Page 118 of Forever, Maybe
Jennifer tore open two sachets of mayonnaise, scooshing the contents onto her plate before delicately biting each chip in half. She chewed with an exaggerated slowness, her leg pressed firmly against his under the table. He couldn’t decide if her deliberate motions were an attempt at seduction or if it just felt that way because of the beer in his system.
God, what was hedoing? How was this night supposed to end?
As he drained his fourth bottle, a wild, unhinged thought floated into his mind.What if I offer to donate the sperm?At least she’d know the provenance. He could even offer to cover the costs. Kids were expensive, weren’t they?
But then he imagined how Jennifer might react. Would she study him, speculative, before leaning in with a smirk? Would she ask,How exactly do you plan to donate? A quick wank in the pub toilets, the jizz smuggled out in a glass? Or do we cut out the middleman and head back to mine? You know, the perfect act of revenge on our exes.
The image of Nell entwined with her husband—planted in his head all those weeks ago—rose up to torment him again. And yet, even now, his body refused to cooperate, his cock and balls shrivelling inward at the thought of being with someone else.
He tipped the remnants of his half-eaten chips into Jennifer’s bowl and pushed his chair back. “I better make a move.”
Her hand clamped over his, the grip claw-like. The heavy lid of one eye drooped slightly, giving her a lopsided, puppet-like expression. Her lipstick had faded, leaving a dark red outline around her lips, the centre stained a faint pink.
“Oh, don’t,” she murmured, her voice soft and pleading. “This is nice, isn’t it? And we could always… go back to mine. I’ve got a cafetiere. Makes the most amazing coffee.”
Coffee. Code, of course. Exactly what he’d predicted. Revenge sex, with the slim possibility of parenthood dangled as a bonus.
He forced a smile, trying to make the brush-off as painless as possible. “Better not. Early start tomorrow.”
Jennifer’s hand slipped away as he stood. “Can I call you a taxi home?”
The man who’d voiced his admiration earlier was still at the adjacent table. His female companion had disappeared, and now he looked up, eyes glinting with the sharpness of a hunter spotting unexpected prey.
Jennifer reached for her wine. The motion was so unsteady it tipped Daniel’s beer, sending the dregs cascading over the edge of the bowl of chips.
“No, you should—you should…” Her voice rose, plaintive and slurred, wobbling on the edge of desperation. “You should come back with me!”
The last words hung in the air, a drunken wail that made him wince. He couldn’t leave her like this. Not with that guy watching, already rising from his seat, his interest plain as day.
“Jennifer,” Daniel said firmly, standing. “I’ll get you a taxi.”
He hauled her to her feet. She was heavier than she looked, her body an uncooperative deadweight. Getting her into her coat was another ordeal—her arms flailing like a toddler refusing a winter jacket. When he finally managed it, the caramel trench coat hung lopsided, its belt dragging on the sticky pub floor.
“C’mon,” he muttered, guiding her toward the door. “There’ll be plenty of taxis this time of night.”
Except there weren’t. Outside, black cabs cruised past, their orange hire lights stubbornly dark. Jennifer slumped against the wall next to a planter brimming with fake flowers, her head drooping forward like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
Daniel shifted between propping her up and darting into the street, arm raised in vain every time headlights approached.
“You should—should come back with me, Sandwich King!” Jennifer slurred behind him, her voice breaking into a full-on drunken beam. “I’m—I’m wearing sust-suspenders!”
He turned, and she gave him a grin so wobbly it made her look cross-eyed. “And I like—I like it up the ar—oof, steady there, tiger!”
Daniel groaned inwardly, grabbing her hand just as a taxi slowed to a stop beside them. The driver rolled down his window.
“Where to, pal?”
“Kenmure Street,” Daniel replied, dredging up the address from the night he’d dropped her off after the Taste of Scotland awards.
He bundled her into the backseat. She clung to his hand, her earlier bravado crumbling as tears welled in her eyes. Her gaze locked on his, pleading.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Come back.”
Oh, God Almighty. She wasn’t unattractive, not really, but the desperation in her tone made her so. He could already see the morning stretching ahead: a grim tableau of regret, shame and awkwardness, served with an enormous side of self-recrimination.
“Sorry, Jennifer,” he said softly, disentangling his hand. “But I can’t.”
She let out a small sob as he stepped back, closing the door firmly. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, waiting for the go-ahead.
