Page 134 of Forever, Maybe
Mark, his wretchedly selfish, idiotic brother, was no oracle of truth. But somewhere, buried in all that bile, was a sliver of honesty.
Daniel lowered his hands, placing them on his thighs out of harm’s way. “Aye. Mebbe,” he admitted. “I just dinnae get why you never bothered staying in touch.”
His accent thickened, pulling from the past. Years of working with suppliers, promoting products and speaking to customers had smoothed the rough edges, softened the vowels, tidied up the consonants. He saidI,notAh. Nodinnae, nocannae, noyouse.
But sometimes, the old tongue was the only one that fitted.
“Mhari Colquhoun was a wee slag. Just about everyone in the school’d had her.”
The blonde at the next table was forgotten. Mark’s entire focus was on him now.
“Didnae even think he was mine when she telt me. Probably went round telling every guy the same thing, waiting for one tae bite.”
Daniel nodded, listening, letting Mark talk. Wondering if this was the version of events that he’d repeated to himself so often that it had hardened into truth. A better, more palatable excuse thanI couldn’t be arsed being a dad.
Should he say something?
What stood out wasn’t the excuses, but what Markhadn’tsaid. All those years he could’ve been there.
Yes, taking Ryan to McDonald’s. The Science Centre. The cinema. Living the single-dad cliché. Even if he’d only been a part-time father, it would’ve been something.Maybe he and Mhari could’ve stuck it out for a few years, built some kind of family. Maybe he could’ve at least tried.
The miscarriage Nell had—the child who never was. The girl, the boy who might or might not have been biologically his.If only…
Sighing, he placed his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. “Goodbye, Mark.”
He laid a hand briefly on the top of his brother’s head. Mark scowled but said nothing as Daniel walked away.
At the door, Daniel glanced back one last time.
Mark had already made his move, sliding into the seat beside the shimmery-haired blonde. He leaned in, murmuring something in her ear. She chuckled, resting a hand on his arm.
Daniel stepped outside.
The night air was sharp. Clean.
He breathed it in.
Chapter fifty-six
Outonthestreet,his phone rang. The voice on the other end cleared its throat.
“Daniel, this is Martin Hodgson. How are you?”
Daniel straightened instinctively. Just hearing Martin Hodgson’s voice made him feel like he should be walking with purpose, not ambling along the pavement in clothes that had needed washing two days ago.
“Fine, Martin. You?” He kept his tone brisk. The less time spent on this call, the better. Something about the man unsettled him—not his reputation, which was impeccable, but what that reputation implied. The man had built a career wrangling the messiest divorces, securing generous settlements for either side with clinical efficiency.
“I’ve been looking at your books.” A pause. Another throat-clearing. Was the man drowning in catarrh?
Daniel’s neck prickled. He’d always been meticulous withStuffed!’saccounts, too conscious of how easily small businesses got wrecked by shoddy bookkeeping. When Martin had requested the financial records, Daniel handed them over without hesitation. He wanted a fair split—insisted on it, in fact. Martin had raised an eyebrow at that, as if offended by the mere suggestion that he was the kind of lawyer people hired to bury assets.
Now, though, tension coiled in Daniel’s shoulders. Had he missed something? Was he about to hear that HMRC would be sending round a firing squad?
“Nothing wrong, is there?” His throat was suddenly dry.
“Well… ah.” Another pause. Then, as if sensing Daniel’s panic, Martin hurried on. “Oh, no, no, no, dear chap. The books are perfectly fine. It’s just—”
Another hesitation.
