Page 34 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter twenty-five
Nell headed downstairs. No-one had yet answered the door.
Danny was out back in the garden. Another cliché.
He was firing up the expensive barbecue he'd bought a couple of years ago, after conducting a ridiculous amount of online research.
Gas-fired, enormous and capable of grilling enough sausages, burgers, chicken wings and their vegetarian equivalents to feed a small army.
(Only for the barbecue to sit idle for most of the year—his long work hours and the ever-uncooperative Scottish weather sub-optimum for regular grilling.)
Joe and his lot had already arrived, clearly via the garden gate, which explained why she hadn’t heard them.
Their kids were swarming around Calamity Jean, the children’s entertainer Nell had hired for the afternoon.
Clown shoes, red nose, the lot. Worth her weight in gold—the kind the Swiss stored in vaults for wealthy, ethically flexible clients.
The doorbell rang again.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she muttered, throwing a defiant, hopefully unseen (though she wouldn’t put it past her mother-in-law to have x-ray vision) two-fingered salute with both hands.
The childishness of it made her giggle. She’d once assumed, back in her teens, that adults didn’t do that sort of thing.
That by your late twenties, some internal switch flipped, triggering sensible, impeccable behaviour from then on.
No more hysterical laughter at farts, dainty sips of wine and gracious refusals of seconds.
No more late-night Nutella eaten straight from the jar with a teaspoon (or your finger).
Just solemn nods about interest rates and the unsettling realisation that you finally understood pensions.
No. No, no, no, and absolutely not.
By the time she reached the front door, the bell had rung a third time. Danny was still in the garden, oblivious. She pasted on her best “hello, lovely mother-in-law” smile—greatly improved by the makeover Stephanie had just given her—and flung the door open.
“Hello, Nell, love. How are you? I’ve brought fairy cakes.”
Her mother-in-law might be the last person on Earth still making fairy cakes instead of cupcakes, and for that, Nell grudgingly approved.
Cupcakes were, to borrow a Glasgow phrase, an “aw fur coat nae knickers” confection—an excessive pile of icing that promised more than it delivered.
Fairy cakes, with their modest swirl of frosting, were far more satisfying in the flavour department.
Trish’s appearance hadn’t changed a bit in all the years Nell had known her.
Her bob was precision-engineered, the mahogany brown hair falling in perfect symmetry around her face, with two blonde streaks framing her parting like goalposts.
The make-up was the same too. Sapphire blue eyeliner, two vivid stripes of blusher carved along her cheekbones and an orangey-pink lipstick that Stephanie swore she must have bulk-bought as a teenager and never strayed from.
Over one shoulder, Trish carried a handbag and, slung alongside it, a cotton tote bag. Spray bottles jutted out of the top.
“Shall I give the bathrooms a wee clean for you, love?”
Nell’s jaw tightened, tension radiating upwards. “No need, Trish! The cleaner came on Friday, and I gave them a quick spruce this morning.”
Trish shook her head, her bright smile unwavering. “Och, it’s no bother! Lakeland in the Buchanan Centre sells the most marvellous shower spray. Shifts soap scum in seconds. Why don’t I dump the cakes and crack on?”
Before Nell could muster a reply, Trish was off, sailing past her like a battleship on a mission. She greeted Bobby, who had materialised in the hallway, and then swept into the kitchen.
I shouldn’t let her get to me.
Nell’s shoulders, missing the memo, were already inching toward her ears.
Trish’s standards of cleanliness operated on an entirely different plane—impossibly high, vaguely terrifying and the living embodiment of the phrase cleanliness is next to godliness .
Nell’s brief stint living with her had left her in a constant state of feeling inadequate, forever trailing behind some unattainable domestic ideal.
She could already hear her mother-in-law shooing Corrie from the kitchen with a sharp, “Get out, you germy little thing!” Never mind that her poor old cat was far too arthritic to leap up onto any surface, let alone the counters.
Danny’s father, as always, hovered just behind Trish like a cautious shadow. Still on the doorstep, he gave Nell a brief nod—a man who had always been far more at ease with other men than with women.
“Jack, hello! Oh, and Shane too. I didn’t know you’d be coming.”
Trish must have strong-armed her older brother into dressing the part.
His outfit mirrored Bobby’s almost comically: grey slacks, a moss-green jumper over a collared shirt and tie and polished brown loafers.
Despite Danny’s careful avoidance of specifics, Nell knew enough to understand that Shane, in his prime, was a man others feared.
Hard to believe now, seeing him looking every inch the retired bank manager.
“Thought I should keep an eye on my investment,” Shane croaked, patting her arm with a liver-spotted hand as bony as his voice.
Nell didn’t bother correcting him. Danny owed Shane nothing, but his wife’s sudden death three years ago had knocked the stuffing out of him. If clinging to the illusion of ownership over Danny’s business brought him a little comfort, she wasn’t about to take it away.
She ushered them towards the garden, where Danny—dressed in the timeless uniform of barbecuing husbands, a green Olivio Oil apron draped over his lumberjack shirt and jeans—stood wielding a set of tongs.
The sausages on the grill sizzled obligingly, the scent as much a hallmark of British summer as unpredictable weather and wasps.
The second Danny spotted Shane, his face betrayed a fleeting oh no , quickly replaced by a broad, cheery grin.
“Shane! Good to see you!” he boomed, clapping his uncle on the back with overdone enthusiasm.
He repeated the gesture for his father. Over their heads, he shot Nell a sheepish look that said, Sorry, I must’ve invited him the other night and forgot to mention it.
Jack wasted no time diving into the inevitable football conversation.
He launched into a detailed post-mortem of last week’s game, and Nell watched Danny slip into his well-practiced nod-and-smile routine.
Years of listening to his father’s monologues had made him an expert at looking engaged, even though she knew football meant next to nothing to him.
Jack, on the other hand, remained oblivious. Even after all these years, he still stared at Danny sometimes, as though trying to puzzle out how he could possibly have fathered a son so driven and so successful.
Behind her, Cate and Stephanie stepped into the garden, Bobby booming with approval at how nice Cate looked.
Nell turned to smile at them, guilt and resentment twisting in her chest—those two seldom arrived separately—as she wished, shamefully, that it had been Trish who got dementia, not her own mother.
On her way back into the kitchen, she passed them and said to Stephanie, “Still want that ginormous glass of wine?”
“Totally.”
Stephanie followed her back into the kitchen, where every surface in the kitchen groaned under piles of food, paper plates and stacks of upside-down glasses.
Her friend didn’t miss a beat, peeling clingfilm off platters of sandwiches, tubs of coleslaw and finger foods, while Nell poured her a full-to-the-brim glass of rosé.
“Thanks again for the make-overs.” She passed the glass to her friend.
Stephanie shrugged. “Nae bother. It’s good practice, anyway, for someone who intends to set herself up as a make-up and skincare expert online.”
“How’s that going?”
Stephanie took a sip, carefully angling the glass to preserve the dark plum lacquer on her lips.
She pursed them, tongue flicking out to avoid smudging the colour, then let out a soft, appreciative sigh.
“Aye, not bad. Still haven’t launched the platform, though.
Sticking to the advice I give every client to create loads of content first, then hit your audience with it. Bang, bang, bang.”
“I’m happy to help tweak your website,” Nell offered. “And sort out branding for your new identity. For free, obvs.”
It would make a nice change to design something that would look truly beautiful.
In her mind’s eye, she could see it now.
High Heels and Pink Glitter, the name Stephanie had chosen, permitted all kinds of delightful artistic interpretations.
A modern, pink-based palette for the background, logos and headers in serif typography, the hero image on the front page a chic flat lay of heels and beauty essentials.
Stephanie raised her glass in a mock toast. “Careful, or I’ll take you up on that.”
“Please do, honestly. It would be an absolute pleasure.”
The garden buzzed with a rising tide of voices and movement, teeming with bodies of all sizes—adults and children alike. More guests must have slipped in through the back gate. Nell spotted Luke and Sarah, Danny’s other siblings, and Dennis with his partner.
“Where’s your ma-in-law?” Stephanie asked, nodding toward the garden.
Nell pulled a face. “Cleaning the toilets. Because obviously, they’re in dire need of it.”
Stephanie’s lips twitched. “Nell, love. Shall I give the loos a quick once-over for you? Just to make sure there are no lingering skid marks or—heaven forbid—any floating presents ? Because Lord knows, you’ve never prayed hard enough to Saint Zita for help with the housework.”
The mention of Saint Zita gave Nell pause for a second until she remembered the Italian patroness of domestic servants and the poor.
The reference was spot-on, but it was the mimicry that really did it: Stephanie nailed Trish’s faint Irish lilt— “wid da” for “with the” —so perfectly that Nell burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, it was at that precise moment Trish reappeared, clutching her tote bag full of bathroom sprays and scrubbing brushes.
She gave them both a look that could strip wallpaper. “I’ll see if anyone wants sandwiches,” she announced stiffly, sweeping up a tray and clicking out of the kitchen in her heels.
“Oops,” Stephanie whispered, slapping a hand over her mouth. “I’ve just reconfirmed her terrible opinion of me.”
Nell shrugged. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You know what she’s like. Trish’s list of disapprovals could wrap round the garden twice. If you’re going to end up on it, might as well land with style.”
Danny appeared in the doorway, brandishing a pair of kitchen tongs like a man prepared for battle.
If his mother had complained about being the punchline in a joke between her daughter-in-law and Stephanie, there was no sign of it.
Nell made a mental note to mention it to him later—and to apologise.
Trish was Trish, but she was still his mother, and laughing, however irresistible, had felt disrespectful.
He snagged an alcohol-free beer from the counter, then threw Stephanie a smirking glance. “Stephanie! Didnae recognise you with your clothes on.”
She gave him an eye roll so exaggerated it was a wonder her eyeballs didn’t eject from her head. “Hilarious. Honestly. You should have knocked. Anyway, how did that interview with the Scottish Post journalist go?”
“Ach.” Danny waved a hand dismissively. “It was fine, but it dragged on and on and on. Funny thing is I bumped into her again this morning in Queen’s Park. She must have to get up awfy early to plaster on all that make-up and sort her hair.”
He’d bumped into her again…? The skin on the back of Nell’s neck prickled as she recalled the journalist’s pointed question about Jamie Curtice when they’d crossed paths in the park earlier that week.
She’d known, instinctively, that she recognised Jennifer from somewhere but no matter how hard she searched her memory, the woman’s face refused to slot into place.
It was as if she were a near-perfect replica of someone familiar, a lookalike hired to impersonate a person Nell should know. Close, but not quite. The kind of resemblance that made you frown, unsettled by the almost-but-not-quite rightness of it.
“Did she mention when the feature’s coming out?” Stephanie asked.
“In about a month, apparently. Dunno if she’s any good, though,” Danny said, directing his words to Stephanie. “Keeps asking follow-up questions. Like the other day. She wanted to confirm how long we’ve been married, even though I told her during the interview, and she recorded it.”
The prickle on Nell’s neck flared into a hot, crawling itch. Why had the journalist circled back to that, especially right after mentioning White Lightning Communications?
Had she let something slip to Danny without realising? Something he’d eventually piece together?
The heat gave way to a cold, creeping chill, like ice water trickling down her spine.
God. What if she had?