Page 117 of Forever, Maybe
Daniel took a long gulp of his beer, the cold bitterness grounding him. Under the table, Jennifer’s knee brushed his. He didn’t move his leg.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, setting down his glass. “How long have you been divorced?”
“Eight years,” she replied, her tone suddenly softer. “I don’t miss the slimy git at all, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I wish… oh, never mind. You don’t want to hear it.”
“What?”
She set down her glass, leaning forward. Her forearms rested on the table, and the movement pressed her breasts together, pushing them just above the neckline of her dress. The soft swell reminded him of the stone carvings at the pub’s entrance—artfully revealed, tantalisingly close to bare.
“A kid,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I wish I’d had one, even if I’d ended up divorcing its bastard father. My mum used to go on about the biological clock ticking through my thirties, but now she doesn’t even bother. It’s like she’s given up on me ever finding someone or having a baby.”
Daniel stared into his beer, the golden liquid catching the warm light. A mix of the Budweiser and the last few lonely months loosened his tongue. “How old are you?”
Jennifer’s lips curved into a sly smile, and she licked her upper lip, a deliberate, teasing move. “Take a guess.”
Only an eejit played that game. He leant back, shaking his head. “No.”
She shrugged. “The big four-oh. Last week, I spent hours researching sperm donation clinics because I decided I could handle being a single parent. But then I googled the chances of getting pregnant at my age. What do you think they are?”
Daniel blinked, blindsided. Her question dragged him back to that conversation with Nell a lifetime ago.
“Pish?” he ventured.
Jennifer laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, that’s about the sum of it. Why didn’t you and Nell have any mini-Daniels? Didn’t you want someone to pass the empire to?”
“We…” His throat tightened, his eyes stinging again. Damn it. “We just didn’t.”
“Could she not—”
She stopped mid-sentence, his expression warning her off. “Not my business, I know.”
She gestured toward the empty bottle in his hand. “Another?”
“I—”
But before he could finish, she was already pushing back her chair, wandering off to the bar. He watched her go, catching the appreciative glance from a man at the adjacent table as she did so.
Daniel turned his attention to the bottle, picking at the paper label until tiny red and white flecks littered the table like dandruff. Was he enjoying himself? Not really. But it was still better than sitting at home, watchingMatch of the Daywith his father while his mother hovered in the background, nagging about Father Reilly’s “wonderful counselling services for couples”.
“There you go!” Jennifer’s voice pulled him back as she placed another bottle in front of him. “I ordered food too. Not a full meal—just a bowl of chips. I’m starving.”
She’d switched back to full-strength wine, the pee-yellow liquid sloshing in her glass. The sight of it made him grimace. He’d never understood why people raved about wine. Ronnie Armstrong was always going on about his expensive cellar collection, as if the worth of the bottles made them taste better.
Jennifer plopped back into her seat, now rambling on about print journalism and its bleak future. “Nobody buys newspapers anymore,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. “And digital editions are cannibalising the industry. Another year and my job’ll be a goner.”
He nodded absently, not really listening. At least she’d stopped talking about kids.
By the time he polished off the second bottle, the warm buzz spreading through his mind, it felt only polite to offer another round. When those drinks disappeared, a fourth seemed inevitable.
“No,” Jennifer protested weakly, her laugh trailing into a sigh. “My shout.”
Daniel shook his head. “On me.”
At the bar, the man who’d ogled her earlier caught his eye, grinning as he grabbed a pint and a gin and tonic. He leaned in as he passed. “Lucky, lucky man. Bet that yin’s dynamite in the sack.”
If Jennifer had been his wife or girlfriend, Daniel might have decked him. But tonight seemed to be one for shedding inhibitions, and he just watched as the man twisted to sneak another glance at her on his way back to his table.
When Daniel returned to their table, the chips had arrived. Two bowls, he noted with gratitude. They were proper pub chips: chunky, golden-crisp on the outside, soft and fluffy inside.
