Page 22 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter sixteen
“Are you okay?” the woman asked, her eyes searching.
Nell turned away, pretending to busy herself with the kettle as she waited for it to boil, her face hidden from view.
They stood in the cramped kitchen corner of the city council's communications department—a space set aside for making teas and coffees, grabbing filtered water or microwaving soup and ready meals.
It also doubled as a gossip hub, where employees congregated to vent when projects went belly-up or frustrations boiled over.
Like today.
It was after seven o’clock on a Friday, and nearly everyone else had long since fled to their homes, pubs or restaurants. Nell should have been one of them, but instead, here she was, standing awkwardly under the flickering fluorescent light.
She’d been in the job for three weeks, and the shock still hadn’t worn off.
Her only reference point for professional life thus far had been This Life , with its glamorous chaos, drug-fuelled antics and morally ambiguous trainee lawyers.
Slowly, painfully, she was beginning to realise how far removed that was from reality.
As one of the department’s in-house designers, she spent most of her time designing posters and leaflets that advertised services or urged people to pay their council tax and pick up their dog poo. Glamorous, it was not.
“Councillor McIlwray,” Nell mumbled, wiping her eyes. The councillor chaired several committees and seemed to take an almost obsessive interest in the communications department, meddling in projects with the enthusiasm of someone who thought they were indispensable.
The woman nodded sympathetically. Her thick fishtail plait hung neatly over one shoulder, and her lilac blouse was paired with a pencil skirt in a slightly darker shade.
She leant in conspiratorially, a faint waft of cigarette smoke tickling Nell’s nose.
“So, this wee leaflet of yours… ‘Do it again! Make it completely pink and put my picture on the front!’”
She mimicked Councillor McIlwray’s nasal, whiny tones with uncanny accuracy. Nell burst out laughing.
“Oh my God! Can you do anyone else?”
Her new ally grinned and launched into two more flawless impersonations. First, their department head, a Fifer whose rising intonations made every sentence sound like a question. Then the Lord Provost, nailing his broad Glasgow accent and pompous delivery.
Nell leant on the counter for support, laughter softening her body into jelly. When at last she caught her breath, she extended a hand. “I’m Nell.”
“I know,” the woman replied, shaking her hand firmly. “I’m Stephanie. Writer of hyperbolic press releases and personal slave to ensuring that power-mad cow gets at least two paragraphs of glowing quotes in everything we send out.”
The kettle clicked off.
“Tea? Coffee?” Nell asked, reaching for the mugs.
“Coffee, please. Black, no sugar,” Stephanie replied. “The drink of choice for every fatso trying desperately to resist the siren call of the kebab shop, chip shop, Indian, Chinese, pizza—tick your poison, folks—on a Friday night.”
Nell dumped the mugs on the counter, rolling her eyes. “Fatso? Don’t talk rubbish. I’d kill for your tits.”
The words escaped before she could stop them. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God. Sorry. Not that I’ve noticed. Um, I’ll just get back to coffee making and—”
As she fumbled for the kettle, her black handbag tipped over, spilling its contents onto the floor. Stephanie ducked to help, but Nell froze as a hairbrush, powder compact, notebook, pen, keys, tissues—and one glaringly obvious item—scattered across the tiles.
Stephanie’s eyes landed squarely on the pregnancy test. She straightened up, handing Nell the other items as Nell scrambled to shove the test back into the bag.
“Thought I was up the duff last year,” Stephanie said, as if the moment wasn’t wildly awkward. “Three bloody weeks late. Good job I wasn’t. Otherwise, I’d be a single mum right now. And no idea which of the five bastards to sue for child maintenance.”
“Oh!” Nell clapped a hand to her mouth, delighted and shocked at the same time. “The thing is… I’m married.” She tapped the thin silver band on her left hand. “So technically, there’s no reason for me not to have a kid.”
Stephanie’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell. Are you one of those people who’s got a portrait of themselves wrinkling in an attic somewhere?”
Nell shook her head, bracing herself for the inevitable reaction. “No. Believe it or not, I got married earlier this year. When I was twenty-one.”
Stephanie’s jaw dropped. She jabbed Nell’s arm playfully.
“Jesus Christ! We should stick you in the Kelvingrove Museum with a wee sign underneath: Ladies and gentlemen, this is an example of a lassie from the olden days, when women had to marry to avoid starving to death because no one would employ them or pay them enough when they did! ”
“You’re absolutely outrageous,” Nell said, laughing despite herself.
The truth was, when she married Danny, she’d lost touch with most of her art school friends, leaving a best-friend-shaped hole in her life. Maybe, just maybe, Stephanie could help fill that gap.
But first, there was the matter of the test.
Stephanie cocked her head. “Tell you what, do you want me to come with you while you do the test? Hold your hand? After you’ve washed it, obviously. I only tolerate other people’s pee on my fingers once I've known them for many years.”
Married couples were supposed to handle these moments together.
But the same instinct that had stopped Nell from telling Danny two weeks ago when she first suspected she might be pregnant kicked in again now.
Knowing for certain—one way or the other—would give her the chance to adjust, to think.
To figure out how to convince Danny of the right course of action.
“That would be lovely. Thank you,” she said softly.
Stephanie clapped her hands. “Right, here goes! Hope you’ve got plenty of liquid sloshing around in your bladder. If no wee pink line comes up on that thing—and I bet it won’t, it’ll be the stress of working in this shithole that’s made you late—shall we go out for drinky-poos to celebrate?”