Page 17 of Forever, Maybe
She flashed him that gap-toothed grin, her eyebrows lifting in playful exaggeration. Daniel managed a tight smile in return, then quickly looked away. The sight of her—beaming, delighted—made his throat tighten.
If only, if only, if only the Daniel waiting to enter the worldwashis son.
He turned his back to them, dabbing at his eyes under the pretence of adjusting his napkin. His attention flicked back to Ronnie, still holding court about the genius of property investment, as oblivious as ever.
At the front of the room, a celebrity chef and the CEO of Taste of Scotland ascended the small stage. A hush fell over the crowd. Daniel recognised the chef. They’d crossed paths a couple of times. One of those men who’d never learned the golden rule of success. Be kind to those you pass on the way up, because they’ll remember you all too well when you tumble back down.
Taste of Scotland's chief executive introduced him, and the chef gave what sounded like a well-worn speech about how delighted he was to be here, and how the best fish, seafood, game and cheese in the world could be found in Scotland’s rich larder, which was why they would be starting the evening with a fine meal to celebrate.
The speech triggered polite applause before everyone settled down to the evening’s serious business. Eating plentifully and drinking a skinful.
Daniel leant back as a waiter slid a plate in front of him. At least he wouldn’t be giving any speeches this year. He was only here tonight because Taste of Scotland awards had benefited his business a great deal over the years and invites to such events kept Ronnie sweet.
He prodded the dish before him. Scallops. No wonder the tickets for tonight had been so pricey.
Following the second course—venison, in a red wine jus, served with Ayrshire potatoes and wilted kale—Ronnie excused himself, eager to join the other big-wigs outside the Marriot’s front door smoking cigars.
Daniel scrolled through his emails, skimming festival confirmations and supplier updates.
Joe slid into Ronnie’s empty seat, swiping a leftover potato from Daniel’s plate and popping it into his mouth. He jerked his chin towards the chef, who sat two tables away, mid-monologue. He cast one arm out, a gesture that almost sent the glasses on the table flying. His audience leaned in, hanging on his every word.
“Saw him in the bogs earlier. Wiped his nose on the way out.”
Daniel nodded. He’d heard the same. The chef had a coke habit the size of his ego.
He was about to pocket his phone when a message from an unfamiliar address, sent the day before, caught his eye. He opened it and his pulse kicked up.
Joe helped himself to another potato. “Did ye ask Ronnie about the recipe boxes?”
“Not yet, but I will when he’s—fucking hell!” Daniel’s eyes gleamed as he slid his phone across the table. “Check this out.”
Joe managed the impressive feat of reading the screen while cracking open a fresh beer.
“Looks like you’ve hit the big time.”
“We,”Daniel corrected firmly. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
Nicky, mid-chat with a waiter about another soft drink, turned to them with a grin. “Dinnae tell me. The two o’ youse have finally been called up tae the national team, ready tae grace Hampden next week, end Scotland’s decades in the wilderness, and lead us back tae glory where we belong.”
Her husband stuck out his tongue. “Aye, very funny. The UK’s biggest supermarket chain has finally gie’n us a date. They’re interested in stocking our dips and pates. We’re tae schlep down to their head office in Leeds, prostrate ourselves before the Gods o’ Commerce and pitch our stuff.”
Bet, who’d also left all her potatoes uneaten because she was following a keto diet on the advice of her personal trainer, clapped her hands. “Wow! That must be worth a bob or two. When are you seeing them?”
Daniel squinted at his phone screen. “May twenty-seventh. Six weeks from now. We’ll need to do a lot o’ work between now and then to convince them to take us on.”
“May twenty-seventh…?” Nicky accepted her orange juice and lemonade from the waiter. “Isn’t that Nell’s birthday?”
“Shit!” Daniel smacked his forehead. Of course it was Nell’s birthday. The four-day London getaway he’d planned—non-refundable deposit and all—flashed through his mind, accompanied by Nell’s parting shot:“If you cancel this at the last minute, no word of a lie, I’ll leave you for good this time!”
She’d been smiling when she said it, but there had been heft behind her words, a warning wrapped in lightness.
“You’ll hae to re-arrange,” Nicky said with a shrug, standing up. Bet followed her as she made her way to the loos.
Daniel exchanged a glance with Joe, whose mouth twisted to the side. In theory, it sounded easy. Call the supermarket contact, explain the exceptional circumstances, and voilà! The meeting would be rescheduled, no harm done. But reality wasn’t so obliging.
For years, Daniel had been trying to get supermarkets to stock his products. Not just for the financial boost, though that was significant. Nationwide distribution meant a big leap from Glasgow and Edinburgh, and with it, bigger profits. But it was also about the kudos.
He could picture it vividly: walking into the massive superstore near his and Nell’s place on the southside, weaving through the aisles until he reached the party foods section. There, among the bright packaging, would beStuffed!’s sleek black-and-red branding.
