Page 63 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter forty-seven

“T he nights are fair drawing in, eh?” Holly poked her head around Daniel’s office door, fastening the buttons on her dark green raincoat. Her penchant for granny-ish sayings matched her old-fashioned dress sense.

Daniel nodded absently. Chit-chat wasn’t his strong suit, and these days even small talk felt like a chore. But Holly was a grafter, always had been. He owed her a token effort, at least.

“Got anything exciting planned for the weekend?”

She brightened. “Me and Dode are off tae the SSE tomorrow. There’s a model railway exhibition on—biggest one in Europe, he says. Awfy lot of folk’ll be there.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I just hope the loos are decent. Mind, the ladies’ might actually be fine for once, seeing as there’ll no’ be many of us compared to the men.

They’ll probably be queuing forever, and when they do get in…

” She shuddered theatrically. “Dinnae fancy what they’ll find when they get in there. ”

“Mmm,” he said, at a loss for a better response.

Holly tilted her head, studying him. “You could come wi’ us, if you’re no’ busy? Dode’s pal was meant tae go but pulled out last minute. His ticket’s spare.”

Daniel hesitated, a flicker of temptation he immediately crushed. Wandering through stalls, admiring miniature trains, buying Holly and Dode lunch, dodging the flat caps and anoraks… it wasn’t entirely awful.

Get a grip . Yes, it was. The day he willingly spent a Saturday at a model train show was the day hell froze over.

“Thanks, Holly,” he gestured towards the papers scattered across his desk, “but I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to plough through for Asda. Maybe next time.”

Holly shrugged, adjusting the strap of her ever-present oversized tote bag. “Suit yoursel’. We’ll fill you in on Monday. Dode’s fair chuffed about it. And dinnae stay too late here. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!”

And with that, she was gone, the front door of the office slamming behind her, her footsteps faintly audible as she clattered down the stairs.

All work and no play. Of all the things she could’ve said, why that?

The refrain his mother had hammered into him during the early years of building the business. The words echoed now, just as they had that night he first met Nell.

He shut down his iMac, the screen fading to black as he sat there, marinating in his own irritation.

He locked up the office and the shop, the metallic click of the door echoing through the empty street.

For the millionth time, he wondered: had he been too hard on Nell?

Marriage was supposed to be a balancing act, wasn’t it?

The scales tipped one way, then the other.

Didn’t his relentless work ethic offset her infidelity—or had it, instead, tipped everything irreparably out of balance?

What is this really about?

No one asked him that, but he answered it in his head anyway.

It always came back to the same thing: Nell wouldn’t have children with me.

And deep down, he’d wanted them. Desperately.

She wouldn’t even discuss the possibility.

She refused to even discuss the possibility o’ having one when we were older, when I had all the money in the world to make it easy.

And yet. He had to admit, she was always consistent.

“No,” she said when he proposed, “I don’t want kids.”

“No,” she said when she thought she might be pregnant early on, “I can’t have this one either.”

“No,” she said again, years later, when he’d tried once more, after meeting the pregnant Nicky for the first time.

“Please, Danny,” she’d said, exasperated. “I’ve been honest from the start. If you want kids, we shouldn’t be together.”

The shop door swung shut behind him. The street was alive with scents and sounds: fenugreek, cumin and garlic wafted from the Indian two doors down, mingling with the damp chill of the evening.

Across the road, a pub blared out karaoke—some group of women enthusiastically massacring The Killers’ Mr Brightside.

He crossed the street, his shoes scuffing against uneven pavement.

His car waited in the NCP lot, its fees ticking upwards by the second.

Fingers crossed, he thought, that his mother was still out at some church committee meeting or fundraising for Mary’s Meals.

If she started on about Father Reilly again tonight, he’d lose it.

He could already see it: a grim-faced Detective Inspector leaning over the table in an interview room, advising him to stay silent as they processed him for matricide.

“Sandwich King!”

The woman strolling up the street stopped in front of him, grinning and sending vanilla-cinnamon fumes his way.

Jennifer Frazer. Her eyes were glazed. Someone who’d been out on the ran-dan for a few hours.

She wore a camel trench coat cinched tight at the waist, with a dark red hem—either a dress or skirt—peeking out beneath. Shiny black patent boots completed the look, their stiletto heels so razor-thin they seemed incapable of supporting even a pound of butter, let alone a fully grown woman.

And her hair. How did women do that? Jennifer’s blonde curls fell in flawless spirals, framing her face and cascading just past her shoulders.

The makeup he’d once dismissed as overdone now looked perfect: smoky grey eyeshadow blended seamlessly; tawny-red lipstick accentuating teeth that gleamed unnaturally white.

“How are you? And how’s Nell?”

Daniel bristled at the question, heat rising in his chest. He marched past her. “Fine. Both of us are fine. No thanks to you.”

Her hand shot out, palm pressing against his chest to stop him. The force of it wasn’t much, but it startled him enough to pause.

“Mate,” she said, her voice low and biting. “I’m not the one who screwed around. Don’t take your shitty temper out on me.”

She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “Living with a cheating rat wasn’t exactly a picnic, you know. I could always tell. The way he came home reeking of booze and—” she paused for effect, her lips curling into a sneer—“other women’s pussies.”

Daniel stiffened, his shoulders locking tight, but she wasn’t done.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, her tone mocking. “Is that too crude for you?”

She smirked, as if daring him to respond, while he stood frozen, caught between fury and something close to pity.

But she was right. The state he was in wasn’t her fault.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Er, can I buy you a drink?”

Probably not his smartest idea. She already looked like she’d had her more than her fair share for the night. Still, when she nodded and gestured away from the karaoke bar, toward the more subdued Drum and Monkey at the St Vincent and Renfield Street junction, he found himself agreeing.

“What happened then?”

He knew what she meant—him and Nell. The question cracked something open. Weeks of frustration and hurt surged up, and for once, he didn’t stop himself from answering.

“I’ve left her.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “She didn’t deserve you.”

Unfair, but he couldn’t summon the energy to defend Nell. Not tonight.

“But,” Jennifer added, her voice softening, “if you’ve been with someone for a long time, it must be hard.”

“D’you mind if we don’t talk about it? Please?”

She nodded quickly. “Aye, okay. We’ll just talk about your business and my job. Nice, safe topics.”

They reached the Drum and Monkey, a Victorian building that had once been a bank catering to Glasgow’s merchants—the kind who’d built their fortunes on tobacco, cotton and slavery back in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Over the thick wooden front door, stone-carved women gazed down, their togas artfully slipping off one shoulder, revealing flashes of stone cleavage.

Nell had always mocked that. God, the Victorians!

she’d laugh. So prim and proper, but every statue’s got to flash a tit.

Daniel hadn’t been inside the pub in years.

Black marble columns rose to meet an ornate, corniced ceiling, while a dark, wooden-panelled bar ran along one side.

The lighting cast everything in a warm amber glow.

A group of young men near the bar erupted into laughter, cheering as one of them downed a pint in one go.

He guided Jennifer to a quieter table tucked away in what had once been a banker’s office. Red velvet curtains separated it from the rest of the pub.

“What’ll you have?” he asked.

“A glass of white,” she said, then added, “Actually, make it a spritzer.”

He ordered her drink along with a Budweiser for himself.

The rowdy stag party had shifted gears into a raucous sing-along—a rugby song about bestiality that got louder with every verse. Before long, the bar’s suited security staff were wading through the crowd, escorting the group to the door amid protests and jeers.

Jennifer nodded towards them as Daniel returned with the drinks. “Think they’ll be banned for life, or just until tomorrow?”

“Depends if they managed to offend anyone important,” he replied, handing her the glass.

Jennifer had slipped off her caramel trench coat, revealing a dark red dress that sloped off her lightly bronzed shoulders.

It was the kind of outfit designed for temptation—the neckline soft and pliable, the fabric clinging just enough.

When she took a small sip of her spritzer, the neckline shifted, rippling slightly.

Like Stephanie a few nights ago, she’d skipped the bra.

Daniel forced his gaze upward, tearing his eyes away. “How’s Daisy?”

She gave him a knowing look, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. She knew exactly what he’d noticed—and how it made him feel. “Still fat.”

“Were you out somewhere earlier?” he asked.