Page 12 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter eight

The photo of Tadgh’s nephew—dark-haired, sharp-cheek boned, so like Danny—blurred in and out of focus. Nell blinked hard, her breath catching as she tried to steady herself, the effects of too much Prosecco on an empty stomach roaring back with a vengeance.

Three pairs of concerned eyes locked onto her.

“Nell? Nell, are you okay?” Stephanie leant in, voice tight with worry.

Nell gripped the wooden table, fingers splayed as if it could anchor her to the spinning ground beneath her. Words tangled in her head, fragments slipping out in a garbled mess.

“Any food… but how old… can’t be. No, too young… not his… not.”

Stephanie shot Grant a meaningful look, and he was on his feet in an instant. “I’ll see where that grub is,” he muttered, hurrying off.

A waiter swept past, plates balanced expertly in both hands, trailing a wave of garlic so intense it could have cleared out a vampire convention.

Saliva flooded Nell’s mouth in an ominous rush. If she didn’t move right now, the worst thing in the world was about to happen.

“’Scuse me.”

She shoved past Grant and the waiter, barely registering the clatter of a plate smashing to the floor or the waiter’s indignant “Hey!” as she barrelled through the crush of bodies.

Perfume and sweat thickened the air, the press of people suffocating. Women drenched in floral clouds. Men using the crowd as an excuse to linger too close to breasts and backsides. The walls felt like they were closing in, the ceiling pressing lower.

The stink of the toilets hit before she even reached them—damp, chemical citrus barely masking the underlying sewage stench. She swallowed furiously, bargaining with the universe.

Be kind, cruel world. Let me at least get through the door before I throw up.

The universe obliged. She pushed open the door marked with the circle and the cross chromosome sign and barged into one of the cubicles, as a woman dipping her hands in and out of the Dyson hand-drier asked her something she couldn’t hear over the noise.

She sank to her knees, the cold stone tiles pressing against her skin. Sticky patches clung to her dress, anchoring her in place as she clutched the toilet bowl for support. Her stomach twisted in warning, saliva pooling in her mouth before she lurched forward, retching violently.

“Nell!”

A cool hand pressed against the back of her neck. “Are you okay?”

Stephanie’s voice cut through the fog in her head.

She pushed herself back onto her knees, blinking up at Stephanie, who had somehow conjured a glass of cold water out of nowhere.

Nell took it gratefully, the chill soothing her parched throat and washing away the revolting taste clinging to her tongue.

Stephanie extended a hand, and Nell grasped it, letting herself be pulled to her feet. Together, they tiptoed out of the cubicle and into the now-silent, deserted bathroom.

At the sink, Nell pumped liquid soap into her hands, scrubbing with hot water as though it might cleanse more than just her skin.

In the mirror, Stephanie’s gaze caught hers.

Compassion and concern radiated from her expression, but there was something else, too.

Something unreadable, lingering beneath the surface, quietly searching Nell’s face.

“Spit it out,” Nell said.

Stephanie pursed her lips. Something she did when she was wondering how to convey news. She settled for simplicity. “Och, it’s nothing! The picture on Tadgh’s phone. The boy looks so like… forget it. It’s just a co-incidence.”

“What, you thought he was Danny’s ?” Nell asked, incredulous. Why she sounded so surprised was anyone’s guess, considering that had been her first assumption too.

Stephanie handed her a wad of paper towels.

“No, of course not!” The words came out too quickly, but Nell let her continue.

“Tadgh doesn’t know who his nephew’s father is.

His older sister got pregnant when she was twenty.

The boy turned sixteen back in January. Their parents wanted to march her and the father down the aisle, but she stayed tight-lipped.

Never told anyone who he was. Not a soul. ”

Nell paused, counting backwards in her head. If the boy was sixteen, that meant he’d been conceived in 1999—just before the millennium, when everything had been… fine.

Well, fine-ish .

She focused on drying her hands, the paper towels crinkling loudly in the hush of the bathroom. “C’mon. Danny spent all of 1999 setting up the St Vincent Street shop, running outside catering, and touring festivals. I was with him most of that time.”

Besides, Danny’s mind didn’t work that way. The only mistress he ever wanted—ever worshipped—was work.

A new thought struck her. Earlier, she’d wondered if Grant and Tadgh’s sharp suits meant they’d been in court that day. But what if they weren’t fraudsters or petty thieves? What if they were the kind with violent streaks, quick tempers and no hesitation in settling scores with their fists?

Her heart, already fluttering, lurched into a frantic rhythm.

“Stephs… you didn’t show Tadgh any pictures of Danny, did you? There’s no way Ryan’s his, but Tadgh and his mate strike me as the type who’d track someone down, demanding paternity tests and they might not be gentle about it.”

Stephanie, a fixture at every Murray family party, celebration, and impromptu gathering, had a phone full of Danny photos. She shook her head.

“I didn’t,” she assured her. “And I doubt Tadgh or Grant even caught half of what you were saying, anyway.” She held something out. “Here.”

The human embodiment of the Scout motto Be Prepared , Stephanie dug through her handbag and produced a toothbrush still in its packaging along with a travel-size tube of toothpaste.

“Thanks,” Nell muttered, squeezing a generous dollop of blue gel onto the brush. She scrubbed furiously, running the bristles over her tongue and gums as if the action could wipe away not just the sour taste in her mouth but the entire situation.

She spat into the sink and straightened up. “I’ll just say I made a mistake.”

“Okay.” Stephanie’s response carried that same odd note Nell had picked up on earlier. “Do you think you should go home? You’re whiter than a milk bottle. We could flag down a taxi.”

Regret laced the suggestion. Stephanie had clearly been enjoying herself, likely picturing the night ending with her and Grant back at her flat, rather than playing nursemaid to her queasy best friend.

“You stay. I’ll go,” Nell said, glancing at the time. Twenty to eleven. Danny had mentioned the speeches and glad-handing would wrap up by eleven, so if she walked west along Bath Street, he could pick her up there. They’d be home and tucked up in bed by half-past.

Bliss.

“I can’t let you walk around there by yourself,” Stephanie protested when Nell explained her plan.

“Honestly, I’ll be fine,” Nell assured her. “A good night’s sleep is all I need. Buchanan Street’s packed at this time of night, and there’ll be cops everywhere.”

Stephanie still looked hesitant but nodded. “Okay. Just promise me you’ll message when you get home, yeah?”

“Promise. And you’re to do the same. I don’t want you waking up next to an axe murderer.”

Stephanie tapped two fingers to her temple. “Scout’s honour.”

At the top of the stairs, she pulled Nell into a quick hug. There was no way out without passing Tadgh and Grant’s table, where both men were still nursing drinks. Grant’s gaze roamed the room, lingering far too often on nearby women.

Not a promising sign. But Nell knew Stephanie would fall for him anyway.

Grant was just like every man Stephanie had ever introduced her to—cocky, self-assured, always scanning the horizon for the next, better option.

The type who had Stephanie clinging to the faint hope that this one would be The One .

As Nell walked past their table, she managed a polite wave, ignoring Tadgh’s booming, “Are you alright, hen?” followed by an even louder, “Who’s Danny?”

Buchanan Street buzzed with life, a chaotic flow of people weaving in and out of each other, laughing, shouting and debating their next destination. Nell slipped between the clusters, her head down.

At the bottom of the street, Frasers’ department store loomed, its windows glowing with displays of high-end makeup and perfume. Large banners, suspended at sharp angles from the shopfront, featured impossibly perfect women with flawless, airbrushed skin.

Unlike the boy on Tadgh’s phone, his cheeks marred with pockmarked acne scars that told the story of awkward teenage years.

Her heart thudded. Oh. Oh.

Danny had suffered from acne as a teen. By the time she’d met him, the worst had long passed, but she could still remember the faint, cratered texture of his skin. Scars that had only softened with time.

Her breath quickened. No. No, no, no.

She turned into Gordon Street. The queue for the city’s black cabs waiting outside Central Station was short. Grabbing a cab home would be much quicker than waiting on Danny to pick her up. She fired off a message to him and headed for the queue.

The cab driver was a taciturn sort, as reluctant to make small talk as Nell. In silence, the taxi glided over the Broomielaw Bridge, its path mirrored by a red and grey train pulling out of the nearby station. Less than fifteen minutes later, they pulled up outside her home.

“Keep the change,” she mumbled, stepping out into the cool night. Her hands fumbled with her keys, the metal slipping from her fingers and clinking against the gravel twice before she finally managed to unlock the door.

The front door creaked open, revealing the wide hallway with its dark parquet flooring, polished to a muted shine. As she stepped inside, Corrie came charging toward her, tail wagging, weaving eagerly between her legs.

“Alright, alright,” she murmured, heading to the kitchen to top up his bowl with a handful of biscuits. Corrie tucked in happily as she grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water from the fridge and trudged upstairs.

In her bedroom, she stripped off in record time and pulled the thick duvet over herself with a weary sigh. Corrie jumped onto the bed beside her, delighted to find plenty of space as there was just one occupant tonight.

Her gaze drifted to the photo on her bedside table: a younger version of herself, grinning ear to ear, wrapped in Danny’s arms. His chin rested on the top of her head, his face full of quiet, protective joy.

Could you have cheated on me…?

Tomorrow, she’d laugh it off. Make a joke of it.

Danny, you’ll never guess! We met these two guys tonight, and one of them had a picture of his nephew on his phone. The boy looked exactly like you. It was as if I’d been transported back in time. Weird, eh?

She closed her eyes, the words ringing hollow even in her mind.

Danny would laugh. Or he might be intrigued. What, there’s this young lad in Glasgow who looks a lot like me? Mebbe I should meet him!

Then, super-casual, she could say: Do you have something you need to confess? Only joking!

What if he replied, Yes ?

Would that give her the perfect opportunity to air her own secrets?

The thought flickered, sharp and unwelcome, but she cut it off with practiced precision. No. It didn’t.

A teenager with dark hair, high cheekbones, and spotty skin—hardly unique traits.

Her husband was of Irish descent, like a significant portion of Glasgow’s population, whose ancestors had fled famine and poverty to settle in the city.

Dark hair, pale skin and brown-black eyes were the Celtic calling card.

Tadgh’s nephew could share the genes of any number of men.

And besides, she’d seen the photo through an alcoholic haze. Her eyes had played tricks on her. The whole idea was absurd. When would Danny have even had the time to meet someone else, let alone…

No, it was ridiculous.

Regardless of how uncanny the resemblance seemed, the simplest explanation was the most likely. Just as Stephanie had said:

Pure coincidence.

Pure and simple .