Page 151 of Forever, Maybe
He nodded, knowing it would not be an easy conversation. How did you tell a couple who had lost their son so young that a part of him had been out there all along, waiting to be found?
What now? Corrie purred as he kneaded Danny’s lap, sharp claws digging into his thighs.
She knelt so her face was level with his knees. “Danny, I don’t want our lives to be the same as they used to be.”
He pressed his hand against the back of her head. He’d forgotten how silky her hair was and how lovely it felt under his touch.
“Nell, I’m sorry for everything.” He paused for a few seconds, hoping the silence emphasised how much he meant it, and almost as anxiety-ridden now as he had been all those years ago when he had chased after Nell, desperate to arrange a time for that date.
‘Everything’ though, required further explanation.
“For Amsterdam, for being an arsehole when you told me about Jamie Curtice, and most of all, for always prioritising work. I’m sorry that the business got in the way so often. Let’s go and stay in Norwich for a while. We could rent this place out, and find an Airbnb place close to your Mum and Dad’s? And if you’re in Norwich, you're not far from Boston. If Mikey says ‘yes’ to meeting you, it'll be a lot easier. And I can come with you. Or not. Whatever you want. And then, how about returning to Crete for a few weeks, a month even?”
“Danny…”
“And I know you think I won’t stick to it,” he was babbling, anxious to get the message ofI can changeacross. “I might no’ be a good Catholic at all, and going to hell, but I’ll swear it on a Bible if you want. I, Daniel Murray, solemnly promise no’ to work so hard from now on because I will be too busy spending quality time wi’ my wife.”
It had been far less difficult than he had anticipated. Though how would he manage to stick to what he had promised? Could he let go of the urge to work that was so deep-rooted and entangled in his psyche so easily?
Her eyebrows waggled. “Six months not working? How will youcope?”
It was a casual enquiry, but pertinent. How would he fill his time when he wasn’t managing a business? Could he resist the impulse to call or answer the phone, check emails andStuffed!'ssocial media accounts fretting all the time that the business would falter and grind to a halt without him?
“No idea, but I’ll give it a shot. For you, for us and for me. We’ve had our ups and downs, Nell, but the twenty-two years, I’ve spent wi’ you have been…”
They spoke at the same time. “Bloody brilliant.”
The lines between Nell’s brows formed a perfect eleven these days, and the hair at her temples had thinned, grey among the blonde. The skin on her jawline, once taut, now puckered.
Had she ever been so gorgeous?
“I never wanted anyone else but you.”
Life retreated then. The years pealed back to 1994, and their mouths met for the first time again, a gentle touch of soft lips on an exploration expedition, rediscovering the past in all its technicolour glory.
Her lips parted, his tongue met hers, and his arms tightened around her back. Twenty-year-old Daniel Murray cheered him on, delighted and pleased that that what he’d wanted as a young man was still there.
Everything was going to be alright.
A SANDWICH AT THE BEGINNING OF THE DAY
MichaelStephenson.Orshouldit be Hardy? As he sat in Luton Airport, waiting for his flight to be called, he turned the unfamiliar names over in his mind.
For twenty-five years, he’d been Michael—Mikey—Gordon. His adopted father used to joke that his long-dead great-grandparents had declared themselves thoroughly done with Scotland and moved “abroad”—to England.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad.
The thought came automatically, trigged by why he was at the airport in the first place. Alan and Karen Gordon had always been open about his adoption.
“Your poor, dear mum,” his mother would say, pulling him close, the scent of her flowery perfume tickling his nose. “She wanted the very best for you, the best ever, but knew she couldn’t give it, so she gave you up for adoption. And then me and your dad came along, and we wanted a lovely little boy like you so, so much!”
She’d first told him the story when he was five, then again and again over the years, always the same:your poor mum,she wanted the best, andthe lovely little boypart. And it worked. He didn’t feel any “less” than the kids he met at nursery and then school up until a point.
“Hurry up, lads! There’s drinking to be done!”
A group of guys around his age strode past, decked out in lurid shirts and shorts, their energy dialled up to way beyond one hundred per cent. One of them launched into a chant—“Oggie, oggie, oggie!”—and the others roared back,“Oi, oi, oi!”, clapping in raucous unison.
Stag weekend.
