Page 68 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter fifty-one

Daniel cracked open one eye, squinting at the unfamiliar room as he struggled to orient himself.

The deep purple walls that loomed around him, and the single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows, gave him no clues.

A toilet flushed. The door creaked open, and a young woman emerged. She was wearing a matching push-up pink bra and a thong, her slanted cheekbones flushed a blotchy red.

She was younger than him, he reckoned. Twenty, maybe? To his twenty-four. She ran a hand through her dark hair, eyeing him with a look he couldn’t quite read. Several unpleasant thoughts hit him in quick succession like an unkind drumroll.

First: his insides were staging a full-scale rebellion. If he didn’t use that ensuite bathroom in the next thirty seconds, there would be consequences. Dire ones.

Second: this was not the same hotel room he’d woken up in yesterday.

Third: unless Nell had magically changed her appearance and turned up uninvited to his cousin’s stag do in Amsterdam, there was a strange woman in her underwear standing in front of him.

And— oh, great —beneath the scratchy nylon sheet and threadbare duvet, he was bollock naked.

This all pointed to one grim conclusion: he and this stranger had likely slept together last night.

Slowly, Daniel sat up, muscles clenched tight to keep his traitorous belly in check. “Uh…”

“You feeling alright?” she asked. Her teeth were distractingly straight and blindingly white—the first thing he’d noticed about her last night. Her Glaswegian accent, the second. A memory flickered: the group of women on a hen do, crashing the stag do.

“I need to…” he began, voice hoarse.

With no time left to stand on ceremony, he shot out of the bed, pushed past the woman and bolted the door shut. Ensuite bathrooms, Nell often claimed, were the least romantic thing in the world. Who wanted to listen to their partner taking a shit?

The woman who was not Daniel’s partner, however, didn’t have much of a choice. His stomach gurgled ominously, then erupted in a series of mortifying explosions. Loud, echoing farts punctuated the room, followed by the inevitable, earth-shattering conclusion.

Head hung low, Daniel sat on the toilet, a toxic cocktail of misery, shame and guilt swirling inside him. It took him five minutes to scrape together enough courage to re-emerge.

She was on the bed when he returned, propped against the pillows, a glossy magazine splayed across her lap. She didn’t look up until he cleared his throat.

“Don’t tell me. Dodgy curry, right?”

His jeans and T-shirt lay crumpled in a heap on the floor. Daniel stooped to grab them, scanning the room for his boxers. No sign. The small lump at the foot of the bed was the likeliest suspect but retrieving them would mean squeezing past her.

She wouldn’t want him anywhere near her.

With fingers clumsy from humiliation and the lingering haze of a hangover, pulling on his jeans and T-shirt became an exercise in frustration. Each snagged seam felt like a cosmic punishment.

“I’m… I’m sorry. Um…” He hesitated, the question burning on his tongue. “Did we…?”

Her top lip curled. “Me and ma friends need tae be at the airport for eight. You better get yerself gone.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Sorry. Again.”

He wanted to ask— no, seriously, did we shag? I can’t remember a lot of last night —but the answer terrified him more than the mystery.

One trainer by the door, the other next to the bed, socks scattered across the room. As he gathered them, a blurry memory surfaced: him balling them up and flinging them, the woman laughing.

The Nokia on the bedside table buzzed. She answered it with a brisk “Aye, I’ll be wi’ you in ten. Just packing ma stuff.”

Without looking at him, she flicked her fingers in a shooing motion he took to mean, get out of my sight . Daniel mumbled another apology and bolted for the door.

Behind him, her voice filtered through the crack as she spoke to her friend. “Oh my God, you won’t believe what’s just happened. Fucking disgusting .”

For one reckless second, he thought about loitering in the hallway to catch more of her conversation. Maybe she’d say something definitive. Maybe she’d confirm if—

The door opposite opened, and an older man stepped out, tucking his shirt into trousers strained over an abdomen like a small beach ball. He shot Daniel a knowing grin.

“You somewhere you shouldn’t be too, mate?”

The man held up his left hand, wagging the fourth finger where a wedding ring dug deep into his flesh.

“What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam, eh? That’s what I always say!”

He capped it off with a lewd wink that instantly lumped them into the same sordid category.

Daniel fled. He sprinted out onto the street, gulping in the cool morning air, his heart hammering against his ribs as he glanced around. Panic clawed at his throat.

Where the hell was this hotel and how was he going to get back to the one where Joe and the others were staying? Preferably before any of them woke up and realised he’d spent the night elsewhere.

The phone in his leather jacket pocket vibrated. A text from Nell. Beforehand, he had warned her not to do that. Phone calls and text messages sent or received when you were abroad cost a fortune.

How’s the head? Hope you and Joe steered clear of the Red Light District! X

Dear God in Govan. Daniel set off in what he hoped was the right direction, his eyes scanning the city’s skyline for anything familiar that might steer him toward the hotel he’d dutifully booked six weeks ago, back when his cousin announced his wedding.

Amsterdam had been Joe’s idea.

Aye, it’s cheap, the flight’s only an hour and a half! You can smoke dope in the cafés, and the strip clubs are amazin’!

Daniel hadn’t relayed that part to Nell. But even without the details, she’d wriggled her eyebrows.

“Amsterdam? Dope, strippers and prostitutes? Lovely.”

When he rushed to reassure her that the latter two held absolutely no interest for him, she’d just rolled her eyes.

“Danny, for God’s sake. Drool over the strippers all you want. I trust you. Completely.”

That trust had weighed on him all night. Still did, pressing down harder with every step he took along the canal.

He turned right, vaguely remembering that his hotel was near water. With any luck, the canal would lead him there—or somewhere that didn’t feel like the set of a bad decision.

On the far side of the canal, houseboats in garish reds, greens, and blues bobbed gently against the current.

Their occupants, dishevelled and blinking against the morning light, emerged to stretch and yawn.

A few shouted cheerful greetings in Dutch and English, their voices cutting through the stillness of his hangover-addled thoughts.

Bits of the night began to surface.

The café Joe had insisted on visiting. The waitress—much more fluent in English, her second language, than most of their party—warning them about the strength of some of the dope.

The club, drenched in neon, with women twisting around poles, their oiled legs pointed skyward, stilettos glinting under the strobe lights. Other women glided through clusters of gawking men, cooing about private dances and overpriced champagne.

He remembered the group pooling their euros to buy his cousin a dance. The guy stumbling out of the curtained booth ten minutes later, flushed and grinning like he’d seen the face of God.

And then… another club. This one blasting relentless Euro-pop.

See those lassies over there? They’re fae Glasgow too.

A hen party.

That yin there? The wee honey wi’ the dark, curly hair and the dazzling teeth? She’s been eyeing you up for the last ten minutes.

The night blurred after that, fragments of conversation swirling in his mind like broken glass:

Oh my God, you’ve only ever been wi’ one woman! Lorraine, did you hear that? He married her too. Isn’t that dead romantic?

Later:

You’re fucking gorgeous. What about… oh, no. I cannae ask that.

Had she said it? Had he? The words were muddled, overlapping, their origins lost in the fog of his memory.

Did it make it worse that he had no idea?

At last, the Lekkeresluis Brug came into view—a graceful 18th-century stone bridge Daniel remembered as the landmark nearest to their hotel.

Relief flooded through him. He crossed quickly, turning left on the far side, where the cheap and cheerful hotel he’d booked weeks ago stood, its red-and-cream sign cheerfully welcoming guests in Dutch, English, French and German.

It wasn’t yet eight o’clock.

He patted his pockets, searching for his room key, only to realise with a sinking heart that he didn’t have it.

There was no point going back to the other hotel.

The mystery woman had said her flight was first thing, and besides, the thought of returning made his toes curl. Once had been more than enough.

The receptionist greeted him with a dead-eyed stare, his much-washed shirt, waistcoat and trousers hanging limply off his wiry frame. At Daniel’s explanation, the man sighed like it physically pained him, muttering about how often stag parties lost their keys.

He followed Daniel down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, jangling a set of master keys. “Happens every week,” the receptionist grumbled. “And just so you know, the price of cutting a replacement key will be added to your bill.”

Daniel mumbled his thanks as the door clicked open.

Unlike the others, who had all opted for twin rooms to save money, Daniel had splurged on the luxury of privacy.

Now, he blessed his past self for that decision.

Maybe he could feign illness for the rest of the day, skipping the group’s plans to hit yet more cafés, bars and clubs.

A long shower might wash away the sticky grime of the other hotel, along with the haze of guilt and regret.

Then, he could sleep off the weekend’s excess and piece together exactly what had happened last night.

As long as, when his memory did return, it didn’t include the unpleasant revelation that he had committed adultery.

The curtains in the room were drawn, plunging the space into darkness. But not enough darkness to hide the person-shaped lump sprawled on the double bed.

The lump stirred. Rolled over. Sat up.

A hand reached for the bedside lamp, and golden light flooded the room.

“Alright, gaffer,” Joe said, blinking groggily at him, his hair sticking up in tufts. “What’ve ye been up tae?”