Page 29 of Forever, Maybe
“Aye, alright then,” he called back. Jennifer hurried over, surprisingly nimble for someone balancing on sky-high heels and fuelled by copious amounts of wine. She cooed over his car, running her hand along the roof as though it were a cat or a dog.
When she moved to claim the passenger seat, he shook his head. “That’s for Nicky.”
She shrugged, unfazed, and slid into the back seat instead, fastening her seatbelt with a click.
Joe and Nicky lived in Springburn, while Jennifer’s flat turned out to be on Glasgow’s south side. It made sense to drop Nicky off first. When they arrived in Springburn, Nicky climbed out, pausing to lean in and wink at him. “Dinnae do anythin’ I wouldnae do…”
She kept her voice low, ensuring Jennifer wouldn’t hear, though it likely wouldn’t have mattered. Jennifer was too busy wrestling with her seatbelt to notice. After finally untangling herself, she slid into the now-empty front seat, her perfume wafting through the car and settling in like an unwelcome guest that would overstay its welcome for days.
On the drive to her flat, Jennifer asked a few more questions about Nell, though the earlier edge of hostility seemed to have softened. Her tone was casual, almost curious, and she made no improper suggestions when he pulled up outside her sandstone building.
He exhaled quietly, grateful for the uneventful end to what could have been a very awkward ride.
She got out of the car and leaned into the open window, her scarlet-tipped fingers curling around the doorframe. From this angle, the neckline of her dress gaped, revealing a glimpse of a lacy black bra.
“I need to ask you something,” she said.
Ah. He’d spoken too soon. Was this where she fulfilled Nicky’s prediction?
“Go ahead.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hoping the gesture radiatedI really need to drive off nowvibes.
“Just double-checking—how long did you say you’ve been married? The answer wasn’t clear on the tape, and I can’t remember what you said.”
Her tone didn’t quite ring true. It felt deliberate, as if she remembered perfectly well. And what did the length of his marriage have to do with a profile about his business?
“Twenty years. Been together twenty-two. Met in 1994.”
She raised an eyebrow, her smile faint. “Not many people your age can say that.”
“No,” he replied, keeping his tone neutral.
Her brows arched higher. “And no hiccoughs along the way? No seven-year itches?”
He paused, his fingers stilling on the wheel. What business was it of hers?
“No.” He heard the terseness in his reply.
She straightened, letting go of the door. “Wow, that’s amazing. Anyway, thanks for the lift. See you around.”
And with that, she turned on her heel, disappearing through the front door a few seconds later.
He stayed in place, watching a light flicker on in a first-floor flat. Thinking. No, the Murrays’ marriage hadn’t stumbled on a seven-year itch. But what about the years before that?
Chapter eleven
Thewoman’sInstagramandFacebook accounts were both set to private. The only way to see the photos on there was to request access, and if you were bothered enough about privacy to prevent any Tom, Dick or Harry seeing your stuff, a casual, ‘hey, let’s be friends!’ from a stranger would likely be ignored.
Chrissie let out a harrumph, and leant back against her chair, glaring at the tablet screen as if her frustration would magically change the account status and allow her a deep dive into the woman’s life. If indeed thiswasthe right woman, and that was debateable.
“Chrissie!” her dad called from the kitchen. “What do you want me to do with the cake? I’ve taken plenty of beauty shots, but should I cut into it now?”
“Not yet!” she shouted back. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. And if Mikey comes in, donotlet him anywhere near it!”
Mikey—better known as the Cake Monster—had a well-earned reputation. Chrissie still hadn’t forgiven him for the Great Biscuit Heist of three weeks ago.
Her dad, bless him, had recently decided that her side hustle might have full-time potential. She hadn’t been so sure. The local council’s strategic support services department paid the bills but drained her soul. Her colleagues, however, had become unwitting accomplices in her grand baking experiments.
Every Monday morning, they devoured her cakes, biscuits, tray bakes, pastries and patisserie like a pack of ravenous wolves. Their enthusiasm had been a balm to her constant grumbling about work, prompting her dad to suggest she did it for a living.
