Page 112 of Forever, Maybe
Joan opened a drawer beneath the coffee table and pulled out a small notepad, handing it and a pen to Nell.
“We’re going to cover a lot today,” she explained. “You might want to jot down some notes—it’s a lot to take in.”
“Thank you,” Nell replied, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to bring her own.
“Well,” Joan began, her voice soft but deliberate. “As you probably know, diagnosing dementia isn’t always straightforward.” Her warm smile didn’t waver as she turned her full attention to Cate.
“We’ve reviewed the results of your Mini Mental State Examination with your GP, and the next step is a brain scan. Based on what we’ve seen so far, it appears you’re likely in the early to mid-stages of Alzheimer’s…”
Chapter forty-six
ToDaniel’shorror,Stephaniewas sitting in his living room when he let himself into the house on Thursday evening. She wore a camisole top that made it glaringly obvious she was braless, paired with loose pyjama bottoms.
“God, sorry,” he said quickly, averting his eyes from her chest and doing his best to focus anywhere else. “I thought Nell was coming back tomorrow. I just wanted to grab some clothes.”
Stephanie, her face flushed, pointed the remote at the TV and clicked it off. “No, she’s staying down there a while longer,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and fixing him with a beady glare.
Corrie, sprawled half-across Stephanie’s lap, mirrored her disdain. The cat opened one eye lazily, then closed it again, as if Daniel’s presence wasn’t worth the effort of acknowledgement.
The house felt foreign to him—like he didn’t belong there anymore. Even the smell was wrong. A dark red Yankee candle burned on the coffee table, its synthetic sweetness cloying and out of place.
The back door opened and shut. “D’you want me to make dinner, Steph?” a voice called out.
Daniel froze. A man, dressed in running gear with sweat glistening on his top lip, wandered into the living room. He stopped short when he spotted Daniel.
Stephanie’s flush deepened to an alarming shade. For a detached moment, Daniel noted he’d never seen her without makeup before. Her face, usually framed by false lashes, heavy eyeliner and a dark lipstick, looked oddly exposed—and, right now, totally flustered.
“I asked Nell if it was okay for him to stay here, and she said it was fine!” Stephanie blurted, her words spilling out in a rush. “Daniel, this is Nate—short for Nathan. Daniel, Nate.”
Nate stepped forward with a hand outstretched. His grip was firm—bone-crushing—and Daniel reflexively matched it. What was it about men that turned every handshake into a pissing contest?
“Hi there,” Nate, having established his superior strength credentials, resorted to friendship. “I go intae that shop o’ yours in Hyndland all the time. The deli bit’s amazing.”
Daniel gritted his teeth, doing his best to smile back. The handshake ended, but the awkwardness remained. Stephanie and Nate stayed where they were—Stephanie on the sofa, Nate standing beside her like a human shield—while Daniel lingered in the doorway, feeling like a trespasser in his own home.
Fucking ridiculous that he felt the need to ask permission to go upstairs, grab his clothes and leave.
Nate scratched the back of his head. “Nell did a brilliant job wi’ my website,” he said cheerfully. “Tell her I’ve had aw’ these folk saying how amazing it looks.”
Daniel stared at him, incredulous. Surely Stephanie had filled him in on what had happened?
Stephanie shot Nate a look—a mix of shock and suppressed amusement—and Nate’s face fell. He slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Eh… sorry. I’ll… eh … tell her mysel’.”
Daniel waved it off, though the words stung. “No, no, it’s fine. Nellistalented,” he said evenly. “I’ll just grab my stuff.”
As Daniel climbed the stairs, their whispers turned to giggles. Stephanie’s voice carried, exclaiming at Nate’s tactlessness and Nate’s low agreement followed. The energy of their new relationship—fresh, electric and oblivious—chased him all the way to his bedroom.
He could already imagine it: later tonight, they’d climb these very stairs, Stephanie leading the way, Nate pinching her bottom, both of them dissolving into laughter before tumbling onto the spare bed, their excitement filling the house that no longer felt like his.
Inside his room, the emptiness hit him like a blow. It wasn’t just a physical emptiness but something deeper, accusatory. Nell’s face stared at him from a ridiculous photo propped on the bedside table—a memory from their holiday camel ride when they’d agreed to play tourists for a day. Her side of the bed was missing its familiar chaos: the stack of teetering paperbacks, a mix of schlocky thrillers and Booker Prize winners she pretended she’d read (and never did) and the absurdly expensive face cream she swore by.
The bed itself was too neat, the duvet draped symmetrically, the pillows devoid of the faint head impressions that made it feel lived-in. He kicked the base of the bed in frustration. It made no difference.
Her dressing gown hung on the back of the door, its presence a cruel tease. He pulled it down and pressed it to his face, inhaling. It didn’t smell like her anymore.
With a heavy exhale, he wrenched open the wardrobe and began pulling out T-shirts, jeans and sweaters—layers for the chillier nights ahead—tossing them onto the bed in a chaotic heap.
