Page 6 of Forever, Maybe
Out on the street, two women, their accents identifying them as Americans, searched their phones for TripAdvisor cheap eat recommendations. “Go in there,” Nell said, pointing towards the door she had exited, “and ask if you can have the booking under the name Murray. My husband can’t make it.”
She handed them two twenty-pound notes. “Order the champagne on me.”
“You are awesome!” one declared, shoving her phone back into her pocket.
“Amen to that!” the other high-fived her. They disappeared inside.
Waiting at Central Station a few minutes later for the train that would take her home, the woman in the restaurant’s words came back to her. No, her man would not be waiting for her at home ready to deliver a jolly good rogering. Edinburgh, tonight’s location for one of Daniel’s pop-up sandwich vans, was almost an hour’s drive away. When he arrived there, the van would be going like a fair and he would be roped into helping. He wouldn’t be back before midnight.
By that time, she would be tucked up in bed, sans imaginary red dress, stockings and black boots, wearing her pyjamas and in no mood for any how’s-your-father. For the past few weeks, she had felt as if she were wading through treacle every single day. She hadn’t made it through an afternoon yet without needing a nap.
Danny, having just worked an eighteen-hour day, wouldn’t be any keener either. They were kidding themselves that dirty talk on the phone would lead anywhere.
Happy wedding anniversary, Nell.
Just another day where Danny worked his socks off, cancelled stuff at the last minute and she got tetchy about it.
The train was five minutes late. Nell’s phone buzzed. A message from Stephanie.
Check out White Lightning Communication’s Instagram account!
Nell followed the prompt, tapping into the app. The company had posted a carousel of photos to commemorate its twentieth anniversary, the caption brimming with nostalgia. She swiped through the images of team events, celebratory dinners and the usual corporate highlights until one stopped her cold.
It was a group photo from a night out years ago, taken after the small firm had won a game-changing contract. Jamie Curtice grinned at the camera, his arms draped around her and Stephanie, radiating the smug confidence of a man who knew he’d be handing in his notice the very next day.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Nell’s body flushed first hot, then cold. She had no recollection of that photo being taken. Her thumb hovered over the screen before she clicked out of Instagram, only to click back in moments later, desperate to see who had liked or commented on the post.
No one incriminating.
The train pulled into the station, spilling out giggling girls in sparkly dresses and gallous lads full of swagger, their night still unfolding with the promise of adventure.
Nell climbed aboard, slipping into an empty seat. Her heart thudded against her ribs, refusing to settle. She checked the post again, scanning for any interaction that might expose her. Nothing. Still nothing.
The train rattled past the O2 Academy, its imposing façade of a Grade II listed former church slipping into the night.
She exhaled slowly, willing herself to believe it.
She was safe. For now.
Chapter two
April2016
“God, what a romantic story!” the journalist exclaimed. “Offering your lady love a free sandwich and then chasing after her to ask her out. How did you manage to meet up if neither of you knew the time?”
“I ran after her,” Daniel said. On the other end of the line, the journalist—Jennifer, she’d introduced herself earlier—let out a wistful sigh.
“Even better! A proper fairy tale.”
Daniel leant back in his chair, suppressing a wry smile. He was in his city-centre office, a modest suite of rooms perched above his flagship shop on St Vincent Street. His own space was the largest, comprised of a desk with a sleek iMac, three plush armchairs gathered around a low coffee table, and its walls adorned with a mix of framed photos of himself and Joe accepting variousTaste of Scotlandawards, and Nell’s charcoal sketches of iconic Glasgow landmarks, giving it a cosy yet professional feel.
Agreeing to this interview with theScottish Posthad taken some convincing. Scotland’s best-selling broadsheet wanted to profile him for their weekend magazine, and Stephanie—Nell’s PR freelancer friend—had insisted he’d be a fool to turn down the free publicity. Against his better judgement, he’d relented.
Jennifer had been thorough. She’d grilled him on howStuffed!had grown from a humble sandwich van to a thriving mini-empire of shops, delis and festival pop-ups. She’d asked about the challenges, the milestones and the lessons learned. And then she’d shifted gears to his personal life.
Of course, he hadn’t told her everything. But he had relayed the story of that night when he sprinted after Nell while Joe shouted from the van about not being able to manage the queue alone. That was back in the days before mobile phones were everywhere and social media could solve life’s little logistical hiccups.
