Page 35 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter twenty-six

Stephanie had shrugged an elegant, red lace-clad shoulder at Daniel’s question about the journalist being no good, saying that asking the same things twice just meant she was thorough—keen to get her facts straight.

“If you say so,” Danny had replied. “Anyway, I’d better get back to the barbecue. Or the sausages’ll end up like charcoal.”

He’d taken his beer and vanished outside.

Stephanie had raised her wine glass with a grin and a wink. “Time for me to mingle and jingle. Better make sure I dodge your ma-in-law, eh?”

With a flurry of clacking heels and a sweet-spicy waft of that fig perfume Nell had bought her for her birthday, she’d swept out, leaving Nell alone again.

The icy feeling down her spine began to ease.

No. Jennifer Frazer couldn’t have said anything to Danny. If she had, he wouldn’t have slipped into bed beside her last night, wouldn’t have reached for her the way he always did—one hand on her breast, the other sweeping down her side.

Would he have stiffened if he had known?

Stephanie once said—half bitter, half amused—that a man could hate you and still sleep with you. For a woman, though, hatred was the coldest shower in the world.

And if he knew… he’d hate her.

Nothing could have been said. She was letting her imagination run riot. She turned to the tubs, stacking the empties neatly by the sink, trying to make order of something.

The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts. When Nell swung it open, Mark greeted her with his usual lazy grin.

Of all Danny’s siblings, Mark resembled Trish and his eldest brother the most. Luke and Sarah had taken after their father, but Mark’s hair colour, style and build often made him a near double for Danny—at least from a distance.

Up close, the differences stood out. Her husband would never wear jeans that tight or ankle-grazing, but the faded denim jacket? That was Danny to a tee.

“Gosh, we are honoured!” Nell twinkled back at him, her tone light. If there’d been a better offer, Mark wouldn’t have bothered turning up and certainly wouldn’t have informed them.

“Hello, favourite sister-in-law!” he declared, shaking a blue plastic bag. The unmistakable clink of bottles and cans betrayed its contents.

Nell stepped back to let him in, raising an eyebrow. “What about Alicia?” Luke’s wife.

Mark leant in, his face uncomfortably close.

His stubble looked like it was on day four of neglect, and his glittering eyes gave the distinct impression he was still riding the tail end of whatever he’d indulged in the night before.

“Doesnae have your peachy arse,” he murmured, his breath warm and beery.

No sensible woman would take that kind of comment as a compliment. And yet, Mark’s delivery—smooth, deliberate, soaked in innuendo—always caught Nell off guard. His voice had a low, velvety edge to it, like the brush of silk against bare skin.

She reminded herself, not for the first time, that he wouldn’t hesitate to sleep with his brother’s wife if he thought he could get away with it.

Still, for a moment, her mind wandered.

Would he be rough and selfish—a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?

Or something else entirely? She’d seen him in action before, with women who never lingered long but never seemed disappointed either.

The way his eyes roamed over them, slow and possessive, as if peeling back layers one by one.

The mouth that leaned in close to murmured nothings against throats, collarbones, the soft shell of an ear—promises of everything to come.

There was a decadence to him. A kind of lazy confidence that suggested he’d take his time and know exactly what to do with it.

Entertaining fantasies about her brother-in-law. God, what was wrong with her these days? She stepped aside, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Come on through.”

Mark plugged his ears dramatically, the bag of booze still dangling from his hand. “Fuck. Is Joe here? I can hear his hundred weans screaming already.”

“Yep, and so are Sarah and Luke with their kids. Why don’t you go play with them and Calamity Jean? They’re about your level.”

Mark smirked, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “You should see what that woman can dae with balloons. Especially the long, skinny ones. Ties them in knots and everything.”

Nell rolled her eyes, stifling a laugh despite herself, and trailed after Mark into the buzzing chaos of the gathering.

He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a can of Stella, cracked it open, and strolled down the hallway ahead of her like he owned the place. “Is Stephanie here?”

They’d reached the kitchen. Nell piled him sandwiches on a plate, along with one of his mother’s fairy cakes. “Yup. And way out of your league.”

Mark’s eyebrows wriggled in mock offense. “D’ye think? Mebbe if I chat her up, she’ll end up coming home wi’ me tonight. I’m no’ seeing anyone at the moment.”

Nell bit back a sharp retort. Warning him off Stephanie would only make her a more enticing target.

Mark thrived on challenges, especially when they were forbidden.

She was all too familiar with his treatment of women—Danny had told her enough over the years, including the occasional use of prostitutes.

The sex might be out of this world, but he was hopeless at the everyday stuff.

Nell had made sure to share every detail with Stephanie, hoping it would put her off entirely. Despite their constant flirtation, she didn’t think anything had ever come of it. At least, not yet.

Grabbing a glass of sparkling water, Nell followed her brother-in-law into the garden.

Outside, the chaos of the party had calmed.

Joe and Nicky’s three youngest, along with Sarah’s eleven-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter, were gathered around Calamity Jean.

The entertainer had them mesmerised with her magic tricks, promising to teach them how to perform the illusions themselves.

The noise level had dropped to a pleasant murmur, and Nell made a note to tip the woman generously. The woman deserved every penny.

She drifted from group to group, dropping in on conversations about kids, holidays, no-show partners, even the fortunes of Celtic FC. Her father-in-law perked up when she casually named both the manager (Ronny Deila) and their top scorer (Leigh Griffiths)—a feat Danny likely couldn’t have managed.

Time crept on. Give it another couple of hours—please, gods of the party circuit, grant mercy—and most of the guests would start to trickle away.

A quick scan of the garden revealed Cate and Bobby at one of the picnic benches Nell had made herself from driftwood chatting to the Greenbergs.

Her mum nursed a drink, Stephanie’s handiwork with hair and make-up still intact.

Her dad laughed at something Sandra said.

Cate looked up, caught Nell’s gaze. For a moment, confusion flitted across her face before she smoothed it into a smile and gave a small wave.

Earlier, she hadn’t recognised Stephanie. Now, it seemed she hadn’t recognised Nell either.

Last night, Nell had asked Danny if he thought her mother’s forgetfulness was getting worse. His pause had told her everything—too long spent calculating which version of the truth to offer.

“It’s no’ so much that, Nell,” he’d said eventually. “It’s like she’s only ever seventy-five per cent in the room.”

It isn’t just your parent losing their identity , someone had written on a forum Nell had stumbled across (and instantly wished she hadn’t—the stories were bleak, relentless).

You lose part of your identity too. The mother or father who knew you as a child, a teenager, who remembered the small, silly things: how you’d only eat eggs if they were hard-boiled and smothered in salad cream, or the way you mangled certain words until you finally got them right.

All those tiny, tender scraps of you that no partner, no matter how close, could ever truly know.

Would never know. Right?

But today wasn’t the day for such introspection. Nell swept her gaze across the garden again, scanning for anyone who looked like they needed a top-up. Danny had filled the cool boxes with ice, cans, and bottles, but the latter two were disappearing fast.

Time for a fridge run.

Stephanie was in the kitchen, rummaging around in her bag—a tiny thing that perfectly matched the deep red of her dress. She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, glancing up as Nell came in, her expression a mix of shame and defiance.

“Don’t tell me off. Swear to God I’m quitting again at the end of the month.”

Ah. That explained the faint trace of smoke clinging to her during their night out the other week. Nell had been right. She’d taken it up again.

Nell held up her hands in mock surrender. “Not a word, I promise. Fancy sneaking out the front so you can avoid the judgy mums acting like you’re personally poisoning their precious darlings with second-hand smoke?”

Stephanie’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely.”

Sod topping everyone up. The party-goers were familiar enough with the Murrays’ house and the easy-going, help-yourself nature of the annual barbecue. They could sort out their own booze, and she could escape from the noise and the small talk.

These days, smoking had one undeniable perk: because it was so taboo, it guaranteed you ten minutes of blissful solitude. Almost enough to tempt her into taking it up herself again.

Stephanie topped up her glass and took a generous sip, pausing mid-thought. “Oh! That reminds me! Remember that Scottish Post journalist? Jennifer Frazer.”

Not her again.

“Someone told me the other day who she used to be married to. You know what the journalism and PR crowd’s like—can't keep anything to themselves.”

She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Come on, let’s go outside. I’ll spill everything. You’ll never guess who…”

Nell, ninety-nine per cent certain she didn’t want to know, followed Stephanie down the hallway toward the front of the house. As they passed the living room, a door left half-closed let voices slip through. Familiar ones.

Trish. Shane.

Shane was mid-sentence. “Stirling Castle? Doesn’t look anything like it.

What’s wrong wi’ a nice wee watercolour, or portraits of folk like that one she did of Brenda?

If she’d stuck to that kind o’ thing, maybe she’da sold stuff.

Took me four bottles of the best single malt to talk MacLennan into putting her in that exhibition years ago… ”

The words faded, but the damage was done.

A hot wave of humiliation rose in Nell, swamping everything else.

That long-ago triumph, the exhibition she’d clung to as proof she was talented, that she mattered, was suddenly tainted.

It hadn’t been about her work at all. Just a favour.

A quiet nod from one Glaswegian bigwig to another.

A nightclub owner with alleged ties to drugs and extortion no less.

Stephanie had frozen mid-sip, her glass suspended halfway to her mouth. When she turned toward Nell, her expression was stricken with sympathy and worse, pity.

She took Nell’s hand, her grip firm. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”