Page 18 of Forever, Maybe
Velvety, garlicky hummus. Creamy cheese and chive dip. Rich garlic butter to spread on bread, toss with roasted vegetables, or swirl into stews and casseroles. The thought of seeing his products on those shelves had carried him through countless sleepless nights, setbacks and compromises.
It had taken nearly five years of pitching to supermarkets to get this far. The buyers operated on a rigid schedule, with every small producer vying for shelf space crammed onto a tightly controlled timeline. When the supermarket said jump, the small producer didn’t just ask, “how high?”, they were already mid-air.
If he emailed or called to say he couldn’t make the allocated weekend, the supermarket’s response would be a polite but final, “That’s unfortunate,” followed by silence. No rescheduling. No second chances. Just the door slamming shut on years of effort and the opportunity vanishing for good.
Joe set his beer bottle down. “S’pose I could do it mysel’.”
Daniel had known Joe long enough to say, “That won’t work,” without offending his oldest friend and business partner. While he needed Joe to accompany him to Leeds to persuade the retail giant that he was not a one-man operation and for Joe to assist in answering any questions the buyer posed, Joe loathed public speaking.
The email outlining what they needed to do next stated that pitching to the buyers would take the form of a presentation, in whichStuffed!would lay out their proposal and produce figures demonstrating the business’s robustness.
“First thing Monday,” he said, “I’ll phone the buyer. Check if there’s any chance of shifting it.”
Joe shot him a beady look. “And if there’s no’?”
“Then I’ll need to get down on my hands and knees and beg Nell’s forgiveness.”
Chapter six
April2016
“Hello, you!” Stephanie flung her arms around Nell, who mustered every ounce of energy to return the embrace with equal enthusiasm.
Stephanie, as always, radiated Glasgow glamour. Her belted dark-purple coat flared over skinny jeans, paired with towering wedge sandals doomed to earn her curses before the night was through. Once, Nell had suggested she swap the wedges for foldaway pumps between venues, keeping her heels stashed in her bag for the actual occasions.
Stephanie had dismissed the idea with a wave. Heels, she insisted, knocked half a stone off your silhouette. Besides, didn’t every man secretly harbour a foot fetish? The mere glimpse of toes peeking from a stiletto sandal—or, better yet, the iconic red sole of a Louboutin—apparently drove them wild.
Her espresso-hued hair was swept into a top knot, with just the right number of artfully curled tendrils framing her face. An untrained eye might call them accidental, but Nell knew better. Not a strand was out of place unless Stephanie allowed it. Her look was completed with contoured cheeks, perfectly blended fake tan, dramatic smoky eyes, false lashes and a dark plum lipstick. There wasn’t a hint of cat hair clinging to her outfit, a feat, Nell could never hope to emulate.
There was, however, a faint trace of smoke clinging to her, a telltale sign that the New Year’s resolution to quit had fizzled out just as it did most years. Still, it wasn’t Nell’s place to nag.
“You lookfabulous!” she cooed.
“So do you, Nelly-welly!” Stephanie replied, ever the loyal cheerleader.
Nell wrinkled her nose. A pre-departure glance in her bathroom mirror had revealed a pale face, dark shadows under her eyes, and a floral green dress that should have felt cheerful but instead left her looking drained and washed out.
Stephanie looped her arm through Nell’s. “Guess what? I’m working out with Keto Nate tomorrow.”
“Keto Nate?Really?” Nell asked, startled. She’d introduced Nate—a personal trainer and a client whose website she was redesigning—to Stephanie months earlier, wrongly assuming they would hit it off. Nate had earned his nickname during a phase of keto diet evangelism, which he’d expounded upon as Stephanie demolished a hefty slice of carrot cake in front of him.
“The very same,” Stephanie said with a smirk. “Possibly the most tactless man alive. He invited me by saying that if I joined him in the workout videos he’s planning to upload online, it would inspire other ‘fat, lazy women’ to get off their arses and exercise.”
“Hedidn’t!” Nell exclaimed, appalled.
“Not the exact phrase, but ‘fat’ was the word he used.”
“Git.” Nell squeezed her friend’s arm. Nate was something of an acquired taste.
They wove through clusters of boozed-up revellers, voices raised in laughter and off-key singing, as they made their way down the street. The alleyway leading to Lock Down finally came into view, tucked just off Buchanan Street and hidden behind Princes Square. The bar was nestled within a five-storey building complex—not exactly picturesque, but it had its charm. The stonework looked much cleaner than in years past, and the graffiti had been scrubbed away from the fire escape nearby.
The stone-flagged courtyard outside added a touch of character, with wooden tables scattered around, their surfaces worn smooth and glossy from years of use. Ornamental trees stood like sentinels between the tables, their leaves dappling the area with shifting patches of sunlight. A few parasols stretched overhead, creating a cozy sun trap that glowed with late-afternoon warmth.
Nell dropped into a chair at one of the outdoor tables, letting her handbag slide unceremoniously to the ground beside her.
“Bottle of Prosecco to start?” Stephanie asked, waggling her eyebrows.
Nell hesitated, biting her bottom lip. Prosecco—or ‘lady petrol’, as Danny called it—had a way of creeping up on her. “I don’t want to get too drunk too quickly,” she admitted.
