Page 20 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter fifteen

Hi, Oscar, I've attached the pages with the adjustments you requested. Let me know what you think!

Nell signed off with an automatic kiss and muttered, “Shit!” as the email vanished.

Oscar was a client—one who’d commissioned a website to promote his new dog-walking and sitting business.

Would he now think she had a raging crush on him?

She grimaced but decided his nine-years-younger-than-her status likely meant he was used to everyone adding kisses to emails, texts and DMs.

Oscar had also mentioned wanting blogs and news items for the site—something Stephanie could handle through her freelance PR services.

Nell would need to pre-warn her, though.

Oscar was a solid one/three/five-star client in their shorthand system.

One star out of five for understanding the sheer effort design, writing and marketing involved.

Three stars for the inevitable revisions (and the endless emails asking for them).

But five stars for the part that truly mattered. He always paid bang on time. As a contractor himself, Oscar understood the importance of cash flow. A rare gem.

Nell stood and stretched, arms angling in opposite directions.

Her shoulder bones cracked audibly. She and Danny had converted the box room into her office, a tiny space overlooking the garden.

The window was fitted with a bird feeder—so far, gloriously grey squirrel-proof.

A long-tailed tit perched on the wire mesh, its claws gripping the feeder as it pecked at the fat balls. Its tail flicked rhythmically.

She watched the bird for a moment, exhaling softly.

Another of the same species fluttered down to join it—a fluffier, slightly bigger version of the first. The newcomer must be its offspring, as the parent pecked delicate morsels from the fat ball and gently placed them into the chick’s wide-open beak.

Her gaze wandered to the garden feeders below.

Last May, she and Stephanie had lounged in the striped deckchairs there, Prosecco glasses in hand, as the evening hummed with warmth and birdsong.

They’d watched the starlings arrive in waves, parents darting between fledglings to stuff one, two, sometimes three clamorous beaks at a time.

“God almighty!” Stephanie had exclaimed, waving her glass with disdain. “Baby birds are absolute bastards. If I were Mummy Starling, I’d tell the weans to go fuck themselves.”

Danny, mid-pour as he topped up their drinks, had paused. “But Ma and Pa Starling do their bit, don’t they? Then they bugger off and leave the weans to fend for themselves. That’s nature for you.”

Nell had wriggled her bare toes in the soft evening light, the Prosecco fizzing pleasantly on her tongue.

Talk of parenting always made her skin prickle, so she’d deftly pivoted the conversation into a spirited debate about the recent election and the prime minister’s promise that a referendum on continued EU membership would take place, asserting that it would end with a resounding ‘yes’ to remain.

Danny and Stephanie had agreed, their faith in common sense unshaken.

Outside, the gravel crunched under tyres as a car pulled up, scattering the long-tailed tits. Their little black wings flapped furiously, faster than their size seemed capable of. Nell frowned. No deliveries were due. Maybe Danny had ordered something for the party.

“Oi, wifey, I’m home!”

She spun from the window, her hand flying to her neck. What the actual…? Her eyes darted to the calendar on the wall, as if she’d misremembered the day.

12th April 2016. A Tuesday.

Definitely a Tuesday.

“Nell!” Danny’s voice rang out again, his tone playfully impatient. “Where are you?”

She dashed downstairs, finding him in the hallway, arms spread wide. He was wearing the black polo shirt with the red collar—the Stuffed! uniform—paired with dark jeans cuffed at the ankles.

“Surprise!”

“What the hell are you doing here?” she blurted, bolting into his embrace.

His arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her into the familiar warmth of his chest. “Och,” he murmured, his breath brushing the top of her head. “If a man wants to see his wife, he should be able to, eh? How about a picnic in the park, since the sun’s out?”

“I should be working,” she mumbled, even as her body melted into his. “I just sent Oscar his website pages for approval, and he’s bound to come back with some nitpicky quibble. If this job drags on any longer, it’ll throw off all my other clients.”

“Doggie Oscar?” Danny asked. He was well-acquainted with her client roster, courtesy of her frequent rants. “Nell, you’re far too soft. Next time he asks for more changes, tell him it costs extra. That’ll stop his nonsense.”

She sighed into his polo shirt, which smelled faintly of the new fabric softener she’d picked up last week. Danny showing up unannounced on a Tuesday afternoon—completely unprecedented—proved he had actually listened to her late-night tirade last Friday.

“Okay, okay, oh wise business guru. I’d better smarten up.” Nell tugged at the hem of her baggy pink sweatshirt and glanced down at her holey yoga pants.

Danny followed her upstairs to their bedroom, settling himself on the edge of the bed as she rummaged through the wardrobe. She searched for something suitable for early April—sunny but just shy of warm.

“What’s going on at work?” she asked, stepping into a pair of blue cargo pants and easing them over her hips. She swapped the sweatshirt for a thin, dark blue fleece, then grabbed her dark green vinyl raincoat because rain never stayed away for long in Glasgow.

Danny leaned back on his hands, watching as she moved to the mirror to apply tinted moisturiser, a swipe of mascara and a touch of lip gloss to brighten her pale complexion.

“Och, the usual,” he said, shrugging. “Busy, busy, busy. Joe’s come up wi’ this idea for meal kits, which I reckon has potential. But now he wants to take six months off as Nicky’s expecting again.”

She spun around, mid-swipe of gloss. “Again? But—”

“I know. Number five. Says she needs more help this time.”

Nell blinked, processing. “What are you going to do?”

He avoided her eyes, focusing on the floor instead. “Well, I cannae really refuse him. Liza can step up to cover Joe’s job, and I’ll hire someone else for the Hyndland shop.”

Ah. So that’s why Danny had gone all wistful at the frankly laughable possibility that she might be pregnant. Nicky and Joe’s effortless fertility was a stark contrast to his own quiet childlessness—a gap he rarely spoke of, but clearly carried. Nicky was only a year younger than her, after all.

Nell turned back to the mirror, smoothing the raincoat’s collar. She sighed, forcing a smile at his reflection. “Ready for that picnic, then?”

Queen’s Park was a ten-minute walk away. Not the largest park in Glasgow, but Nell loved its varied terrain and the spectacular views from the top: the sprawling city below, the Campsie Hills to the south, and the twin peaks of Stob Binnein and Ben More rising near Crianlarich to the north.

The lower section of the park buzzed with life.

Mums and grandparents pushed small children on the swings, while dog walkers skirted the pond, tugging at leads as their dogs strained to chase ducks.

Nearby, the playground and five-a-side football pitches echoed with laughter and the occasional sharp whistle.

Nell and Danny followed the paved path winding around the central hill.

By the time they reached the top, her heart and lungs protested the climb, but the view—and the reward awaiting her—made it worthwhile.

Danny spread a blanket on the grass in front of the flagpole marking the park’s best viewpoint, then gestured for her to sit.

She eased down, resting her back against his knees, his body shielding her from the chill breeze.

“How about a wee bottle of Prosecco?” he asked, pulling a cool bag closer.

“Doesn’t Glasgow’s byelaws ban drinking in parks?” she teased, watching as he stripped the foil cap off with practiced ease.

“Nobody can see us from here,” he replied, handing her the bottle.

Inside the cool bag lay a feast: baby peppers stuffed with cream cheese and paprika—her favourite—plump mixed olives, and a couscous salad. For himself, Danny had packed rotisserie chicken and a freshly baked baguette.

Nell took a sip of the Prosecco, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue as she leaned further into him, letting the city stretch out below them like a living, breathing postcard.

“You should paint this,” Danny said, gesturing to the view. “Bet you could sell pictures, no bother.”

“Mmm.” Nell’s response was deliberately vague.

Art for art’s sake often left her feeling hollow, like a pretender.

Really, what had she achieved in life? A freelance graphic design career that was only sustainable because she was married to a rich man, and those charcoal drawings adorning their walls.

They sometimes felt no better than the crayon scrawls parents proudly stick to the fridge.

The thought of offspring nudged her down an old, familiar rabbit hole, the kind she usually avoided.

A pang of something—shame, longing, or maybe both—lingered in her chest until an overweight golden retriever came bounding towards them.

Its tail wagged with unrelenting enthusiasm, swinging side to side on overdrive, its tongue lolling happily.

The interruption was a welcome reprieve.

“Daisy, Daisy, come here at once!”

Daisy’s ears barely twitched in response, as a woman approached them. “So sorry, she’s my mother’s blasted dog, and she gets far too much…” She paused, taking in Daniel.

“Hello, Sandwich King! How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. You?” Danny and the woman exchanged small talk. She must be the features editor who had interviewed Danny the other day, the one her husband had driven home the other night.