Page 58 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter forty-three

Nell opened the door for Stephanie, who was armed with a takeaway, a suitcase, a six-pack of lager and a determined expression that Nell recognised as befitting a woman on a mission to cheer up someone.

“I swung by Spice City to see Hardeep,” Stephanie announced as she stepped inside, casually name-dropping the best Bengali restaurant in Glasgow. She nudged the door shut with her foot. “He insisted on giving me all this food.”

Which, of course, meant it was free. Stephanie had a knack for turning her PR work into a barter system, often walking away with meals, manicures or bouquets on top of payment. Nell took the bag from her, pulling the handles apart to take a sniff.

The rich aromas of garlic, coriander, fenugreek and cumin hit her like a culinary sledgehammer. She fought back the instinctive grimace Stephanie would notice and forced a smile instead. “Yum!”

They wandered into the kitchen, where Nell had left the patio doors open to invite in the fading warmth of the late summer evening.

Outside, Corrie lounged on the sunlit paving stones, his tail flicking lazily.

He gave them a slow blink of acknowledgment before resuming his watchful vigil over the sparrows darting around the bird feeder mounted on the shed.

Stephanie plunked the six-pack onto the counter and wagged a can of ice-cold Budweiser in Nell’s direction.

“Better not,” Nell said, shaking her head. “I’m up at six tomorrow for the drive down south. You sure you’re okay house-sitting?”

Stephanie peeled off the cardboard lids from the foil containers, releasing a burst of aromatic steam, and began doling out heroic portions of paneer saag, fried rice, and torn-up pieces of naan, glistening with garlicky ghee. “No problem, Nelly-welly. Does Daniel know I’m staying here?”

Nell accepted the plate Stephanie handed over, eyeing the mountain of food warily. If she managed even a quarter of it, it would be a personal triumph. “Yeah, I sent him a message to say you’re looking after Corrie for me.”

As if summoned, Corrie—who typically ignored his name with princely disdain—stirred from his post on the patio and padded into the kitchen.

He weaved around their legs, his nose twitching expectantly.

The scent of Spice City must have awakened memories of Danny rinsing the sauce off chunks of lamb bhuna to share with him.

The thought of Corrie never tasting lamb again made Nell’s throat tighten.

Would this be his last connection to Danny?

They hadn’t even discussed who’d get custody of the cat.

Corrie had been her idea, after all, and wouldn’t he’d be better off with her?

But what if Danny insisted otherwise? He could argue that Corrie was used to him, that he would miss him. Would he fight her for the cat?

Stephanie, ever attuned to Nell’s shifting moods, cracked open a can of lager and launched into a story, cutting through her snowballing thoughts.

“So, get this,” she said, jabbing her fork at an imaginary idiot, her voice adopting a Liverpudlian lilt.

“My new client, the bathroom showroom guy. ‘Can you get me on the telly?’” She mimicked, rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity of the request. “Like it’s that easy.

What a knob.” She paused for effect, taking a swig of beer.

“Anyway, have I mentioned my other latest client? The Evergreen Clinic. Guess what they do? Only bloody Botox and fillers! Their marketing manager reckons I should try it out to write about it properly. The best part? If you agree to before-and-after pics they can use on their website, the treatments are free. Thee and me could knock twenty years off our faces!”

Nell forced her head to nod in agreement. If she stopped crying so much, ten years would vanish in a heartbeat. “What if we end up looking like those trapped-in-a-wind-tunnel women?”

Stephanie stabbed her fork into the chicken tandoori. “We won’t. Promise. The Evergreen Clinic says subtlety is the key. Their doctors specialise in micro-dosing, so it never looks unnatural.”

Nell poked at her curry, the pools of black-speckled yellow oil gathering on her plate. The naan, despite its buttery sheen, felt dry and crumbly in her mouth, every swallow a Herculean effort. She gave up, sliding her plate away.

Stephanie, she could tell, was itching to say something encouraging— Come on, eat up, it’ll make you feel better.

People always seemed to think food or drink could fill the void left by emotional pain.

And she wasn’t innocent of it herself, showing up at Stephanie’s flat with bottles of wine, tubs of Haagen-Dazs or boxes of chocolates after yet another fledgling romance had fizzled out.

Now the roles were reversed, and it only amplified the alien awfulness of her situation. The idea of being pitied made her skin crawl.

To make it look like she’d eaten more, she rearranged the food into little piles, then leant back and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. “How’s it going with Keto Nate?”

Stephanie’s romance with Keto Nate had all the hallmarks of a classic romcom.

They’d started as sworn enemies—he was smug and insufferably judgmental; she thought his carb-free evangelism was cultish.

Then, predictably, one of them had caught feelings while the other remained oblivious, fate had thrown in a few well-timed obstacles, and true love had seemed entirely off the menu.

And yet, against all odds, here they were, basking in their happily-ever-after.

Stephanie had even managed to give up smoking, given that Nate was a one-man public health campaign on the topic.

Her friend took a long sip of lager before answering, swallowing with deliberate slowness. Nell knew what she was doing—masking the first flash of joy on her face, softening it into something less likely to sting. Bless her. She didn’t want to rub her happiness in Nell’s face.

“Not bad, thanks,” Stephanie said, setting the can down. “That story in the papers about him and Avril Taylor… keep it under your hat, but it’s true. They actually had a thing.”

Nell blinked. “No, really? ”

Avril Taylor: Glasgow’s golden girl turned Hollywood starlet.

She’d dropped the accent, conquered Netflix, and returned home a few months back to film a drama.

In happier times, Nell had joked with Daniel that one paparazzi shot of Avril leaving Stuffed!

with a wrap would turn his business into a nationwide hit.

Nate had trained Avril for a role—an intense, pressurised stretch during which her marriage had spectacularly imploded.

His affairs and hers had been gleefully picked apart by tabloids, magazines, and online gossip sites.

Nell supposed she should be grateful for small mercies: at least her own marriage had fallen apart in private.

Stephanie launched into a string of Avril stories—not from Nate, of course; apparently, he was maddeningly discreet despite the slip.

Instead, she gleefully relayed gossip from other sources, throwing in her own take about how dating a personal trainer had made her hyper-aware of her own fitness—or lack thereof.

“It’s impossible not to feel self-conscious,” she said, sipping her lager. “I’m one bad plank away from him staging an intervention. He says it’s no big deal, but his abs could carve marble.”

Nell smiled, grateful for the distraction. Stephanie’s chatter filled the room like a warm blanket, briefly easing the ever-present ache.

“S’pose it doesn’t help that I eat like a horse,” Stephanie added, eyeing her empty plate with regret.

Nell shook her head. “I doubt he cares. Nate’s a great guy—once you get past his habit of blurting out whatever’s in his head.”

Stephanie’s face twitched, and Nell could tell she wanted to leap in with all the reasons she wholeheartedly agreed with the “great guy” assessment.

But she held back, likely biting her tongue for Nell’s sake.

Instead, she took a long swig of lager, giving the moment a beat of silence before steering the conversation elsewhere.

“How long are you planning to stay with your mum and dad?”

The million-dollar question. Or rather, the six-million-dollar question: Are you and Danny divorcing?

Nell shrugged, trying to sound casual. “A month, maybe? Aren’t you and I the poster kids for digital nomads?

As long as I’ve got a laptop and Wi-Fi, I can work from anywhere.

I’ve been thinking about moving back to Norfolk.

Dad’s going to need a lot of help with Mum, and I have years of neglect to make up for. ”

Stephanie nodded slowly, scooping more rice and a couple of onion bhajis onto her plate. “That makes sense, but… isn’t this your home? Glasgow, I mean. Maybe not this house, but your life? Your family and friends. They’re all here.”

Nell snorted, bitterness creeping into her voice.

“What family? The only family I have here is Danny’s, and they’ll never speak to me again once the divorce papers are signed.

And apart from you, my friends are all couples—Danny’s friends, really.

I’ll be the odd one out, and they’ll side with him.

Do you remember all those women’s magazine articles from years ago, the ones that told you to have your own friends, not to get sucked into your partner’s social world?

I should write in and tell them how right they were. ”

Stephanie leant against the back of her chair, staring at Nell with quiet intensity. “Please don’t leave Glasgow,” she said softly. “I mean it, Nell.”

Nell forced a watery smile. “Nothing’s decided yet.”

And it wasn’t. She and Danny had been drifting through the aftermath like ships lost in a storm.

The chaos of that night—the one when Jenny Curtice had reappeared.

Danny’s silence afterward, refusing to answer her calls or messages.

And then, the gut-punch text that had arrived out of nowhere the day before:

Nell, I want a divorce.

She’d replied instantly, almost reflexively: Me too.

Since then, nothing. No follow-up. Just a curt response when she’d texted about Stephanie house-sitting and looking after Corrie: Fine.

Nell’s throat tightened at the thought of it all, but she swallowed it down. “Well, nothing’s set in stone,” she said again, more to herself than Stephanie.

Resentment had crept in like an unwelcome guest, settling in her chest and refusing to leave. Was what she’d done really so terrible in the grand scheme of things? Didn’t millions of relationships survive adultery every year?

But then, there was that long-ago incident… oh. No. She wasn’t going there. As the old saying warned, that way madness lies.

Stephanie, as always, busied herself when words wouldn’t suffice.

She insisted on clearing up, washing all the dishes and takeaway containers, and hauling the empties out to the recycling bin.

When the kitchen was spotless, she dug through Nell’s streaming queue and picked out an old episode of Friends , carefully avoiding any that might dredge up romantic storylines. Joey-heavy episodes were her specialty.

Stephanie’s mimicry of Joey Tribbiani was spot-on, her “How you doin’?” so perfect it could’ve fooled a casting agent. For a little while, titters lightened the room, even if Nell’s felt brittle around the edges.

The next morning, Stephanie stumbled out of bed early, bleary-eyed but determined to see Nell off. While the kettle boiled in the kitchen, she stood barefoot in the driveway, waving Nell farewell as though she were heading off on a great expedition.

“Drive carefully!” Stephanie called, her voice cutting through the crisp morning air. “Stop for plenty of breaks. It’s a long way!”

As Nell drove away, Stephanie’s reflection in the rearview mirror grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. A vice gripped Nell’s chest as a thought struck her: this might be the last time she saw Stephanie for quite some time.

When her friend had asked last night how long she planned to stay in Norwich, Nell had answered lightly, “A month.” But in her heart, she knew it would be much longer.

Her marriage split wasn’t the only reason. There was another, older wound that had never fully healed—one only her parents could help her confront. The big question, though, was whether her mother would even be able to remember.

And based on recent conversations with Cate, Nell suspected not.