Page 37 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter twenty-eight
S hite, shite, shite…
This hadn’t been how Daniel had imagined the conversation about the supermarket pitch going. It was never going to be easy; now it was guaranteed to be like climbing Ben Nevis while blindfolded with one leg cut off at the knee like level.
He caught up with Nell in their living room, which was thankfully empty. She spun around, eyes flashing, and he ran through his mental Rolodex of phrases, trying to pick the ones that might calm a storm he had no real chance of avoiding.
“The supermarket pitch. When is it?”
He closed his eyes briefly, the answer dragging itself out. “May the twenty-seventh.”
From the corner of the room, Corrie, their cat, nestled in the dark grey recliner, having wisely sought refuge from the guests, especially the little children. His front paws tucked over his head as if shielding himself from the room’s sudden plummet to sub-zero temperatures.
“My birthday.” Nell’s voice was steady, but the words landed heavy. A daft thing to say, given he knew the date perfectly well. He nodded anyway, a reflex.
“Aye, I know that—”
“I told you I’d leave if you let me down again.” She sounded so matter of fact, a ten out of ten for composure, which bothered him more than if she’d been shouting and yelling.
“You did.”
“This isn’t about cancelling a weekend away, Danny. It’s a pattern. A tedious, soul-sucking pattern that makes me sick to the back teeth. I keep wondering—what if your ambitions had stopped at a shop and one bloody van?”
What if they had?
Eight years ago, during the global financial crash, he’d dropped a stone in three weeks. Nell had noticed, tugging at the loose waistband of his jeans, frowning. Are you okay? Should you see a doctor?
But he couldn’t eat. The news consumed him. Shops shuttering, businesses collapsing, pensions evaporating. And he’d carried it alone, determined to shield Nell from the worst of it.
What if… people packed their own lunches instead of buying his overpriced sandwiches?
What if… no one came into his shops, choosing the shiny new discount supermarkets instead?
What if… the festivals dried up? No more country fairs, no more summers of Ts in the Park, no more crowds queuing for street food under tarpaulin skies, and he ended up just with a single shop and a van?
And it had been tempting. For a while. But then he looked around. At the house, the life they’d built. Nell’s fragile freelancing career. The people he employed—Joe, his oldest friend, chief among them. Didn’t they all need him? His relentless drive, his blinkered focus, his hard, hard work?
Somehow, Stuffed! had ridden out the storm. The weight crept back. His thighs, his backside and his stomach all reclaimed their former bulk. The business had survived, and in its wake came a quiet, steely resolve: he would never let himself be that vulnerable again.
“And what if,” Nell continued, the words spilling out now, “I’d moved to London instead of marrying you all those years ago? We’d have tried long-distance for a while, realised it wouldn’t work and split up. Maybe we’d both be happier now.”
Daniel stirred. “No. I dinnae accept that. Not for a second.” He heard the edge of desperation in his voice. “You’ve always been the one and only woman I’ve ever wanted.”
His voice had risen. He stepped forward, hands outstretched as if to grab her, to hold her in place. Nell dodged his grasp, and he froze, retreating a step. “Sorry, sorry. I didnae mean to…”
She sniffed and turned her head, her gaze drifting across the room. The accoutrements of his wealth surrounded them: the recliner Corrie now used as a makeshift cat bed, the enormous TV screen, the polished mahogany floorboards and her artwork displayed in ostentatious neo-baroque frames.
She nodded toward them now. “I overheard Shane earlier letting slip that the exhibition at the MacLennan Gallery all those years ago had nothing to do with my talent and everything to do with him pouring expensive whisky down Mr MacLennan’s throat. You asked him to do that. As a favour.”
It wasn’t a question.
Bloody Shane and his big gob.
“Aye, but you still sold all your paintings, didn’t you?” he said. “Folk wouldn’t have bought them if they thought they were rubbish. Or if they didn’t like them.”
“Never offered me a solo exhibition, though, did he?”
A shout rang out from outside, followed by a burst of raucous laughter.
Joe, no doubt—probably cracking some crude joke at his expense to the party guests still milling about.
All of them somehow tied to him: employees, suppliers, people whose rent or mortgages and groceries depended on his unrelenting drive to keep succeeding.
Daniel exhaled deeply, the sound drawing her back to him. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About how things can change.” He reached for her hand, and this time she let him take it. “Once the supermarket pitch is done, and—”
She snatched her hand away. “Ah, there it is. Jam tomorrow . Always one more hurdle to clear before you can finally stop putting the business first. Why will this time be any different, Danny?”
Before he could respond, Trish poked her head around the door. “Any more sausage rolls, Nell, love? Some of the guests could do with a bit more lining in their stomachs—soak up all the booze.”
Honestly, who cared? But he nodded briskly. “I’ll dig them out of the freezer,” he muttered, seizing the excuse as if he had been granted a last-minute reprieve from the firing squad. He was gone before anyone could stop him.