Page 59 of Forever, Maybe
She shrugged, bottle in hand. “Dunno. But three! That’s amazing enough. I’m honoured.”
She twisted at the cork, her lips pursed in determined concentration. Daniel held out his hand, suppressing a smile. This was one of their rituals: Nell attempting something she clearly couldn’t manage, stubbornly giving it a go, and eventually conceding defeat so he could step in.
The cork popped free with a softpfft. He poured the champagne into the flute she’d set out beside the sketches, the bubbles rising in a lazy, celebratory drift. He filled the second glass with alcohol-free Appletiser, setting it beside hers.
He raised his glass. “To you, Nell Murray. The next Picasso!”
“To me!” She clinked her glass against his, grinning. “Though, I’m not a cubist. More Auerbach.”
He nodded, feigning recognition. Picasso was the only artist he could reliably name, and even that felt like an achievement.
“Nell Murray, the next Auerbach, then!” he declared with a grin.
“Destined to soon earn as much as her sandwich mogul husband!” she shot back.
He understood the truth beneath the joke. The income gap had never bothered him, but Nell carried it like a stone in her pocket—unseen but always there. Most of her old uni friends had long since overtaken her financially. She rarely spoke of it, but he knew it stung. If selling a few sketches at outrageous prices helped tip the scales in her mind, all the better.
“Ha. You say that, but sometimes I dunno if I am. The rates are going up again. I’ll probably have to shut one of the shops. Means a couple of folks out of work.”
“Oh, Danny.” She reached out, laying a hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry. But what if you added another van? They do well, don’t they? And far less overheads.”
He waved it off. “Aye, maybe. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me more about this big exhibition. What else needs doing?”
“Well, the first day of the exhibition is the big one,” she said, taking another sip of champagne. Her cheeks glowed, whether from the alcohol or excitement, he couldn’t tell. “I talked to a guy I went to art school with—he’s done a few exhibitions—and he says the trick is to show up drunk or stoned. Apparently, rich buyers are more reassured if they think they’re buying art from someone a bit… unstable. Oh, and you’re supposed to act like you don’t give a flying fuck if they buy anything or not.”
Daniel glanced at her sketches again. “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen.”
“Exactly!”
“When does it start?”
“First day’s the seventh of October. That gives me three months to become a raging alcoholic-slash-drug addictandchurn out ten more sketches, just in case the exhibition is a runaway success and MacLennan Street Gallery says, ‘Nell, Nell, we need you to do a solo show with twenty more masterpieces!’”
Her words tumbled out in a rush, her excitement bubbling over, much like the champagne in her glass. She hadn’t even noticed his grin falter, too caught up in planning what other Glasgow scenes she might sketch and fantasising about quitting her hated job at White Lightning Communications.
“The launch starts at seven,” she continued. “It’s a Friday, but the gallery’s on Bath Street, only five minutes from your office. You can come straight from work, right? It’ll be perfect!”
He forced a smile, though his chest tightened. The date stuck in his mind like a shard of glass.
“Have you eaten?” he asked, moving to the fridge. The dark green champagne bottle nestled next to the milk inside and seemed to glare at him accusingly. He grasped for distraction. “I could knock you up an omelette. Wi’ onions and tomatoes. There’s that vintage cheddar you like—”
“Danny. The seventh of October,” Nell said sharply, her voice rising as she slammed the fridge door shut. She grabbed his shirt sleeve, tugging him to face her.
Her eyes searched his, and he could see the realisation dawning. After nine years together, they knew each other’s flaws too well. His distraction tactics were as transparent to her as hers were to him.
“You can’t make it, can you.” she said flatly. Not a question, but a statement.
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. She was right, of course. The seventh of October was already inked into his calendar—a private event forStuffed!catering at some outdoor theatre performance in the grounds of a castle in Dumfries and Galloway. The kind of gig they couldn’t afford to turn down. Not now, with one shop on the chopping block and the mortgage looming larger—and more menacing—every month.
Och, aye, others could handle it. But this was the company’s first chance to rub shoulders with the kind of people who owned castles and hosted exclusive events. Joe was solid, but Daniel needed to be there to oversee everything personally, handing out business cards to influential folks who might want an upmarket sandwich van serving smoked salmon sandwiches at their plays, weddings or country fairs.
“But I’ll be there the following night!” he said, snatching the champagne bottle from the fridge and topping up Nell’s glass with a forced cheerfulness. “I’ll wander around, tell everyone to buy your stuff. Because it’s fantastic! And they’ll believe me. Everyone knows I’ve got a chain of businesses, and—”
Nell didn’t wait for him to finish. She stormed out.
He found her curled on the sofa in the living room, remote in hand, just as the TV flared to life. That show Nell loved—the one about four terrifyingly opinionated women strutting around New York, raking in obscene amounts of money while appearing to do very little—filled the screen. They seemed to swivel toward him in unison, brows arched in collective outrage, as if they knew exactly what he’d done.
He sank into the armchair, carefully keeping his distance. “I didn’t mean people would only buy your pictures because of me.”
