Page 8 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter five
A lone piper stood outside the Marriot Hotel, cranking out a whiny welcome as the Taste of Scotland’s guests walked past. Daniel checked the time, nodding a greeting when he spotted Joe jumping out of a black cab, and sprinting around to the other side of the vehicle to let Nicky out.
She gave Daniel a smile and patted the back of her head.
Her long, reddy-brown hair, normally worn loose and frizzy around her shoulders, was fastened behind her head in a low, fat bun that left strands of it dangling around her face.
The pleats of her emerald-green dress spread over a burgeoning bump.
“Fit-like, handsome?” she asked, that Peterhead accent still rock solid even after more than two decades living in Glasgow. “Thank you for graciously allowin’ ma husband time aff for this yin.”
She patted the bump, a glint in her eyes. As if she’d guessed he’d been mulling over offering Joe a fatter slice of the profits to tempt him back to work much sooner than March 2017.
Rumbled. She hugged him, pressing the small lump of her belly against his. Out of nowhere, a longing to press his hand to it the way women often did with each other, surfaced. The gesture was far too over-familiar, so he settled for a general inquiry into her health when she stepped back.
“Ach,” Nicky replied, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “Alright. But this yin’s definitely the last. The loon’s gettin’ the snip after this, nae arguments.”
Joe, also sporting a kilt—his a bold yellow-and-black tartan with a hem hovering above two reddened, knobbly knees—pulled a face, crossed his eyes and clutched his crotch, earning a loud laugh from Daniel.
“Where’s Nell?” Joe scanned the car park, as if he half-expected her to leap out from behind Daniel with a triumphant ta-dah!
“Long-standing arrangement wi’ Stephanie,” Daniel said. In reality, Nell’s exact words had been something about preferring to stick red-hot needles in her eyes—nothing personal against Joe and his missus, of course. Still, Daniel supposed some things were best left unsaid.
He turned, offering Nicky his arm while Joe darted off to the toilets. “Shall we?”
They strolled past the piper, whose mournful drone reverberated through the entrance, and into the reception area. Two massive pull-up banners greeted them, one showing whisky swirling elegantly in crystal glasses and the other proudly displaying the Taste of Scotland logo in bold lettering.
“Fa else is sittin’ at oor table?” Nicky asked, as Daniel paused to greet the event planner stationed near the hallway leading to the main function room.
“Daniel Murray, Joe and Nicky Docherty? Table ten?” the event planner confirmed, ticking their names off her clipboard.
Daniel answered her question as they moved on. “Ronnie and Bet Armstrong, Liza and her man and Dennis.”
Nicky wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Dinnae sit me anywhere near Ronnie. He’s awfy handsy.”
“Already taken care of,” Daniel assured her. “His wife’s on one side, Dennis on the other.”
“Wouldnae mind seein’ Ronnie try and cop a feel o’ Dennis’s leg,” Nicky quipped, a sly grin spreading across her face.
Daniel smirked. “Dennis might not mind, but Ruthie would rip Ronnie’s balls off the second she found out.”
They proceeded down the hallway to the main function room, which was bathed in a warm orange-yellow glow, the tables draped in black cloths and the black chairs wrapped in crimson ribbons, bows at the back.
Most people were already seated at theirs, and the buzz of conversation drowned out the muzak.
Ronnie Armstrong, his stocky, black tie suited body planted at a table in the middle of the room, raised a hand.
Daniel led the way over, clasping the man in a firm hug as he stood up before he could greet Nicky, who sat down next to his wife Bet, exclaiming over the latter’s diamond choker, a match to the earrings and the ring on her left hand.
“Pregnant again, Nicky?” Bet’s voice cut through the event buzz, over-elucidated vowels masking her once broad Glaswegian accent. “You’re definitely making up for the boss’s lack of action in that department!”
Daniel, topping up Ronnie’s glass with the wine he’d ordered for the table, clenched his teeth. Because she was the wife of one of Daniel’s investors, Bet took that as a licence for all sorts of personal remarks.
“Number five, is it? Or are we on six now?”
“Five,” Nicky confirmed. “How’s Taylor gettin’ on? Ready fae his exams?”
And just like that, Bet was off, delighted to wax lyrical about her eldest son’s academic triumphs.
Daniel allowed himself a small sigh and tuned out Ronnie’s relentless droning on about stocks, property and all the ways he’d mastered capitalism. His gaze kept slipping to Nicky.
The soft curve of her breasts above the deep V of her dress, the gentle roundness in her cheeks, and the silky sheen of her hair.
Pregnancy had transformed her. She wasn’t, and never had been, his type.
But now, radiating vitality and the allure of life growing within her, she seemed to hum with an otherworldly pull.
It wasn’t her body that beckoned—it was what her body carried.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her pull out her phone to show Bet pictures of her other children. Bet’s exclamations were as loud as they were banal. “Oh, Kylie’s the spitting image of her dad! And Cameron’s all you, Nicky!”
For all its banality, their chatter about lookalikes and exam results was far more engaging than Ronnie’s monotone drone about house prices and the two investment properties he’d bought in Edinburgh.
“Got any names lined up for number five?” Bet asked.
“Aye, Helen for a quine, after ma mum,” Nicky said with a smile. “And maybe Daniel for a boy? Feels like we should name at least yin o’ them after his nibs!”
She flashed him that gap-toothed grin, her eyebrows lifting in playful exaggeration. Daniel managed a tight smile in return, then quickly looked away. The sight of her—beaming, delighted—made his throat tighten.
If only, if only, if only the Daniel waiting to enter the world was his son.
He turned his back to them, dabbing at his eyes under the pretence of adjusting his napkin. His attention flicked back to Ronnie, still holding court about the genius of property investment, as oblivious as ever.
At the front of the room, a celebrity chef and the CEO of Taste of Scotland ascended the small stage.
A hush fell over the crowd. Daniel recognised the chef.
They’d crossed paths a couple of times. One of those men who’d never learned the golden rule of success.
Be kind to those you pass on the way up, because they’ll remember you all too well when you tumble back down.
Taste of Scotland's chief executive introduced him, and the chef gave what sounded like a well-worn speech about how delighted he was to be here, and how the best fish, seafood, game and cheese in the world could be found in Scotland’s rich larder, which was why they would be starting the evening with a fine meal to celebrate.
The speech triggered polite applause before everyone settled down to the evening’s serious business. Eating plentifully and drinking a skinful.
Daniel leant back as a waiter slid a plate in front of him. At least he wouldn’t be giving any speeches this year. He was only here tonight because Taste of Scotland awards had benefited his business a great deal over the years and invites to such events kept Ronnie sweet.
He prodded the dish before him. Scallops. No wonder the tickets for tonight had been so pricey.
Following the second course—venison, in a red wine jus, served with Ayrshire potatoes and wilted kale—Ronnie excused himself, eager to join the other big-wigs outside the Marriot’s front door smoking cigars.
Daniel scrolled through his emails, skimming festival confirmations and supplier updates.
Joe slid into Ronnie’s empty seat, swiping a leftover potato from Daniel’s plate and popping it into his mouth.
He jerked his chin towards the chef, who sat two tables away, mid-monologue.
He cast one arm out, a gesture that almost sent the glasses on the table flying.
His audience leaned in, hanging on his every word.
“Saw him in the bogs earlier. Wiped his nose on the way out.”
Daniel nodded. He’d heard the same. The chef had a coke habit the size of his ego.
He was about to pocket his phone when a message from an unfamiliar address, sent the day before, caught his eye. He opened it and his pulse kicked up.
Joe helped himself to another potato. “Did ye ask Ronnie about the recipe boxes?”
“Not yet, but I will when he’s—fucking hell!” Daniel’s eyes gleamed as he slid his phone across the table. “Check this out.”
Joe managed the impressive feat of reading the screen while cracking open a fresh beer.
“Looks like you’ve hit the big time.”
“We,” Daniel corrected firmly. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
Nicky, mid-chat with a waiter about another soft drink, turned to them with a grin. “Dinnae tell me. The two o’ youse have finally been called up tae the national team, ready tae grace Hampden next week, end Scotland’s decades in the wilderness, and lead us back tae glory where we belong.”
Her husband stuck out his tongue. “Aye, very funny. The UK’s biggest supermarket chain has finally gie’n us a date. They’re interested in stocking our dips and pates. We’re tae schlep down to their head office in Leeds, prostrate ourselves before the Gods o’ Commerce and pitch our stuff.”
Bet, who’d also left all her potatoes uneaten because she was following a keto diet on the advice of her personal trainer, clapped her hands. “Wow! That must be worth a bob or two. When are you seeing them?”
Daniel squinted at his phone screen. “May twenty-seventh. Six weeks from now. We’ll need to do a lot o’ work between now and then to convince them to take us on.”
“May twenty-seventh…?” Nicky accepted her orange juice and lemonade from the waiter. “Isn’t that Nell’s birthday?”
“Shit!” Daniel smacked his forehead. Of course it was Nell’s birthday. The four-day London getaway he’d planned—non-refundable deposit and all—flashed through his mind, accompanied by Nell’s parting shot: “If you cancel this at the last minute, no word of a lie, I’ll leave you for good this time!”
She’d been smiling when she said it, but there had been heft behind her words, a warning wrapped in lightness.
“You’ll hae to re-arrange,” Nicky said with a shrug, standing up. Bet followed her as she made her way to the loos.
Daniel exchanged a glance with Joe, whose mouth twisted to the side. In theory, it sounded easy. Call the supermarket contact, explain the exceptional circumstances, and voilà! The meeting would be rescheduled, no harm done. But reality wasn’t so obliging.
For years, Daniel had been trying to get supermarkets to stock his products. Not just for the financial boost, though that was significant. Nationwide distribution meant a big leap from Glasgow and Edinburgh, and with it, bigger profits. But it was also about the kudos.
He could picture it vividly: walking into the massive superstore near his and Nell’s place on the southside, weaving through the aisles until he reached the party foods section. There, among the bright packaging, would be Stuffed! ’s sleek black-and-red branding.
Velvety, garlicky hummus. Creamy cheese and chive dip. Rich garlic butter to spread on bread, toss with roasted vegetables, or swirl into stews and casseroles. The thought of seeing his products on those shelves had carried him through countless sleepless nights, setbacks and compromises.
It had taken nearly five years of pitching to supermarkets to get this far.
The buyers operated on a rigid schedule, with every small producer vying for shelf space crammed onto a tightly controlled timeline.
When the supermarket said jump, the small producer didn’t just ask, “how high?”, they were already mid-air.
If he emailed or called to say he couldn’t make the allocated weekend, the supermarket’s response would be a polite but final, “That’s unfortunate,” followed by silence. No rescheduling. No second chances. Just the door slamming shut on years of effort and the opportunity vanishing for good.
Joe set his beer bottle down. “S’pose I could do it mysel’.”
Daniel had known Joe long enough to say, “That won’t work,” without offending his oldest friend and business partner.
While he needed Joe to accompany him to Leeds to persuade the retail giant that he was not a one-man operation and for Joe to assist in answering any questions the buyer posed, Joe loathed public speaking.
The email outlining what they needed to do next stated that pitching to the buyers would take the form of a presentation, in which Stuffed! would lay out their proposal and produce figures demonstrating the business’s robustness.
“First thing Monday,” he said, “I’ll phone the buyer. Check if there’s any chance of shifting it.”
Joe shot him a beady look. “And if there’s no’?”
“Then I’ll need to get down on my hands and knees and beg Nell’s forgiveness.”