Page 37 of Forever, Maybe
“Honest, it’ll be fine.” He stood up and reached for his discarded jeans, wondering if he should mention the morning-after pill to be on the safe side.
“I s’pose so,” she rubbed her tummy. Thin to the point of concave. “I’m probably not that fertile anyway.”
There. No need to mention the morning-after pill. Not yet. If, against all odds, a big ‘if’, unlikely to happen and all that, Nelldidend up pregnant, he’d cross that bridge then.
Talk her round. The two of them were only young.
Him, a father! The thought filled him with an unexpected surge of excitement. He’d be a far, far better dad than his own had ever been. No child of his would ever have to hide under a kitchen table, their mother’s trembling hand pressed over their mouth to stifle their cries as the landlord’s shadow loomed in the window.
The memory tugged at him for a moment, sharp-edged and raw, before he forced it back. His lips twitched, a smile playing at the corners. He turned his face away, pretending to adjust his jeans, hiding the faint flicker of hope.
Chapter fourteen
April2016
After a lazy Sunday morning in bed and an afternoon curled up on the sofa with Nell, binge-watching trash TV, Daniel hadn’t managed to summon the courage to mention the supermarket pitch date.
By Monday morning, his guts felt gnawed in two. He phoned the buyer—a woman with a broad Leeds accent and a no-nonsense attitude that rivalled his own—from his office.
“Hello, Daniel,” she answered briskly. “You got the email, then.”
“Aye, I did. Can I just say what a fantastic opportunity this is and how grateful I am—”
“But?”
“Eh?”
“I can hear it in your voice,” she said, cutting through his attempt at flattery like a blade. “You’re calling to ask if we can change the date, aren’t you?”
Daniel exhaled, relieved she’d skipped straight to the point. He launched into his explanation, words tumbling over each other. “It’s just that the twenty-seventh happens to be my wife’s birthday, and if I miss it, well, she’ll probably serve me with divorce papers.
“Good Catholic boy that I am,” he added, glancing upwards at the Artex-covered ceiling, hoping the heavens wouldn’t mind the outright lie, “I cannae get divorced. My mother would never speak to me again.”
The buyer let out a throaty chuckle, the sound both amused and pitying. “Mothers, eh? I sympathise. I really do.”
Oh-oh. There was definitely a ‘but’ coming.
“As you might expect, we’re very selective about the products we stock,” she began, her tone measured. “There are hundreds, if not thousands, of small producers out there offering excellent goods. Sometimes, we choose products not just because they’re the best example of their type—though they often are—but because we know we can rely one hundred percent on the suppliers.”
She paused for effect before continuing. Reliability, she explained, meant showing up when you said you would. The pitch was his one and only chance to make a good first impression. She wouldn’t blame him if he decided to turn it down, she added almost kindly, but there were hundreds of other producers chomping at the bit, ready to fill his slot.
Daniel sighed inwardly. There was no wriggling out of this. With a weary promise that he and his partner would be there, he ended the call and leant back in his chair, rubbing his temples before switching on his computer to search for hotels in Leeds.
Leeds. Not the most glamorous destination. Sure, it had five-star hotels, but it didn’t carry the same allure as London or Paris. Their supermarket pitch was scheduled for 11.30am. Realistically, it would swallow up most of the day.
Holly knocked on the door and stepped in without waiting for a reply. She’d been his personal assistant for the past ten years, joining straight from school. Most people assumed she was older than her age, thanks to her wardrobe choices—outfits even your average granny might have considered old-fashioned.
Take today’s ensemble: a navy blue dress with white polka dots, a pie-crust collar and long sleeves, her hair held off her face with a velvet Alice band, paired with red-framed cat’s-eye glasses. The whole look had a certain retro charm, but it screamed frumpy. Maybe she dressed to suit her partner’s tastes, who was thirty years her senior.
“Alright, gaffer?” she said, breezing in and dumping a thick pile of papers on his desk. She tilted her head, squinting at him. “What’s up wi’ your face? Looks like somebody shat in your cornflakes, and there you were, ready to dig in, starving—like you havenae eaten in days—only now you cannae touch it because you’re feart you’ll swallow a mouthful of shite.”
Daniel grimaced. That was another thing about Holly. Her unparalleled talent for weaving scatological imagery into everyday conversation.
He waved a hand vaguely toward the papers. “Thanks, Holly. Anything urgent?”
“Nope.” She flashed him a cheery grin. “Just the usual daily dose o’ misery. Cheer up, eh? Could be worse. You could be the one eating the shitey cornflakes. Fancy a coffee?”
“Aye, please.”
