Page 28 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter twenty-one

“Make him stop snoring. Or, honest to God, I will stab him. Through the eyes.”

Nell’s hissed whisper dragged Daniel out of sleep. For a disoriented moment, the unfamiliar surroundings left him baffled. Where was he? The smell—grass, the innocent green kind and weed, the druggy kind—brought everything crashing back.

A sweaty sleeping bag. Squashed against his wife. Inside a tent. In a field.

The pig-like snort beside him—wet, rattling, and offensively loud—completed the picture.

Joe. Their tent’s third, entirely unwelcome occupant.

The three of them were at a music festival, not as wide-eyed attendees soaking up the atmosphere, but as stallholders, slinging overpriced sandwiches and wraps to crowds of drunken, stoned festival-goers.

Joe, oblivious as ever, lay on his back, mouth agape, serenading the tent with yet another cacophonous snore. It ended with a wet, wheezy flourish, as if his nasal passages were clapping for themselves. Then he sighed, rolled over and farted.

The stench—a repulsive blend of recycled veggie chilli and something reminiscent of rotting cabbage—wafted through the tent like an act of biological warfare.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Nell was no longer bothering to whisper. Joe didn’t stir, instead burrowing deeper into the coat he’d commandeered as a makeshift pillow and exhaling a new symphony of rattles and wheezes.

Daniel shifted uncomfortably, his right thigh protesting at the unforgiving lumps of soil beneath him.

The sleeping bag—a relic borrowed from a cousin—was as thin as a damp tissue.

The tent was no better, a flimsy contraption that offered about as much protection from the elements as a soggy napkin.

Proper campers invested in gear that didn’t feel like punishment.

“How about I buy you breakfast?” he murmured to Nell.

Every food stall at T in the Park, including his, charged a fortune for their wares.

A captive market was the stuff of business dreams, as Uncle Shane never tired of saying.

Yesterday, during one of the big sets—when everyone had flocked to the NME stage for Biffy Clyro—Daniel had wandered around the other stalls, mind boggled by the audacity of their prices.

“The value of a thing,” Shane always preached, “isn’t in what it’s actually worth, but in how much folks are prepared to pay for it. And you’ve got to convince them that what you’re selling is worth a helluva lot more than it really is.”

Back in the tent, Nell wriggled free of the sleeping bag, muttering curses under her breath.

Neither of them had bothered to change the night before, so she was still in her black leggings and sweatshirt, both rumpled from sleep.

Smudged mascara darkened the corners of her eyes, and her blonde hair stuck out in wild, clumpy tangles.

She threw a murderous glare at the still-snoring Joe before directing it at Daniel. “Right. Make it a bloody buffet. With champagne. And a hitman.”

Unlike him or Joe, both pinned down by the tent’s Hobbit-like dimensions, Nell managed to stand up and slip outside. The tent flap snapped in the breeze behind her. Daniel struggled his way into a hoodie and followed her out a moment later.

He found her combing her fingers through her hair, glaring at the world.

Around them, fellow campers shuffled about, rubbing their bleary eyes and checking their phones.

Some had underestimated the Scottish summer and yesterday’s blazing sunshine had left their skin an unholy shade of lobster red.

Shoulders, noses and foreheads glowed like walking advertisements for skin cancer warnings.

From nearby stalls, the hiss of sausages and bacon on hot plates wafted through the air. The smell, rich and greasy, had drawn long queues of ravenous festival-goers.

“Look at them,” Nell muttered, nodding toward the queues. “Trudging along, all burnt and hungover. Think we could charge twenty quid for a bacon roll?”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Uncle Shane would be proud.”

She smiled, grudgingly, but with a touch more cheer, and pointed to a stall three units down. “Can you get me something from there, please?”

The crew at the stall—a couple of men and a woman in standard-issue black catering T-shirts, aprons, and caps—were busy plating up smoked salmon on toasted bagels, topped with poached eggs and a glossy drizzle of Hollandaise sauce.

Daniel saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

Minutes later, he returned with the bagel.

As Nell admired it, a globule of Hollandaise slid down the side of the egg.

Daniel swiped at it with his finger and licked it off, wrinkling his nose.

The smoked salmon’s flavour was overpowering.

True to West of Scotland male tradition, he preferred his fish white, battered and steeped in enough vinegar to pickle a barrel’s worth of herrings.

“Fit’s that? Looks yummy!”

The voice was bright, slightly nasal, and far too close. A ginger-haired woman, their age, with bug-like blue eyes, prodded the bagel in Nell’s hand.

Nell recoiled, clutching the bagel to her chest like a prized possession. “Smoked salmon and Hollandaise,” she said, her tone edged with disbelief.

The woman scrunched up her nose. “Fuck that. Cannae eat it. Smoked salmon’s raw, int it? Nae good for this.”

She cradled her stomach, a smooth, protruding bulge peeking out beneath a cropped crochet top and loosely fastened jeans, the top button undone.

Daniel couldn’t help but stare. The sheer fullness of it was startling, like a balloon pumped to capacity.

A dark line bisected the curve, making it look like whatever was inside might burst out at any second.

“Nicky!”

The cry made all three of them turn.

Joe.

He ambled toward them, his expression flickering with what looked like dismay before settling back into his usual genial grin. He slung an arm around the ginger woman’s shoulders, grinning wide.

“I see ye’ve met the boss, then.”

Daniel blinked. God Almighty. Joe had kept this one quiet.

“The boss? Ah, so this is the famous Daniel! The loon who keeps ye workin’ aw the time?” Nicky stuck out her hand with a grin. “Nae offence, like.”

“None taken.” Daniel shook it, nodding toward Nell. “This is Nell.”

“Welcome to the sisterhood,” Nell said, her tone acerbic. “Of women whose partners work all hours, every day, week in, week out. The only way I could see Danny this summer was to sign up for sandwich van duty. When’s the baby due?”

“Beginnin’ o’ November,” Nicky replied.

Something in Daniel and Nell’s expressions must have shown, because Nicky grinned and patted her stomach. “I ken! Looks like I’m aboot tae pop in a few weeks, eh? Fit aboot you?”

“Me?” Nell blinked.

“Aye,” Nicky said breezily. “Are you an’ the boss plannin’ any?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and awkward.

“No,” Nell said firmly, breaking the pause.

Daniel glanced at her, feeling the familiar sting.

His Catholic family had asked the same question countless times.

Early in their marriage, Nell had given vague answers: We’re young yet, or Too busy at the moment.

These days, she’d perfected the art of the royal “No”.

Calm, unequivocal, no explanation needed.

Joe scuffed his feet, his gaze flitting to the ground. Nicky’s eyes flickered between Nell and Daniel, then back to Joe. A spark of curiosity.

“Where you staying?” Daniel asked, steering the conversation away from dangerous territory.

Nicky gestured toward the car park. “Drove here earlier. I’m no’ campin’. I need tae pee ten times a night now. Got tickets fae Coldplay later. Mebbe Joe could come wi’ me?”

Daniel nodded, relief creeping in. He and Nell could manage the stall while Joe was away, as it was unlikely to be busy during Coldplay’s set.

Joe pointed toward a stall at the edge of the field selling bacon rolls. “Want one o’ them?”

“Aye, mebbe more than one. I’m eating for two, mind.”

She and Joe wandered off together.

Nell took a bite of her bagel, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Wow. Did you know anything about her?”

“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended.

It stung. Not just a girlfriend, but a pregnant one—and Joe hadn’t said a word to him, his oldest friend and boss.

Then again, Joe probably thought he was being considerate, sparing Daniel the reminder of those early days of his marriage, when he’d misread Nell’s cues and let himself believe she was pregnant.

Nell handed him the second half of her bagel. “I’m full. I’m heading back to the tent. See if I can grab some kip before it all kicks off again. Then I’ll see how clean I can get with a packet of baby wipes.”

He nodded, watching her disappear into the milling crowd, then tossed the half-eaten bagel into a nearby bin.

The festival buzz carried on around him—sun high, grass trampled, the air thick with the smell of burgers and bacon—but he was miles away.

Lost in a persuasive conversation that hadn’t happened yet but would.

Soon. Very soon.