Page 32 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter twenty-four

The sight of Nicky’s swollen stomach lingered with Daniel all week and into the next, a shadow he couldn’t shake.

By the time he got home at nine o’clock the following Friday night, knackered from wrangling supply and logistics for his ever-expanding fleet of vans and shops, he was running on fumes.

Nell met him at the door, her eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement.

She was wrapped in blue silk pyjamas, her hair twisted into a towel turban, and she shimmered with an almost otherworldly glow.

Her petite frame and impish grin gave her a pixie-like air, but tonight she looked almost ethereal, bathed in a warm golden aura that Daniel suspected only he could see.

“Read this!” she announced, thrusting a piece of paper towards him with dramatic flair.

“Aye, alright,” Daniel said, chuckling as he took it. “Let me get my jacket off first, eh?”

He closed the door behind him and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it neatly on the stand. As he did, Nell flitted down the hallway, clapping her hands and practically vibrating with energy.

The house, their fixer-upper in Pollokshields, was slowly coming together. Nell had finished the hallway a fortnight ago, and the air still held the faint tang of fresh paint. The off-white walls gleamed against the dark, polished hardwood floors, a transformation she was rightly proud of.

“This is the best news I’ve had in, like, a million years!” Nell declared, spinning on her heel and dancing back towards him.

The sheet of paper was a printout of an email addressed to Nell’s personal account, topped with a sleek grey-and-white logo. Beneath it, the words MacLennan Street Gallery stood out, accompanied by their tagline: Discovering the artists of the future .

Daniel’s eyes scanned the email quickly, his heart picking up pace as he read.

Nell had been offered a coveted slot at the gallery.

They planned a month-long exhibition showcasing emerging talent, and her charcoal sketches of Glasgow’s landscapes had “enchanted” them.

They loved, adored, were utterly captivated by three of the eight pieces she’d submitted.

Would she consider including them in the exhibition?

The email went on to explain that attendees were carefully vetted—serious art investors, the sort who spent significant sums on future masterpieces.

Before Nell could say a word, Daniel swept her into a bone-crushing hug. “You see! I’ve always said you were the next Picasso! And you are, you are! ”

He punctuated his words with an enthusiastic flurry of kisses, ignoring her laughing protests as she tried to squirm free.

The sound of their commotion brought Corrie, Nell’s absurdly spoiled cat, slinking into the kitchen.

He had likely been snoozing on the sofa, coating it—and every cushion—in a stubborn layer of ginger and white cat hair that no amount of lint rolling ever fully removed.

Spotting the pair, Corrie paused, tail flicking, before letting out a loud, imperious meow.

“Oh, come here, you hairy wee beastie,” Daniel said, leaning down to scoop him up. Corrie’s ears flattened, and his front paws stuck straight out in feline protest. Daniel ignored the theatrics and held the cat up, as Corrie’s tail swished from side to side.

“See, Corrie? Your mother is an artistic genius!”

Nell screwed up the bottom half of her face, half-laughing.

Normally, Daniel resisted indulging Nell’s habit of referring to herself as “mummy” when talking to the cat—especially given her staunch refusal to entertain the idea of being a real mother.

But tonight? Tonight, it felt right to humour her.

After all, she was a genius.

Well, a genius with a little help. Uncle Shane had come through on his promise, after all. No need for her to ever find out…

Nell kissed Corrie’s nose. The cat, ever the diva, swatted at her with an indignant paw, making her giggle as she retreated.

Daniel chuckled, lowering the affronted feline gently to the floor.

Corrie bolted, his tail flicking high, obviously desperate to escape any further attempts on the part of the usually unresponsive human to lift him up.

“If I’d known, I would’ve bought champagne!” Daniel said, still grinning as he turned back to Nell.

She smiled, a little self-satisfied. “Ah, well. I bought some for myself. But I waited for you to get home before cracking it open.”

She never, God love her, tried to persuade him to drink, having accepted his decision to quit some years ago unquestioningly. He followed her into the kitchen, where three sketches were propped up on the counter, the stars of the email that had transformed their night.

He flicked through them, each more striking than the last. The Finnieston Crane loomed dark and massive, a stark silhouette of old industrial Glasgow above the Clyde.

The Kelvingrove Museum, where they’d had their first date, seemed to glow even in charcoal; somehow, she’d captured the warmth of its red sandstone despite the medium’s monochrome constraints.

And finally, the Nelson Monument on Glasgow Green, alive with the small figures of children darting and dogs chasing, a snapshot of a city teeming with life.

“Why didn’t they pick your Queen’s Park one?” he asked, glancing up at her as she fussed with a champagne bottle.

She shrugged, bottle in hand. “Dunno. But three! That’s amazing enough. I’m honoured.”

She twisted at the cork, her lips pursed in determined concentration. Daniel held out his hand, suppressing a smile. This was one of their rituals: Nell attempting something she clearly couldn’t manage, stubbornly giving it a go, and eventually conceding defeat so he could step in.

The cork popped free with a soft pfft . He poured the champagne into the flute she’d set out beside the sketches, the bubbles rising in a lazy, celebratory drift. He filled the second glass with alcohol-free Appletiser, setting it beside hers.

He raised his glass. “To you, Nell Murray. The next Picasso!”

“To me!” She clinked her glass against his, grinning. “Though, I’m not a cubist. More Auerbach.”

He nodded, feigning recognition. Picasso was the only artist he could reliably name, and even that felt like an achievement.

“Nell Murray, the next Auerbach, then!” he declared with a grin.

“Destined to soon earn as much as her sandwich mogul husband!” she shot back.

He understood the truth beneath the joke.

The income gap had never bothered him, but Nell carried it like a stone in her pocket—unseen but always there.

Most of her old uni friends had long since overtaken her financially.

She rarely spoke of it, but he knew it stung.

If selling a few sketches at outrageous prices helped tip the scales in her mind, all the better.

“Ha. You say that, but sometimes I dunno if I am. The rates are going up again. I’ll probably have to shut one of the shops. Means a couple of folks out of work.”

“Oh, Danny.” She reached out, laying a hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry. But what if you added another van? They do well, don’t they? And far less overheads.”

He waved it off. “Aye, maybe. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me more about this big exhibition. What else needs doing?”

“Well, the first day of the exhibition is the big one,” she said, taking another sip of champagne.

Her cheeks glowed, whether from the alcohol or excitement, he couldn’t tell.

“I talked to a guy I went to art school with—he’s done a few exhibitions—and he says the trick is to show up drunk or stoned.

Apparently, rich buyers are more reassured if they think they’re buying art from someone a bit…

unstable. Oh, and you’re supposed to act like you don’t give a flying fuck if they buy anything or not. ”

Daniel glanced at her sketches again. “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen.”

“Exactly!”

“When does it start?”

“First day’s the seventh of October. That gives me three months to become a raging alcoholic-slash-drug addict and churn out ten more sketches, just in case the exhibition is a runaway success and MacLennan Street Gallery says, ‘Nell, Nell, we need you to do a solo show with twenty more masterpieces!’”

Her words tumbled out in a rush, her excitement bubbling over, much like the champagne in her glass. She hadn’t even noticed his grin falter, too caught up in planning what other Glasgow scenes she might sketch and fantasising about quitting her hated job at White Lightning Communications.

“The launch starts at seven,” she continued. “It’s a Friday, but the gallery’s on Bath Street, only five minutes from your office. You can come straight from work, right? It’ll be perfect!”

He forced a smile, though his chest tightened. The date stuck in his mind like a shard of glass.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, moving to the fridge. The dark green champagne bottle nestled next to the milk inside and seemed to glare at him accusingly. He grasped for distraction. “I could knock you up an omelette. Wi’ onions and tomatoes. There’s that vintage cheddar you like—”

“Danny. The seventh of October,” Nell said sharply, her voice rising as she slammed the fridge door shut. She grabbed his shirt sleeve, tugging him to face her.

Her eyes searched his, and he could see the realisation dawning. After nine years together, they knew each other’s flaws too well. His distraction tactics were as transparent to her as hers were to him.

“You can’t make it, can you.” she said flatly. Not a question, but a statement.