Page 131 of Forever, Maybe
Daniel exhaled. “That’s true, Mum. Anyway, I’ll be round later to pick up my stuff. Holly’s found me a flat. Thanks for letting me stay these past few weeks.”
“Aflat?” Trish’s voice shot up an octave. “But you’re not abachelor. Look, I’ve mentioned it before but Father Reilly’s counselling for couples is very good. Why don’t I ask if he can fit you and Nell in? He’s very broad-minded, and he’ll have heard far worse than anything you two have done. I’msurehe can—”
Daniel cut her off.
Father Reilly, broad-minded or not, might have turned a blind eye to infidelity and people booking in for abortions, but divorce? That would be a step too far.
His phone buzzed with a message from Nell.
I can’t speak to you after all. This is too much.
Too much.
Would it change anything if he told her,No, Ryan’s not mine. He’s my brother’s kid. God help me, but part of me wishes he was mine. And aye, early on in our marriage, I woke up in a hotel room with a strange woman and no idea if I’d shagged her or not.
He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.
He’d book a hotel for now. Ask Holly to prioritise finding him that flat. Anywhere was better than staying with his mother.
And first thing tomorrow, he would call his lawyer. Just an informal consultation. A sense of what to expect.
Because at this point, divorce felt inevitable.
Chapter fifty-five
Oneweeklater
“So, how are you? Ready to go? Excited?” The Asda buyer’s Leeds accent punched the ‘ci’ inexcited.
Daniel wedged the phone against his shoulder, scanning the spreadsheet she’d emailed—the one detailing exactly where his products would be stocked in every Asda across Scotland next week.
“Aye, sure,” he said, aware his tone suggested the opposite. “Means a lot. Always wanted to see my stuff in a supermarket.”
A sniff down the line. “We loved your products. Your passion. Producers like you are our lifeblood.”
Lie-ff blud.
“Best of luck. We’ll check in two weeks from now. Once we’ve got the sales figures.”
Daniel thanked her again. They exchanged the usual small talk—the weather, weekend plans, family wellbeing (he kept it to a curtgood, thanks)—before he hung up.
He skimmed the spreadsheet again. One column for products. Another for quantities. A third listing every shop they’d hit. He could scroll to the bottom, tally the numbers, marvel at the projected income and tell himself:Daniel Murray, you are a roaring success.
Funny how hollow it felt. Like sprinting up a mountain in search of the golden fleece, only to find a moth-eaten, piss-scented sheepskin rug.
He closed the spreadsheet and clicked onto theScottish Postwebsite—his fourth or fifth check-in of the day. Still nothing. No feature onStuffed!. No call from Dougie, the crime reporter. Maybe Jennifer Frazer’s threats had been just that—empty. Or the editor had decided his story wasn’t worth it. Not when Brexit and its fallout for Scottish businesses made for juicier headlines.
Holly—today’s outfit a dark green blouse and matching pleated skirt—poked her head around the office door, waving his phone.
“Your brother just rang.”
Daniel took it with a nod of thanks and hit re-call.
“You called?” Mark rarely got in touch unless he wanted something.
“Aye. How are you?”
God. Things must be bad if Mark was asking about his wellbeing. Daniel didn’t bother with the truth.
