Page 3 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter two

“God, what a romantic story!” the journalist exclaimed. “Offering your lady love a free sandwich and then chasing after her to ask her out. How did you manage to meet up if neither of you knew the time?”

“I ran after her,” Daniel said. On the other end of the line, the journalist—Jennifer, she’d introduced herself earlier—let out a wistful sigh.

“Even better! A proper fairy tale.”

Daniel leant back in his chair, suppressing a wry smile.

He was in his city-centre office, a modest suite of rooms perched above his flagship shop on St Vincent Street.

His own space was the largest, comprised of a desk with a sleek iMac, three plush armchairs gathered around a low coffee table, and its walls adorned with a mix of framed photos of himself and Joe accepting various Taste of Scotland awards, and Nell’s charcoal sketches of iconic Glasgow landmarks, giving it a cosy yet professional feel.

Agreeing to this interview with the Scottish Post had taken some convincing.

Scotland’s best-selling broadsheet wanted to profile him for their weekend magazine, and Stephanie—Nell’s PR freelancer friend—had insisted he’d be a fool to turn down the free publicity.

Against his better judgement, he’d relented.

Jennifer had been thorough. She’d grilled him on how Stuffed! had grown from a humble sandwich van to a thriving mini-empire of shops, delis and festival pop-ups. She’d asked about the challenges, the milestones and the lessons learned. And then she’d shifted gears to his personal life.

Of course, he hadn’t told her everything.

But he had relayed the story of that night when he sprinted after Nell while Joe shouted from the van about not being able to manage the queue alone.

That was back in the days before mobile phones were everywhere and social media could solve life’s little logistical hiccups.

Simpler times. Better, in a lot of ways.

“Our readers will love that,” Jennifer threw in. “And after all these years, you’re still together. Incredible.”

Daniel’s brow concertinaed. Was it that incredible? There was a knock on the door and Joe stuck his head in. “Boss? Have you finished boasting about your brilliance yet? I was wanting a wee word.”

Daniel shushed Joe with a sharp gesture, pointing at the blinking red light on the conference phone. Every word would be crystal clear to the person on the other end.

A harsh, raspy laugh erupted from the speaker, making Joe wince. He grimaced theatrically, earning a fleeting smirk from Daniel.

“Yes, I’m just about finished here,” the woman on the line said, her voice still ringing with amusement.

“The photographer will be in touch to arrange times, and the article should run in a few weeks, depending on what else is happening in the news cycle. I’ll give you a shout when it’s confirmed.

The subs will have a field day with the headline.

Something like, ‘All hail Daniel Murray! The sandwich king’s bread and butter may be his chain of Glasgow shops and delis, but his ambitions go far beyond the city—and even Scotland. ’ You know the drill.”

Joe frowned, eyebrows knitting together, and Daniel shook his head. “Don’t mention the supermarket stuff,” he muttered.

“No, no, of course not!” the journalist replied, her voice almost too cheerful. “It’s all hush-hush. But I’ll be the first to know if it happens, won’t I?”

Daniel clenched his jaw. Damn it. He shouldn’t have let anything slip. Joe leant casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly waiting for the fallout.

“Eh… aye. Maybe,” Daniel said. “Probably won’t, though.”

“Oh, I think it probably will,” she countered breezily. “Anyway, thanks, Danny.”

“It’s Daniel ,” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended. Only Nell got to call him Danny.

“Okay, Dan-iel ,” she replied, her tone noticeably cooler now. “Thanks so much for your time.”

Joe’s smirk widened as Daniel rolled his eyes. The goodbyes wrapped up quickly, and as Daniel hung up, he let out a long sigh, the force of it lifting his fringe half an inch off his forehead.

“‘Danny,’ eh?” Joe drawled, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are callin’. From glen to glen and down the mountain side…’”

“Wheesht!” Daniel shot back, jamming his fingers into his ears. “You’ll have every cat in the neighbourhood howling along wi’ that racket.”

Truth be told, Joe’s singing voice had been good enough to land him a coveted spot as an altar boy back in their childhood.

But these days, he seemed more interested in weaponising, rather than showcasing it.

His grin only grew wider, and he plonked himself in one of the squishy armchairs sticking his feet on the table and his arms behind his head.

Despite working with Daniel for almost twenty years, he was still a tall, skinny rake of a man whose waist size was at odds with his undiminished appetite for wraps and sandwiches.

Unlike Daniel, who regularly gave thanks to that maternal grandfather who’d sported thick, dark locks well into his 60s and whose genes he’d inherited, Joe’s hairline had receded substantially.

He’d shaved off what remained of his hair to disguise it.

“All hail the king of sandwiches, eh?” The smirk planted itself firmly back on Joe’s face. “What does that make me? The crown prince? The joker?”

Daniel raised his middle finger in the air, wiggling it for emphasis. “Piss off. You were the one who said doing an interview was a brilliant idea. What do you want, anyway?”

“Eh… the thing is—”

Joe swung his feet off the table, only to knock a silver-framed wedding photo of Daniel and Nell onto the floor. The clatter made them both wince.

“Shite—sorry,” Joe muttered, stooping to pick it up. He dusted the frame off carefully, but the interruption jogged Daniel’s memory.

“Joe, d’you mind if I check something on the computer? Won’t take long.”

“Aye, sure.”

The wedding photo on the table, him in a hired kilt, Nell in a white sheath that emphasised the skinniness of her arms and shoulders, uttered silent recriminations as Daniel asked the search engine for ‘twentieth wedding anniversary presents’ and skimmed the results.

China was the usual gift, according to Google, but he couldn’t picture the key to Nell forgiving him for abandoning her last-minute on Thursday night lying in a porcelain dinner set, no matter how gorgeous the blue-green glaze.

Besides, hadn’t she pointed out (repeatedly) that time was the most precious gift he could give her?

He pulled up a browser and typed ‘five-star hotels’ .

Multiple options flashed across the screen, many boasting deals for the late May bank holiday weekend.

Perfect. They could hop on a train, escape their ordinary routines, and immerse themselves in luxury in Bath, Birmingham or even London.

The Langbourne, an Edwardian masterpiece in the heart of the capital, caught his eye.

Its offer of a two nights’ stay with breakfast and dinner promised opulence at a breathtaking price.

The non-refundable deposit alone was on par with what he and Nell had paid for an entire week in Crete years ago.

His fingers hovered over the ‘Book Now’ button as his mind raced, already calculating how to carve out the time from an overstuffed schedule. But then again, if anyone called the boss to complain they’d run out of bread, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Click. Done.

The hotel website’s confirmation email landed in his inbox seconds later, and he forwarded it to Nell. I’m an arsehole. Will this mini-break for your birthday make up for it…? X

“All right, I’m finished,” he told Joe as he switched the Mac off. “Is this something you need to tell me good or bad?”

“Good. Well, good for me anyway. Dunno about you, though.”

He’d lost that habitual grin. Daniel’s heart lurched. Had the very able Joe had been poached by another company willing to pay him the far better salary he deserved after all these years?

“Tell you what. I’ve had enough o’ this stuffy office. Fancy a walk to the Hyndland shop wi’ me? You can tell me everything on the way.”

They stepped out of the office building, turning right toward Hyndland as Joe launched into a detailed account of the trouble his eldest—a girl—was already stirring up, and the chaos he expected was still to come, all in response to Daniel’s casual inquiry about his kids.

April’s fine weather had lingered, blessing the city with a bright, sun-drenched day.

Glasgow’s office workers seized the chance to bask in it, claiming every bench around Blythswood Square.

In the gardens, daffodils stood in full, golden bloom, nodding gently as people unwrapped their lunches beneath the cloudless sky.

Daniel’s gaze swept over them automatically, scanning for the telltale black-and-red bags that marked his shops’ sandwiches and wraps.

Too few. A small knot of irritation tightened in his chest. The spring promotions clearly weren’t hitting the mark.

He’d need to revisit the offers, tweak the strategy and figure out how to draw more of these lunchtime crowds into Stuffed! .

Joe nodded when he mentioned it. “That’s my opening, then.

I’ve got an idea. Recipe boxes. Saw it on a TV ad.

What if we made them up wi’ quality ingredients and recipes for a week’s worth o’ dinners, so that punters only need to buy one or two other fresh foods?

Could be a great wee money spinner, eh?”

The idea chimed with every bit of business advice Daniel had ever been given.

Adapt, diversify, meet your customers where they are at.

Recipe boxes were a great half-way house between ready meals and cooking for yourself.

“Aye. Could work. Come up wi’ a plan for it, figure out the logistics, costings, etcetera.

Might be something Ronnie would like to invest in. ”