Page 9 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter six

“Hello, you!” Stephanie flung her arms around Nell, who mustered every ounce of energy to return the embrace with equal enthusiasm.

Stephanie, as always, radiated Glasgow glamour.

Her belted dark-purple coat flared over skinny jeans, paired with towering wedge sandals doomed to earn her curses before the night was through.

Once, Nell had suggested she swap the wedges for foldaway pumps between venues, keeping her heels stashed in her bag for the actual occasions.

Stephanie had dismissed the idea with a wave.

Heels, she insisted, knocked half a stone off your silhouette.

Besides, didn’t every man secretly harbour a foot fetish?

The mere glimpse of toes peeking from a stiletto sandal—or, better yet, the iconic red sole of a Louboutin—apparently drove them wild.

Her espresso-hued hair was swept into a top knot, with just the right number of artfully curled tendrils framing her face.

An untrained eye might call them accidental, but Nell knew better.

Not a strand was out of place unless Stephanie allowed it.

Her look was completed with contoured cheeks, perfectly blended fake tan, dramatic smoky eyes, false lashes and a dark plum lipstick.

There wasn’t a hint of cat hair clinging to her outfit, a feat, Nell could never hope to emulate.

There was, however, a faint trace of smoke clinging to her, a telltale sign that the New Year’s resolution to quit had fizzled out just as it did most years. Still, it wasn’t Nell’s place to nag.

“You look fabulous! ” she cooed.

“So do you, Nelly-welly!” Stephanie replied, ever the loyal cheerleader.

Nell wrinkled her nose. A pre-departure glance in her bathroom mirror had revealed a pale face, dark shadows under her eyes, and a floral green dress that should have felt cheerful but instead left her looking drained and washed out.

Stephanie looped her arm through Nell’s. “Guess what? I’m working out with Keto Nate tomorrow.”

“Keto Nate? Really? ” Nell asked, startled.

She’d introduced Nate—a personal trainer and a client whose website she was redesigning—to Stephanie months earlier, wrongly assuming they would hit it off.

Nate had earned his nickname during a phase of keto diet evangelism, which he’d expounded upon as Stephanie demolished a hefty slice of carrot cake in front of him.

“The very same,” Stephanie said with a smirk. “Possibly the most tactless man alive. He invited me by saying that if I joined him in the workout videos he’s planning to upload online, it would inspire other ‘fat, lazy women’ to get off their arses and exercise.”

“He didn’t! ” Nell exclaimed, appalled.

“Not the exact phrase, but ‘fat’ was the word he used.”

“Git.” Nell squeezed her friend’s arm. Nate was something of an acquired taste.

They wove through clusters of boozed-up revellers, voices raised in laughter and off-key singing, as they made their way down the street.

The alleyway leading to Lock Down finally came into view, tucked just off Buchanan Street and hidden behind Princes Square.

The bar was nestled within a five-storey building complex—not exactly picturesque, but it had its charm.

The stonework looked much cleaner than in years past, and the graffiti had been scrubbed away from the fire escape nearby.

The stone-flagged courtyard outside added a touch of character, with wooden tables scattered around, their surfaces worn smooth and glossy from years of use.

Ornamental trees stood like sentinels between the tables, their leaves dappling the area with shifting patches of sunlight.

A few parasols stretched overhead, creating a cozy sun trap that glowed with late-afternoon warmth.

Nell dropped into a chair at one of the outdoor tables, letting her handbag slide unceremoniously to the ground beside her.

“Bottle of Prosecco to start?” Stephanie asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Nell hesitated, biting her bottom lip. Prosecco—or ‘lady petrol’, as Danny called it—had a way of creeping up on her. “I don’t want to get too drunk too quickly,” she admitted.

“You won’t,” Stephanie assured her, patting her hand with mock solemnity. “I promise to take care of you.”

People sat at every other table outside because it was a Saturday, and it was warm.

You had to admire the Brits, insisting on beer gardens despite the inclement weather and the far-from salubrious locations of many pubs and bars.

Most of the other patrons were younger than she and Stephanie, but two men who appeared to be about the same age sat at one of the tables at the back.

They had clocked Stephanie on her way to the bar.

One of them nudged the other and whispered something to him.

You two, Nell bet herself, will find some way to introduce yourselves this evening. Three to one on it.

Stephanie reappeared, balancing an ice bucket with a bottle of Prosecco nestled inside and two gleaming flutes. She set the bucket down with a flourish, fished out the bottle, and tilted one glass.

“Stop!” Nell murmured feebly as the liquid bubbled dangerously close to the rim. Stephanie stuck out her tongue but obliged, handing over the half-full glass before pouring her own.

“I’ve ordered pitta bread and dips,” she announced, plonking herself down. “That should soak up the booze.”

She raised her glass, clinking it lightly against Nell’s. “Cheers! Here’s to us and our fabulousness. Tell you what, though… when I saw those White Lightning Communications pics on Thursday night, I ended up totally depressed. We look so young in them!”

Nell took a cautious sip. The Prosecco was icy cold and effervescent, far too easy to drink. “I don’t even remember anyone taking that picture of us on that night out,” she replied, keeping her tone breezy.

“Nor did I,” Stephanie said, punctuating the comment with a gulp of wine.

The dark lipstick she left smeared on the glass would, Nell knew from experience, be murder to scrub off later.

“God, Jamie Curtice was such an arse, wasn’t he?

King Slime. But not nearly as awful as Marcus.

Honestly, thinking about those days still makes me shudder . ”

To emphasise the point, she hunched her shoulders up to her ears. Nell nodded along, fighting the acidic prickle of shame that burned the back of her throat.

No matter. The photo gave nothing away.

“Handing in my notice was the best day of my life,” Stephanie added.

“And mine,” Nell agreed quickly, eager to steer the conversation into safer waters. “How’s your blog coming along?”

Full of new-idea enthusiasm, Stephanie launched into a rundown of her progress on her new make-up and skincare blog and vlog, tailored for their age group.

She’d already created a content calendar, binge-watched competitors’ videos while noting ways to improve, sourced a second-hand film camera and taught herself how to use it.

She’d even surveyed every woman she knew, both in person and on social media, about what content they’d find most useful.

“Tips on how to look less tired,” Nell chipped in, and Stephanie nodded, pursing her lips. “Aye, most of them say that. Are you and Daniel speaking to each other again?” She kept one eye on Nell, the other on the two guys at the table Nell had noticed earlier, one of whom winked back at her.

A waiter arrived with wooden platters of warm bread, accompanied by dinky white bone china bowls filled with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, hummus, and sour cream.

Nell tore the bread into chunks, dividing it neatly onto their plates.

She dipped a piece of pitta first into the olive oil, then the vinegar, before sucking it thoughtfully and chewing.

It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t hold a candle to the stuff Danny sold in his shops.

“Yup. I’ve forgiven him. He’s reserved us a room at the Langbourne in London for my birthday. Mind you, I have warned him that if he cancels this—and he’s got form for it—I will leave him!”

Stephanie swallowed another mouthful of Prosecco. “Can I have him if you do?”

It wasn’t the first time she had made such a remark, and deep down, she probably meant it.

Despite her confidence and charm, Stephanie had never managed to stay in a relationship for more than five months.

Nell found it baffling. What hot-blooded, straight man could resist someone as stunning, witty and intelligent as her friend?

“Of course you can,” Nell quipped. “I’ve broken him in beautifully for his next wife. He puts the toilet lid down, doesn’t leave tea bags festering in the sink and—when he’s not too knackered for sex—he’s not that fussed about blow-jobs but absolutely adores going down on a woman.”

“Aye, so do we, don’t we mate? Mind if we join youse?”

Nell glanced up. The two men who’d been ogling Stephanie earlier had approached their table sooner than expected.

She’d misjudged their age. Early to mid-thirties, not older as she’d assumed.

Both were suited and booted, though not exactly polished, prompting Nell to wonder, meanly, if this was their Sheriff Court finest, worn after a day spent defending themselves against fraud or petty theft charges.

The closer of the two, sporting a tattoo that peeked out from his shirt and jacket sleeve, slid onto the bench beside her without waiting for an invitation.

The kind of men who assumed their presence was always welcome.

Stephanie’s face lit up, her smile bright and encouraging. The other man, still standing, pointed a thumb toward the door. “I’m just going to the bar. Can I get youse a drink?”

“Yes,” Stephanie replied enthusiastically, just as Nell said, “No.”

“So, another bottle of Prosecco?”

She shook her head.

“Dinnae worry, hen.” The standing man rested a hand on Nell’s shoulder, the weight of it unwelcome. “Tadgh and I’ll help ye oot wi’ it.”

“Okay, thanks,” she muttered. “But can you get some more food, please?”