a pale green silk slip that skimmed her thighs and clung in all the right places.
One narrow strap slid off her shoulder, as if the fabric couldn’t be bothered to do its job.
In student-land, this counted as respectable lounge wear.
Had it been up to him, though, she’d roam the halls in shapeless shirts buttoned up to her chin, paired with jeans two sizes too big, all under a neon sign that read, Property of Daniel Murray.
Hands Off, in case any of the lads on her floor harboured ideas above their station.
He sank back against the pillows with a sigh. “Can you grab me something to eat as well? I’ve no’ had anything since lunchtime.”
Nell turned, her brow furrowing in disbelief. “Lunchtime? But it’s…” She glanced at the clock radio on the desk. “Oh. Eight already? Shit, I hadn’t realised.”
The pink streaks in Nell’s blonde hair had long since faded, which now cascaded around her face and shoulders in soft, messy layers that Daniel loved to gather in his hands. Even now, more than a year after they’d first met, he’d catch sight of her and feel his breath hitch.
Gorgeous, sexy, talented Nell. You’re mine, he’d think, though he never dared say it aloud.
Last week, they’d had a scare. She’d invited him to an art exhibition by a former graduate, hoping to mingle with people who might actually pay for her work one day.
The result? The mother of all arguments, with Nell hurling accusations at him about being unsupportive and screeching that she was tired, sick and tired, of his stupid, stupid, stupid sandwich business.
There were now three more vans making the rounds of industrial estates, alongside the Hyndland shop, with the potential to open yet another location elsewhere in the city—all of which had him and Joe running themselves ragged.
Sometimes, the spreadsheets filled him with pride; other times, with sheer panic. How was he supposed to keep it all running and what would happen if those reassuring black numbers bled into red…?
Following the argument, Nell hadn’t spoken to him for days. Four hours ago, desperate to fix things, he’d showed up at her halls with a giant bouquet of flowers and an apology he’d rehearsed with Joe so many times it felt like lines from a bad play. Somehow, it worked.
Now, a slow, blissed-out warmth spread from his groin all the way up to his chest, like he was basking in the afterglow of a hard-fought victory. And lying there, staring at the ceiling, all he could think was, Don’t screw this up again.
For someone who had come to sex much later than most of his friends, Daniel had certainly made up for lost time. After their first time together, he’d asked Nell, hesitantly, “Was that okay for you?” Her overly bright, too-quick “Of course it was!” hadn’t inspired confidence.
Swallowing his pride, he turned to Joe for advice, who handed him a well-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex , its dog-eared pages and dubious stains suggesting it had seen a lot of action if only vicariously.
The book was filled with all sorts of things the authors claimed women adored. Daniel treated it like a syllabus.
He tried everything on Nell. She liked some of it; he liked other things. Figuring out what worked for them both turned out to be so much fun that they enthusiastically repeated everything three or four times purely for research purposes.
“Stay there,” Nell said now, blowing him a kiss as she slipped out of the room. “I won’t be long.”
Left alone, Daniel stared at the ceiling. The blissed-out haze from earlier began to fade, and that faint sense of unease, the one he’d been brushing aside for weeks, crept back in like an unwelcome guest.
Nell would be graduating from the Art School in six months.
She’d mentioned London—a casual remark tossed out over coffee that had haunted Daniel ever since.
Maybe she’d apply to Central Saint Martins, the crown jewel of UK art schools.
Or perhaps she’d snap up an internship with one of those high-profile graphic design studios down south.
“We’ll do a long-distance thing,” she’d said, far too breezily for Daniel’s liking, as if the prospect of being hundreds of miles apart was no bigger a deal than skipping breakfast.
Nell in London, surrounded by other artists.
Effortlessly cool, chain-smoking types who probably called their parents by their first names and rolled their eyes when Nell mentioned her boyfriend back home.
Yeah, sure hon. Fidelity is so… 1950s, right?
Not feminist, either. A patriarchal tool to oppress women.
If he were honest, he wasn’t sure what patriarchal meant. But he’d overheard a heated student discussion in Nell’s halls’ communal kitchen area one night, where a group of women waved around their roll-ups, swigged red wine and vowed they would never, ever marry anyone.
The memory made his stomach clench.
What if… what if he asked her to marry him?
Married? Whit?!
Given that he spent so much time with Joe, it was no surprise that his closest friend and business partner’s voice was the first one to pop up in his head.
Aye, married! His mind continued the imaginary conversation. So what? My parents tied the knot when they were only twenty. And lassies love engagements and weddings. Your girlfriend’s always dropping big, fat hints that you should put a ring on it.
Imaginary Joe arched an eyebrow, pursing his mouth. Your funeral, pal. Dinnae come greetin’ to me when she knocks you back.
But Joe hadn’t been here earlier. He hadn’t heard Daniel spill his guts about how utterly shit the past few days had been, or seen Nell wrap her arms around him like she was holding him together.
Daniel had rested his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes to inhale the familiar, comforting scent of her hair.
Then he’d opened them in disbelief as she murmured, her words muffled against his chest, “Oh, Danny, I do love you.”
The first time she’d ever said the L word.
Now, as he mulled over the thought of asking her to marry him, his heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack a rib on its way out.
But Nell was leaving for her parents’ house tomorrow, and the panic of losing her to time and distance gnawed at him, outweighing even the fear of her saying no.
If he didn’t ask her now, when would he?
It didn’t seem proper to ask her the oh-so-important question while he was in bed. He yanked on his jeans. Again, asking her to marry him demanded a degree of dignity that you didn’t get while wearing only boxer shorts.
He was still buttoning them up when Nell pushed against the heavy hinges of the door to her room with one shoulder, holding a tray laden with mugs of wine and a plate of oatcakes and cheese, the latter broken into crumbly chunks.
“Some cheeky bastard’s stole half your cheese!
” she exclaimed, outrage dancing across her face in the form of widened eyes and a comedy pout.
Nell didn’t bother with social norms like keeping supplies in for visitors.
Given how much time he spent at the halls, Daniel would starve if he didn’t bring his own food.
“That was vintage cheddar!” He eyed Nell’s tray. The thief had made off with at least ten gourmet sandwiches’ worth of cheese. The sandwiches he charged double for when he sold them in the Hyndland shop where people were willing to pay for quality.
Still, the theft provided him with a neat opening. “Must be awfy annoying when people nick your food.”
Nell dumped the tray on the chest of drawers and handed him a mug. She took the other one and collapsed back onto the bed. “Totally!”
“Mebbe it would be nice to live somewhere where folks didn’t do that.”
“Like my own place? I wish. It will be fifty years into the new millennium before I can afford my own flat. And only then if I’ve managed that rare art school graduate thing of convincing people that I’m the new Picasso.”
He caught her hand in his, turning over the thin fingers in his palm. “Nell, your pictures are the dog’s bollocks.”
The tips of her other hand’s fingers brushed against his cheek. “Sweetie, you would say that!”
He could tell her a thousand times over that her work blew his socks off, but she’d never believe him. She never did. Still, the conversation had veered off course, and he couldn’t let the night slip away without an answer.
Grabbing her hand, he held it tight when she tried to pull away.
“Danny!” she protested, her tone half-annoyed, half-laughing.
The only person in the world he’d let call him that.
“Nell, I need to ask you something! A serious something!”
Her lips twitched. “Ooh! Okay, then! I agree to give the golden showers thing a try. I’m not convinced that it’s even remotely erotic but, if necessary, I will drink a pint of water, squat above you and—”
“No!” He grasped her fingers. “Jesus! Nobody wants anybody to pee in their mouth! Nell, I love you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Marry me, gorgeous. Please.”
Her eyebrows shot upwards, and her jaw dropped open. The mug she was holding slipped to the side and a tiny amount of red wine sloshed out and onto the folded back bed covers. A pink splotch spread out its tiny spiky tentacles.
Mid-December. Saturday night. Stereo systems and ghetto blasters competed all around them, with the thump of base through one wall, house through another and Euro pop adding its God-almighty awful contribution to the cacophony.
And yet here in Nell’s room, silence reigned.