Page 64 of Forever, Maybe

She sighed, running a hand through her hair.

It fell back into perfect spirals, like it had never been touched.

“Colleague’s engagement party. Lassie from the digital team.

She’s twenty-two and marrying her fiancé next year.

Twenty-two. Imagine getting hitched that young—” She stopped abruptly, her cheeks darkening. “Shit. Sorry. That was tactless.”

Daniel took a long gulp of his beer, the cold bitterness grounding him. Under the table, Jennifer’s knee brushed his. He didn’t move his leg.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, setting down his glass. “How long have you been divorced?”

“Eight years,” she replied, her tone suddenly softer. “I don’t miss the slimy git at all, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I wish… oh, never mind. You don’t want to hear it.”

“What?”

She set down her glass, leaning forward. Her forearms rested on the table, and the movement pressed her breasts together, pushing them just above the neckline of her dress. The soft swell reminded him of the stone carvings at the pub’s entrance—artfully revealed, tantalisingly close to bare.

“A kid,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I wish I’d had one, even if I’d ended up divorcing its bastard father. My mum used to go on about the biological clock ticking through my thirties, but now she doesn’t even bother. It’s like she’s given up on me ever finding someone or having a baby.”

Daniel stared into his beer, the golden liquid catching the warm light. A mix of the Budweiser and the last few lonely months loosened his tongue. “How old are you?”

Jennifer’s lips curved into a sly smile, and she licked her upper lip, a deliberate, teasing move. “Take a guess.”

Only an eejit played that game. He leant back, shaking his head. “No.”

She shrugged. “The big four-oh. Last week, I spent hours researching sperm donation clinics because I decided I could handle being a single parent. But then I googled the chances of getting pregnant at my age. What do you think they are?”

Daniel blinked, blindsided. Her question dragged him back to that conversation with Nell a lifetime ago.

“Pish?” he ventured.

Jennifer laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, that’s about the sum of it. Why didn’t you and Nell have any mini-Daniels? Didn’t you want someone to pass the empire to?”

“We…” His throat tightened, his eyes stinging again. Damn it. “We just didn’t.”

“Could she not—”

She stopped mid-sentence, his expression warning her off. “Not my business, I know.”

She gestured toward the empty bottle in his hand. “Another?”

“I—”

But before he could finish, she was already pushing back her chair, wandering off to the bar. He watched her go, catching the appreciative glance from a man at the adjacent table as she did so.

Daniel turned his attention to the bottle, picking at the paper label until tiny red and white flecks littered the table like dandruff.

Was he enjoying himself? Not really. But it was still better than sitting at home, watching Match of the Day with his father while his mother hovered in the background, nagging about Father Reilly’s “wonderful counselling services for couples”.

“There you go!” Jennifer’s voice pulled him back as she placed another bottle in front of him. “I ordered food too. Not a full meal—just a bowl of chips. I’m starving.”

She’d switched back to full-strength wine, the pee-yellow liquid sloshing in her glass.

The sight of it made him grimace. He’d never understood why people raved about wine.

Ronnie Armstrong was always going on about his expensive cellar collection, as if the worth of the bottles made them taste better.

Jennifer plopped back into her seat, now rambling on about print journalism and its bleak future. “Nobody buys newspapers anymore,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. “And digital editions are cannibalising the industry. Another year and my job’ll be a goner.”

He nodded absently, not really listening. At least she’d stopped talking about kids.

By the time he polished off the second bottle, the warm buzz spreading through his mind, it felt only polite to offer another round. When those drinks disappeared, a fourth seemed inevitable.

“No,” Jennifer protested weakly, her laugh trailing into a sigh. “My shout.”

Daniel shook his head. “On me.”

At the bar, the man who’d ogled her earlier caught his eye, grinning as he grabbed a pint and a gin and tonic. He leaned in as he passed. “Lucky, lucky man. Bet that yin’s dynamite in the sack.”

If Jennifer had been his wife or girlfriend, Daniel might have decked him. But tonight seemed to be one for shedding inhibitions, and he just watched as the man twisted to sneak another glance at her on his way back to his table.

When Daniel returned to their table, the chips had arrived. Two bowls, he noted with gratitude. They were proper pub chips: chunky, golden-crisp on the outside, soft and fluffy inside.

Jennifer tore open two sachets of mayonnaise, scooshing the contents onto her plate before delicately biting each chip in half.

She chewed with an exaggerated slowness, her leg pressed firmly against his under the table.

He couldn’t decide if her deliberate motions were an attempt at seduction or if it just felt that way because of the beer in his system.

God, what was he doing ? How was this night supposed to end?

As he drained his fourth bottle, a wild, unhinged thought floated into his mind. What if I offer to donate the sperm? At least she’d know the provenance. He could even offer to cover the costs. Kids were expensive, weren’t they?

But then he imagined how Jennifer might react.

Would she study him, speculative, before leaning in with a smirk?

Would she ask, How exactly do you plan to donate?

A quick wank in the pub toilets, the jizz smuggled out in a glass?

Or do we cut out the middleman and head back to mine?

You know, the perfect act of revenge on our exes.

The image of Nell entwined with her husband—planted in his head all those weeks ago—rose up to torment him again. And yet, even now, his body refused to cooperate, his cock and balls shrivelling inward at the thought of being with someone else.

He tipped the remnants of his half-eaten chips into Jennifer’s bowl and pushed his chair back. “I better make a move.”

Her hand clamped over his, the grip claw-like. The heavy lid of one eye drooped slightly, giving her a lopsided, puppet-like expression. Her lipstick had faded, leaving a dark red outline around her lips, the centre stained a faint pink.

“Oh, don’t,” she murmured, her voice soft and pleading. “This is nice, isn’t it? And we could always… go back to mine. I’ve got a cafetiere. Makes the most amazing coffee.”

Coffee. Code, of course. Exactly what he’d predicted. Revenge sex, with the slim possibility of parenthood dangled as a bonus.

He forced a smile, trying to make the brush-off as painless as possible. “Better not. Early start tomorrow.”

Jennifer’s hand slipped away as he stood. “Can I call you a taxi home?”

The man who’d voiced his admiration earlier was still at the adjacent table. His female companion had disappeared, and now he looked up, eyes glinting with the sharpness of a hunter spotting unexpected prey.

Jennifer reached for her wine. The motion was so unsteady it tipped Daniel’s beer, sending the dregs cascading over the edge of the bowl of chips.

“No, you should—you should…” Her voice rose, plaintive and slurred, wobbling on the edge of desperation. “You should come back with me!”

The last words hung in the air, a drunken wail that made him wince. He couldn’t leave her like this. Not with that guy watching, already rising from his seat, his interest plain as day.

“Jennifer,” Daniel said firmly, standing. “I’ll get you a taxi.”

He hauled her to her feet. She was heavier than she looked, her body an uncooperative deadweight.

Getting her into her coat was another ordeal—her arms flailing like a toddler refusing a winter jacket.

When he finally managed it, the caramel trench coat hung lopsided, its belt dragging on the sticky pub floor.

“C’mon,” he muttered, guiding her toward the door. “There’ll be plenty of taxis this time of night.”

Except there weren’t. Outside, black cabs cruised past, their orange hire lights stubbornly dark. Jennifer slumped against the wall next to a planter brimming with fake flowers, her head drooping forward like a puppet whose strings had snapped.

Daniel shifted between propping her up and darting into the street, arm raised in vain every time headlights approached.

“You should—should come back with me, Sandwich King!” Jennifer slurred behind him, her voice breaking into a full-on drunken beam. “I’m—I’m wearing sust-suspenders!”

He turned, and she gave him a grin so wobbly it made her look cross-eyed. “And I like—I like it up the ar—oof, steady there, tiger!”

Daniel groaned inwardly, grabbing her hand just as a taxi slowed to a stop beside them. The driver rolled down his window.

“Where to, pal?”

“Kenmure Street,” Daniel replied, dredging up the address from the night he’d dropped her off after the Taste of Scotland awards.

He bundled her into the backseat. She clung to his hand, her earlier bravado crumbling as tears welled in her eyes. Her gaze locked on his, pleading.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Come back.”

Oh, God Almighty. She wasn’t unattractive, not really, but the desperation in her tone made her so. He could already see the morning stretching ahead: a grim tableau of regret, shame and awkwardness, served with an enormous side of self-recrimination.

“Sorry, Jennifer,” he said softly, disentangling his hand. “But I can’t.”

She let out a small sob as he stepped back, closing the door firmly. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, waiting for the go-ahead.

“Pal, you gettin’ in or no’?” he asked, sending them both a belligerent glare. The street was congested and too narrow for a taxi to wait on one side for too long.

“Better not.” Daniel pulled his hand gently free. “Safe home, Jennifer. Drink loads o’ water when you get in.”

Her eyes narrowed, lips curling into a snarl. “Dougie the crime reporter, of course. He’s very interested in the article.”

In an instant, she seemed to sober up completely, her voice cutting through the night like a blade. “The relative who lent you the money for the van and the shop… Shane O’Malley, right?”

The name hit him like a punch to the chest. Daniel jerked back from the car, slamming the door shut as if to block out her words. The taxi pulled away moments later, disappearing into the glow of the West End’s streetlights.

He stood there, staring after it, his mind reeling. Uncle Shane. He’d never mentioned that name to her. How had she—or Dougie the crime reporter—made the connection?

Then again, it wouldn’t have been that hard with the right contacts. Uncle Shane’s name wasn’t exactly buried in obscurity, but surely, after all these years, it couldn’t come back to bite him on the arse… could it?

A cold weight settled inside of him, dragging his thoughts into darker corners. Thoroughly rattled, Daniel turned away, unable to face the thought of returning to his parents’ house. His mother would be up fussing, and his father would be planted in front of the TV, blissfully oblivious.

Instead, he trudged back up the hill toward the shop. The office armchairs weren’t exactly luxurious, but they were plush enough to pass out in for a few hours. Not that sleep was likely tonight.

Not with the ghost of Shane O’Malley—and the sword of Damocles dangling over him—looming large in his mind.