Page 44 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter thirty-five
“Is he whistling?” Joe asked, incredulous, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Aye,” Holly replied with a shudder. “Gonnae ask him to stop? It’s doin’ ma head in.”
Daniel poked his head out of the office door, his expression halfway between amused and exasperated. “Oi! I’m still the boss here, mind. If I want to whistle, I’m allowed to whistle.”
Holly, seated at her desk in the reception area, made a face that could rival a troll’s. “Aye, but it’s the same bloody tune. Over and over for two hours. Honestly, why don’t you just leave? Everything’s under control here. We’ll see you Monday morning.”
Joe, perched precariously on the corner of Holly’s desk, nodded in agreement, his chin dipping to his chest. “Aye, off ye go. Liza’s coming in this afternoon to go over the Asda pitch one last time. We’ll manage fine without you.”
Daniel hesitated. The earlier train was tempting.
Holly had booked open tickets, so he could catch it anytime.
If he left now, he’d make it to central London by three, with a few precious hours to spare.
Days of bliss stretched ahead: a wife he hadn’t seen in three weeks, hopeful talks about starting a family and all the other joyful efforts required to make that happen.
“You know what?” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I get it. I’m off. Joe, I hope everything goes smoothly on Saturday, but I don’t want to hear about it while I’m away. Even if the buyer gives you an answer on the spot.”
Joe’s eyes lit up with mock indignation. “Ooooohhh! Are you takin’ notes, Holly? The boss says we’re no’ tae contact him. Of course, if he really means it, he’ll leave his phone here.”
He patted the space on the desk beside him for emphasis.
Holly, grinning, played along. She slid open the top drawer, revealing a series of neatly arranged plastic dividers, tags marking what each of them contained. “Aye, stick it in here and prove you mean it.”
Daniel rolled his eyes. “Very good. But how am I supposed to get in touch wi’ Nell when I get to Euston? She might not be at the hotel yet. She’ll be expecting me later. Or she might want to contact me on the way down.”
Without missing a beat, Holly retrieved a packet of pink Post-its from beside her desktop, scribbled something and handed him the top note. “There. That’s Nell’s number. If you need her, find a phone box.”
Daniel stared at the scrap of paper, shaking his head. “A phone box? Do they even still exist?”
Joe nudged Holly with a smirk. “Terrible thing tae be addicted tae yon silly wee bit o’ plastic, eh?”
Holly returned the smirk, folding her arms triumphantly. “Mmm-hmm. Seems we’re no’ the ones with the problem.”
“Fine!” With a theatrical sigh, he handed over his phone, but not before quickly texting Nell to explain the situation.
The gesture would earn him some much-needed brownie points.
Nell had often threatened to toss his phone into the nearest river, lake or sea whenever it interrupted their holidays, nights out or even just a quiet dinner.
Retrieving the small black suitcase on wheels he’d packed that morning, he strode past Holly and Joe, exuding mock dignity. Joe’s parting comment stopped him mid-step.
“Hope you spend most o’ the next five days staring no’ at the London Eye, but at the ceiling o’ that Langbourne bedroom!”
Daniel didn’t turn around, but his hand wave shifted seamlessly into a two-fingered salute as he kept walking, earning a burst of laughter behind him.
He was already out the door and halfway down the street towards Buchanan Street and Central Station when the phone he’d just surrendered began ringing on Holly’s desk. He never heard it.
Holly picked up, her tone shifting from playful to alarmed. “Liza, aye? Oh my God. That’s awful. I’m so, so sorry.”
The Gods of British Public Transport, not known for their benevolence, granted him a rare blessing. The Virgin train, with its sleek red and grey carriages, departed precisely on time and hit every scheduled stop down the line like clockwork.
He’d splurged on first class—an indulgence the canny Scot in him dismissed as completely unnecessary, but well worth it for the peace and quiet.
For the first thirty minutes, the view outside the window kept him entertained.
The rolling greens of Lanarkshire gave way to Cumbria, Carlisle marking the first stop.
The grandeur of the Lake District flashed by.
Hills rose like ancient sentinels, while clusters of passengers boarded in trekking gear crusted with mud, grumbling as they lamented the return to the big smoke after their rural escape.
By Preston, the gentle rocking of the carriage lulled him to sleep, and he drifted off. When he awoke an hour later, somewhere in the Midlands, reality hit him like a freight train: no phone.
Shit. How did people do this? Sit still, doing nothing, for hours on end? His restlessness built like static electricity. Around him, other passengers seemed perfectly content.
An older couple across the aisle sipped tea from thermal flasks, their murmured conversation drifting over as they unwrapped foil-wrapped biscuits. Snippets about grandchildren, family holidays and retirement plans floated his way, their nimble fingers pausing only to brush away crumbs.
To his right, a woman about his age sat absorbed in a paperback, her glasses perched precariously at the tip of her nose.
She wore a lacy black top that hinted at defiance against the monotony of train travel.
When she glanced up, their eyes met briefly.
He looked away hastily, cheeks flushing, but not before catching the small, sardonic curve of her lips.
Great. She probably thought he’d been ogling her when, in truth, he’d been squinting to read the title of her book.
If he’d had his phone, he could have filled the void with solitaire, music, scrolling through the day’s headlines, or…
Aye, right. If you had your phone, you’d be knee-deep in emails, checking Stuffed!’s Instagram, and firing off messages about supermarket pitches.
He sighed, leaning back into his seat, the hum of the train and the rhythm of the tracks his only company.
At Birmingham, a young couple boarded, their voices loud enough to suggest they’d already paid several visits to the bar. They dropped into the seats opposite him, plunking down cans of garishly coloured ready-made cocktails on the table.
“Want one?” the woman asked, jangling a blue plastic carrier bag.
She was squeezed into a purple dress so tight it looked like it had been vacuum-sealed on, threatening to cut off circulation at multiple pressure points, with flesh bulging out at the top, bottom and mid-bicep like a badly packed sausage.
He shook his head politely.
“We’re celebrating our engagement!” she declared, beaming. “In London! In a fancy-pants hotel!”
“Me too,” Daniel replied with a faint smile. “Though I’m married already.”
“How long?”
“Twenty years.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet!” she gushed, fanning her scarlet, silver-tipped false nails.
They reminded him of the claws Nell’s friend Stephanie often sported.
He always wondered how women managed anything with inch-long spikes glued to their fingers.
His scepticism was confirmed moments later when, as she yanked the ring-pull on her can, one popped off and clattered to the floor.
She collapsed into hysterical laughter, while her boyfriend—so thin he made Daniel think of that old nursery rhyme about Jack Spratt and his wife—muttered a resigned, “For fuck’s sake,” and bent to retrieve it.
She stuck the nail back on with surprising efficiency, revealing bitten, stubby nails beneath. “Tell us your secret, then! How do you stay married that long?”
How indeed?
“Dunno if I’m an expert,” he replied.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman with the book listening in, her smirk still firmly in place. It was as if she didn’t buy for a second that a man like him had the answers to anything.
“You must be!” the false-nail woman declared, throwing her hands up. “Me and Mitchell have only been together eight months, and I’ve already wanted to kill him at least ten times!”
Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I wanted to kill you ten times last week.”
His dry response only made her laugh harder. “Ha! That was until I told you what I was gonna do to you in that hotel room, oral, anal, the lot. Then you decided we might as well get engaged!”
The older woman across the aisle pursed her lips in disapproval, while her husband ducked his chin, doubtless suppressing a smile. Daniel, not much of a train traveller, wondered if this kind of oversharing was par for the course on British public transport.
Suddenly, the woman glanced at her phone and swore. “Shit, Mitch! We’re in the wrong friggin’ carriage! This is first class. We’re supposed to be in the next one.” She stood, scooping up her cans. “Nice talkin’ to you! Maybe we’ll see you in London!”
And with that, they were gone, heading off in search of their reserved seats.
“Thank goodness,” the older woman muttered under her breath as the door slid shut behind them.
Tell us your secret—how do you stay married for that long…
Daniel had never regretted marrying Nell, his first proper girlfriend and sexual partner, nor had he regretted marrying so young. But the expectations of a twenty-two-year-old stepping into marriage hadn’t exactly matched the reality that played out over the years.
If someone were to map their timeline from 1994 to 2016, it wouldn’t be a smooth, straight line. Of course not. There would be dips—some big, some small—but would his dips align neatly with Nell’s?
He suspected they didn’t.