Page 31 of Forever, Maybe

Stephanie rummaged in her tote bag and pulled out her battered iPhone 6s—which, miraculously, still took razor-sharp pictures. The three of them squeezed together as she held the phone aloft, directing Cate to purse her lips and give the camera a good pout.

“Perfect!” she declared, flashing them the screen.

It was heads and shoulders—no sign of Stephanie in her underwear or Cate in a dress bunched awkwardly at her waist, knickers proudly on display. Just three women, their faces pressed close, smiling into the lens.

Nell stared at it, eyes pricking in that annoyingly familiar way.

One day, she’d treasure this photo. Wish that she could step back into the exact moment Stephanie had caught on camera.

Her mother was beginning to disappear—not all at once, but gradually, like an old film reel slipping from its spool, memory fraying frame by frame.

A slow, quiet unravelling. A kind of reverse pixelation.

The pieces of Cate that had always been solid and familiar—her laugh, her quickness, the way she knew just when to squeeze Nell’s hand—were starting to blur, to slip quietly out of frame.

“Okay!” Stephanie clapped her hands. “Let’s get changed, and the makeover begins! You ready, Cate?”

Cate nodded—an old instinct still flickering, guiding her to trust the voice that sounded like it knew what it was doing.

Nell helped her out of the dress and back into her jumper and skirt, the soft, familiar fabrics of home.

They settled Cate into the armchair. Stephanie whipped a bottle from her bag—thickening spray for hair, she announced. Worked bloody miracles.

She sectioned Cate’s faded blonde hair with expert fingers, spritzing the roots with the mist before aiming a hairdryer at them with the flair of someone on a makeover show.

And it did the job. The limp, defeated clumps of hair began to lift and plump, forming a soft, halo-like frame around Cate’s face. For the first time in days, she looked a little less lost. A little more herself.

Then came the make-up. Stephanie kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as she dabbed and blended—explaining each step like a beauty therapist on a mission.

Had Cate ever worn red lipstick? No? Well, they’d give it a whirl. What about Daniel—Nell’s husband—wasn’t it hilarious that he’d walked in on two women in their underwear, when neither of them were his wife. Outrageous!

Cate gave a delighted hee-hee, eyes crinkling.

All the questions were yes or no. Easy. Answerable.

Nell, watching from the side, felt a pang. She’d spent the last two days trying open-ended questions. Trying to coax connection, spark memory. That’s where she’d gone wrong. Stephanie wasn’t coaxing. She was meeting her mum where she was, and it was working.

The make-over was completed minutes later.

Cate looked transformed. Cream blusher added much-needed warmth to her cheeks, soft cream-brown eyeshadow emphasised the turquoise-blue of her eyes, and liner thickened her brows, cancelling out decades of over-plucking.

The lipstick, a soft pink gloss, made her lips much fuller.

“Mum, you look amazing!” Nell proclaimed.

“So old,” she murmured, while Nell and Stephanie assured her that she wasn’t.

Stephanie handed Cate a mirror. Her mother peered at her reflection, squinting.

There was something in her expression—an uncertain flicker, as though she didn’t quite recognise the face staring back.

But then she smiled, slow at first, gaining momentum until she looked, just for a moment, like Nell’s mum again.

She patted Nell’s hand. “You’re a good girl, Nell.

A very good girl. And he’s good too. Him.

” Nell watched as she rummaged through the dusty shelves of her memory, searching for a name.

“Him,” she said again. “Your husband. Not like that boy. That dreadful young man—taking advantage. What a bad, bad boy!”

Oh, shit. Shit, shit.

Stephanie’s brow furrowed, her eyes locking with Nell’s in confusion. Nell jumped in, fast, cutting her mother off.

“My turn for a makeover, Mum! Want to see what Stephanie does to me?”

Cate’s head turned, her face lighting up. “Oh, yes!”

Nell met her mother’s gaze with a smile, managing—through a subtle shrug, a flicker of her mouth and eyes—to silently reassure Stephanie: whatever that was, it was nonsense. A scrambled memory. Nothing to do with me.

It was just one more thing on the long list of behaviours common in dementia—blurring past and present, skipping names, making it hard to follow what they were trying to say.

Stephanie shrugged back and reached into her tote bag, pulling out the brushes and palettes she needed. Once a journalist, she still had a nose for a story, but she also knew when not to chase it.

“Nell!” Stephanie said brightly, clapping her hands. “We’re about to use the magic of make-up to turn your already lovely face into something spectacular. Are you ready?”

“Do your damnedest.”

They let Cate stay put in the armchair, dragging over Nell’s stool so she could perch and be subjected to the mysteriously magical workings of Stephanie’s make-up box.

Ten minutes later, Nell opened her eyes.

Blinked. The reflection staring back was hers—and not.

Stephanie truly was a miracle worker. She’d used the same warm rose-gold eyeshadow Nell always did, but added a shimmer on top that somehow disguised the hooded effect that had crept in lately.

Some sorcery—a pencil, mascara?—had thickened her brows and made her eyes pop.

A sweep of highlighter gave her cheeks a soft, youthful glow. The lipstick—a sheer plum—pulled off a neat hattrick: plumper lips, whiter teeth and a face that somehow looked more in proportion.

The chime of the doorbell made all three of them jump. Nell glanced out the bedroom window, which offered a view of the front door, and wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, crap. It’s Trish. Who’s running hell in her absence?”

Stephanie smirked. “Dissing your ma-in-law is a total cliché.”

Nell stepped back from the window, half-convinced Trish would tilt her head, spot her and know she’d been slagging her off.

“Yup, so sue me. I am that cliché.” She sighed theatrically. “I’d better go face her. Mum, are you coming?”

Her mother glanced around, eyes flicking this way and that, paralysed by the sheer effort of making a decision.

Stephanie crouched beside her, one hand braced on the armrest, knees sticking out, her tiny stiletto heels sinking into the carpet like she was staging a one-woman act of domestic heroism.

“Ach, we’ll be down in a minute,” she said with a shrug. “You go deal with the Wicked Witch of the West. And make sure there’s a ginormous—and I mean, it, lake-like—glass of wine waiting for me.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, careful not to do it too closely in case she ruined the lipstick and blew her a kiss. Cate turned to look at her at the same time as she left the room, smiling, her dear old Mum, still there and not there, and…

Ach. Life. Always too ready to throw obstacles in your way.

If she hadn’t already, Stephanie had just secured her spot in Nell’s imagined afterlife—a personal heaven reserved for brilliant friends, kind husbands, beloved relatives (with the notable exception of Trish), and pets, because really, what kind of paradise didn’t include actual creature comforts?

Stephanie—who had always been there for her, who had always taken her side. Like that time she let Nell crash with her for ten days, the two of them sharing a cramped one-bedroom studio, negotiating space and sanity without a single complaint.

But the memory had a slippery border, leading into places Nell didn’t want to go. Her hand drifted to her neck, rubbing the cool skin as if she could smooth away the tension—or swipe aside the creeping shadows of the past, especially today of all days.

She caught her reflection in the mirror on the staircase, nestled among framed pieces of her charcoal artwork. And like Cate earlier, she didn’t recognise herself at first. The make-up had transformed her—prettier, younger perhaps, but also a little harder around the edges.

Probably a good thing.

Those ten days with Stephanie were a lifetime ago. And really, what use was the past, when there was nothing that you could change about it?