Page 16 of Forever, Maybe
She gave Daniel a smile and patted the back of her head. Her long, reddy-brown hair, normally worn loose and frizzy around her shoulders, was fastened behind her head in a low, fat bun that left strands of it dangling around her face. The pleats of her emerald-green dress spread over a burgeoning bump.
“Fit-like, handsome?” she asked, that Peterhead accent still rock solid even after more than two decades living in Glasgow. “Thank you for graciously allowin’ ma husband time aff for this yin.”
She patted the bump, a glint in her eyes. As if she’d guessed he’d been mulling over offering Joe a fatter slice of the profits to tempt him back to work much sooner than March 2017.
Rumbled. She hugged him, pressing the small lump of her belly against his. Out of nowhere, a longing to press his hand to it the way women often did with each other, surfaced. The gesture was far too over-familiar, so he settled for a general inquiry into her health when she stepped back.
“Ach,” Nicky replied, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “Alright. But this yin’s definitely the last. The loon’s gettin’ the snip after this, nae arguments.”
Joe, also sporting a kilt—his a bold yellow-and-black tartan with a hem hovering above two reddened, knobbly knees—pulled a face, crossed his eyes and clutched his crotch, earning a loud laugh from Daniel.
“Where’s Nell?” Joe scanned the car park, as if he half-expected her to leap out from behind Daniel with a triumphantta-dah!
“Long-standing arrangement wi’ Stephanie,” Daniel said. In reality, Nell’s exact words had been something about preferring to stick red-hot needles in her eyes—nothing personal against Joe and his missus, of course. Still, Daniel supposed some things were best left unsaid.
He turned, offering Nicky his arm while Joe darted off to the toilets. “Shall we?”
They strolled past the piper, whose mournful drone reverberated through the entrance, and into the reception area. Two massive pull-up banners greeted them, one showing whisky swirling elegantly in crystal glasses and the other proudly displaying theTaste of Scotlandlogo in bold lettering.
“Fa else is sittin’ at oor table?” Nicky asked, as Daniel paused to greet the event planner stationed near the hallway leading to the main function room.
“Daniel Murray, Joe and Nicky Docherty? Table ten?” the event planner confirmed, ticking their names off her clipboard.
Daniel answered her question as they moved on. “Ronnie and Bet Armstrong, Liza and her man and Dennis.”
Nicky wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Dinnae sit me anywhere near Ronnie. He’s awfy handsy.”
“Already taken care of,” Daniel assured her. “His wife’s on one side, Dennis on the other.”
“Wouldnae mind seein’ Ronnie try and cop a feel o’ Dennis’s leg,” Nicky quipped, a sly grin spreading across her face.
Daniel smirked. “Dennis might not mind, but Ruthie would rip Ronnie’s balls off the second she found out.”
They proceeded down the hallway to the main function room, which was bathed in a warm orange-yellow glow, the tables draped in black cloths and the black chairs wrapped in crimson ribbons, bows at the back. Most people were already seated at theirs, and the buzz of conversation drowned out the muzak.
Ronnie Armstrong, his stocky, black tie suited body planted at a table in the middle of the room, raised a hand. Daniel led the way over, clasping the man in a firm hug as he stood up before he could greet Nicky, who sat down next to his wife Bet, exclaiming over the latter’s diamond choker, a match to the earrings and the ring on her left hand.
“Pregnant again, Nicky?” Bet’s voice cut through the event buzz, over-elucidated vowels masking her once broad Glaswegian accent. “You’re definitely making up for the boss’s lack of action in that department!”
Daniel, topping up Ronnie’s glass with the wine he’d ordered for the table, clenched his teeth. Because she was the wife of one of Daniel’s investors, Bet took that as a licence for all sorts of personal remarks.
“Number five, is it? Or are we on six now?”
“Five,” Nicky confirmed. “How’s Taylor gettin’ on? Ready fae his exams?”
And just like that, Bet was off, delighted to wax lyrical about her eldest son’s academic triumphs.
Daniel allowed himself a small sigh and tuned out Ronnie’s relentless droning on about stocks, property and all the ways he’d mastered capitalism. His gaze kept slipping to Nicky.
The soft curve of her breasts above the deep V of her dress, the gentle roundness in her cheeks, and the silky sheen of her hair. Pregnancy had transformed her. She wasn’t, and never had been, his type. But now, radiating vitality and the allure of life growing within her, she seemed to hum with an otherworldly pull. It wasn’t her body that beckoned—it was what her body carried.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her pull out her phone to show Bet pictures of her other children. Bet’s exclamations were as loud as they were banal. “Oh, Kylie’s the spitting image of her dad! And Cameron’s all you, Nicky!”
For all its banality, their chatter about lookalikes and exam results was far more engaging than Ronnie’s monotone drone about house prices and the two investment properties he’d bought in Edinburgh.
“Got any names lined up for number five?” Bet asked.
“Aye, Helen for a quine, after ma mum,” Nicky said with a smile. “And maybe Daniel for a boy? Feels like we should name at least yin o’ them after his nibs!”
