Page 83 of Forever, Maybe
HIGH HEELS & PINK GLITTER
W ant a sneak peek of the next book? High Heels & Pink Glitter is Stephanie's story, a romcom about reinvention, second chances and the glories of make-up. Here's the first chapter…
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY…
“Hello, gorgeous birthday girl! If only I wasn’t happily married...”
Daniel swooped in, planting a kiss on Stephanie’s cheek, his lips grazing her skin. Behind him, he swung open the door with a flourish, ushering her inside.
If only he wasn’t. But then, your best friend’s husband was always going to be off-limits—no matter how attractive and attentive.
“This isn’t too much, is it?” She swept a hand down her front, gesturing at the dress she’d bagged on eBay after a late-night bidding war in the run-up to Christmas.
It had been worth the three in the morning confirmation email.
The second-hand designer gown—a mix of red silk and nylon—boasted a high, rounded neckline, a sleek bodice and sheer sleeves.
She’d crash-dieted for three weeks to squeeze into it, taking Christmas Day off as a brief reprieve.
Even then, it had required two pairs of Spanx and sheer determination to coax the zip shut.
Daniel, dressed in black jeans and a faded band T-shirt, an alcohol-free beer in hand, gave an approving nod. “Not at all. You look like Marilyn Monroe. Every straight guy’s dream.”
A blatant lie—Stephanie’s hair was chestnut brown, not platinum blonde—but she’d spent the morning wrestling with Velcro rollers to achieve those signature 50s curls. It was nice to know the effort had paid off.
“Thank you. And you, sir, are the spitting image of Justin Currie, circa 1995.”
Daniel groaned theatrically. “Aye, Justin Currie 1995. Plus VAT.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m receding, receding! Look!”
Stephanie leaned in, scanning his forehead. No sign of retreat. She breathed him in, enjoying the closeness before giving him a playful nudge. “Stop being a fanny. You’re fine.”
The joke dispelled any lingering tension, and she followed him through to the kitchen—the heart of any proper British gathering. As expected, the party had congregated there, drinks in hand, backs against countertops. A few glasses lifted in greeting.
“She’s here!”
Nell darted forward, crushing her in a hug. “Happy, happy, happy birthday! You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!”
Hugging her back, Stephanie found herself clocking the other attendees and noting the pitiful number of them.
Birthdays this close to Christmas and New Year were the pits.
Everyone fobbed you off with a joint present, and no-one celebrated with you on the actual day, too hung over from celebrations that had begun in earnest weeks before.
Five of the people invited had cried off, citing their kids, the school holidays drawing to a close or still recovering from monumental Hogmanay hangovers. At her age, it shouldn’t hurt but did.
It was bad enough reaching the grand old age of forty-two and being single, your state so pitiful your best friend jumped in to offer to host the party on your behalf. Having half your so-called friends cry off made it that bit worse.
She leaned into Nell, lowering her voice. “Is this it? No surprise latecomers lurking in the hallway?”
Nell’s nod was a fraction too enthusiastic. “Yes! Everyone else is in the living room. And we are going to have the most fabulous time! Aren’t we?”
She turned to the others, prompting a chorus of greetings. Joe called out a casual “Hi,” Nicky threw in a wave, and her former neighbour, Leon, raised his glass in a toast.
“Can I get you some fizz?” Nell asked, yanking open the fridge.
Stephanie took in her friend’s outfit—tartan mini over fishnets, cork wedges, and a scarlet camisole that showed off her bony arms. Nell’s style, much like her personality, veered towards bold rather than practical.
Bitch. She didn’t mean it, but Nell’s tininess had a way of making Stephanie feel like a heffalump.
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Nell and Daniel’s enormous American-style fridge was stocked not with budget Prosecco but proper champagne. Daniel, who owned a chain of sandwich shops and delis, had probably sourced it cheaply through his suppliers, but still. It was a nice touch.
Nell grabbed a fresh bottle, twisted out the cork, and sent it rocketing with a triumphant pop—the unmistakable sound of an F1 victory lap.
“Nell!” Daniel snatched the bottle off her, rolling his eyes as he poured a glass from the frothy overflow. “Excuse my wife. She’s had far too much on an empty stomach already.”
There was no reprimand in his voice, just amused affection. Nell giggled, unbothered.
“Whoops! Stephanie, d’you want a cheese scone courtesy of my mother-in-law? Turns out, cheese scones and champagne are an unexpectedly perfect match.”
“Persuade my wife to eat one too, will you?” Daniel nudged Stephanie’s side, conspiratorial as ever. He did that sometimes—roping her in, as if they were a united front and Nell was their joint responsibility.
Stephanie reached for one of the more generously buttered scones—a defiant, buttery middle finger to the crash diet—and handed another to Nell.
“Your mum and sisters are in the living room,” the latter said. “Shall we go through?”
Stephanie swallowed the instinctive Must we? that nearly slipped out. She could already picture them: sitting primly, sipping tea, radiating disapproval.
Sure enough.
Her sisters flanked their mother on the Murrays’ enormous, squashy corner sofa, teacups clutched like props in a period drama.
“Oh my God, what are you wearing?” Tina, the eldest, wrinkled her nose as if Stephanie had turned up in a bin bag. The glance she shot at Nell suggested she found her outfit equally offensive.
Tina’s fashion sense—today’s choice being a navy-blue dress with a white Peter Pan collar—screamed stern headmistress circa 1956. After her twenty-seventh birthday, she had skipped straight to the middle-age section of life without passing Go.
“Isn’t it the most fantastic dress?” Nell cut in, all bright-eyed enthusiasm. “I’m so jealous. Stephanie’s just so effortlessly cool.”
Tina didn’t so much as blink, setting down her teacup and reaching for a silver-foil gift bag.
“Here. Happy Birthday. It’s from the three of us.”
Her mother and other sister echoed the sentiment with a little more warmth, but Stephanie’s heart sank as she unwrapped the gift—a bone China pheasant, frozen mid-strut atop a faux-wood stump.
Her eyes prickled. She cast her mind back, trying to recall any point in her life where she’d expressed a love of pheasants. Or ornaments. Nothing.
Nell, ever the diplomat, let out an admiring gasp, running her fingers over the glossy ceramic. “Oh, look at the detail! The craftsmanship!”
Tina’s husband, notorious for his inability to keep his hands to himself, pulled her in for a hug, one hand lingering far too low on the small of her back. Stephanie extricated herself with practised ease, wondering, as always, if Tina ever noticed. Or cared.
When Nell’s mother-in-law, another decorous tea-sipper, launched into an in-depth discussion about home improvement shows with Stephanie’s mother and sisters, she and Nell grabbed the opportunity to escape.
Back in the kitchen, Daniel was topping up glasses and sliding trays of sausage rolls and mini quiches into the oven, the warm, buttery scent of pastry already filling the air.
Nell peeled away to chat with Leon, leaving Stephanie alone with her husband.
“Not working then?”
Daniel took her glass from her. He was close enough that she caught a trace of his aftershave—that familiar, woody-spicy scent she sometimes stopped to sniff in Boots when no one was looking.
“Oh, aye. Nell issued a three-line whip. Be here or else! Anyway, I didn’t want to miss your birthday.”
It sounded a little too rehearsed, as if Nell had nudged him into saying something complimentary. Still, Stephanie chose to take it at face value, allowing the warmth of his words to settle in.
“I spoke with the features editor at The Scottish Post recently,” she said. “Told her she should run a double-page spread on you and your business. She’s keen. Said she might pencil something in for March or April.”
Daniel winced. “Jesus. If that ever gets published, I’ll never hear the end o’ it.”
She grinned. “Most small business owners would bite their own hand off for that kind of free publicity.”
“Aye, I know. Thank you. So long as I dinnae come across as a tosser when she interviews me.”
Tosser? As if…
Leon and his boyfriend said something to Nell that made her shriek with laughter. “No, you didn’t!”
Stephanie, ever attuned to Daniel’s eyes tracking his wife across a room, noticed it now—the way he watched her with quiet, unconscious devotion. And, as always, it sparked that sharp, familiar ache. Oh, for someone to look at her like that.
“Mark not coming?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
Daniel turned his head swiftly, brows lifting in quiet curiosity, and she cursed herself for the slip.
She’d never confided in Nell, but anyone observant—and sober enough—at the end of a Murray family gathering might have noticed two people slipping out at the same time and might have put two and two together.
“Said he might pop by later,” Daniel said. “Though I wouldn’t hold my breath. You know Mark.”
Yes. She knew Mark. Unfortunately.
Unreliability was the only reliable thing about him. When she’d asked—oh-so-casually—if he’d be at her birthday party, he’d wrinkled his nose.
An afternoon tea party? At my brother’s house? That doesnae sound very exciting…
Leon pulled her aside, eyes glittering, eager to share some scandal about a mutual acquaintance who’d been caught sniffing coke at work. Across the kitchen, Daniel topped up drinks, laughing good-naturedly as Leon’s partner reeled off a string of sandwich-related puns.
Stephanie let herself enjoy the distraction for a moment before guilt tugged her away. She hadn’t spent much time with her mum and sisters.
Wandering through to the living room, she found them exactly as she’d left them—huddled together, making little effort to mingle. Tina’s husband, however, had strayed. He was perched on the arm of the recliner where Nell sat, gaze firmly locked on her chest.
The doorbell rang.
Nell frowned. “Oh. Who’s that?”
“I’ll get it.”
Stephanie dashed to the door, her heart kicking up a gear. He’s here! He’s actually here!
Maybe the last forty-eight hours had made him think. Maybe he’d finally realised it was time. Time to stop sneaking around, to tell everyone about their fledgling relationship, to admit he loved her and—
“Alright, Steph! Happy Birthday, you old tart!”
Mark stood there, arms wide, a sparkly gift bag in hand—a miracle in itself.
She stepped into his embrace, the party instantly improving by a hundred percent.
He planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Up close, the whiff of beer hit her. Of course. He must have been at the game. Straight from Celtic Park to the pub before this. Not ideal but never mind. He was here, he was holding her, he was—
“Hi, Stephanie! Sorry for crashing the party, but Mark said you wouldn’t mind. And I made sure he bought you a pressie because he’d forgotten all about it being your birthday!”
Stephanie’s eyes snapped open, slow and unwilling.
A young woman—twenty-three, at most—beamed at her from behind Mark.
She wore a sheer black sleeveless top, braless, ripped jeans slung low over Converse.
Her blonde hair was a mess of bedhead waves, dark makeup smudged around her eyes.
Very thin. The effect would have been effortlessly cool if not for the half-concealed love bite peeking out from beneath the black ribbon tied around her neck.
Mark, still not meeting Stephanie’s eyes, gestured vaguely between them. “Steph, this is Lauren.”
Lauren slid her arm through his, grinning. “Hey, if you fancy clubbing later, I know the bouncers at the Viper Lounge—I can get us into the VIP area. Or we could hit King Tut’s? Twin Atlantic are playing. Sam McTrusty’s a mate.”
Stephanie barely heard herself mumble some kind of response, stepping aside as they moved past her.
From the hallway, Nell’s voice rang out, bright with surprise. “Mark! Good God, we are honoured! What can I get you to drink? And who’s your friend? Lauren? What about you?”
Stephanie exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
Happy bloody birthday.
For the third time that day—having already succumbed to a fit of self-pity that morning, wondering how other people managed to sort themselves out by the time they hit their forties—Stephanie fought the urge to burst into tears.
Why had she ever believed her birthday might stir up something resembling love in Mark, rather than sheer, lazy convenience?
She was—no sense in dressing it up—a fuck buddy. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He might look like his brother, might be astonishingly good in bed, but at the core of it all? He was a Class A shit of a human being.
She inhaled sharply, reaching for the inner reserves that got you through moments like these—the ones that said, Hold your head up. Don’t let the bastard see you crumble.
There would be no more answering his late-night calls. No more opening the door when he turned up looking for sex, company, or some vague excuse for both. And no more ridiculous, deluded hopes that he would ever change.
Stephanie smiled, bright and unshaken.
“Lovely to meet you, Lauren!” She gestured them inside with a flourish. “Come on in.”