Page 62 of Forever, Maybe
Danny’s father, as always, hovered just behind Trish like a cautious shadow. Still on the doorstep, he gave Nell a brief nod—a man who had always been far more at ease with other men than with women.
“Jack, hello! Oh, and Shane too. I didn’t know you’d be coming.”
Trish must have strong-armed her older brother into dressing the part. His outfit mirrored Bobby’s almost comically: grey slacks, a moss-green jumper over a collared shirt and tie and polished brown loafers. Despite Danny’s careful avoidance of specifics, Nell knew enough to understand that Shane, in his prime, was a man others feared. Hard to believe now, seeing him looking every inch the retired bank manager.
“Thought I should keep an eye on my investment,” Shane croaked, patting her arm with a liver-spotted hand as bony as his voice.
Nell didn’t bother correcting him. Danny owed Shane nothing, but his wife’s sudden death three years ago had knocked the stuffing out of him. If clinging to the illusion of ownership over Danny’s business brought him a little comfort, she wasn’t about to take it away.
She ushered them towards the garden, where Danny—dressed in the timeless uniform of barbecuing husbands, a greenOlivio Oilapron draped over his lumberjack shirt and jeans—stood wielding a set of tongs. The sausages on the grill sizzled obligingly, the scent as much a hallmark of British summer as unpredictable weather and wasps.
The second Danny spotted Shane, his face betrayed a fleetingoh no, quickly replaced by a broad, cheery grin. “Shane! Good to see you!” he boomed, clapping his uncle on the back with overdone enthusiasm. He repeated the gesture for his father. Over their heads, he shot Nell a sheepish look that said,Sorry, I must’ve invited him the other night and forgot to mention it.
Jack wasted no time diving into the inevitable football conversation. He launched into a detailed post-mortem of last week’s game, and Nell watched Danny slip into his well-practiced nod-and-smile routine. Years of listening to his father’s monologues had made him an expert at looking engaged, even though she knew football meant next to nothing to him.
Jack, on the other hand, remained oblivious. Even after all these years, he still stared at Danny sometimes, as though trying to puzzle out how he could possibly have fathered a son so driven and so successful.
Behind her, Cate and Stephanie stepped into the garden, Bobby booming with approval at how nice Cate looked. Nell turned to smile at them, guilt and resentment twisting in her chest—those two seldom arrived separately—as she wished, shamefully, that it had been Trish who got dementia, not her own mother.
On her way back into the kitchen, she passed them and said to Stephanie, “Still want that ginormous glass of wine?”
“Totally.”
Stephanie followed her back into the kitchen, where every surface in the kitchen groaned under piles of food, paper plates and stacks of upside-down glasses. Her friend didn’t miss a beat, peeling clingfilm off platters of sandwiches, tubs of coleslaw and finger foods, while Nell poured her a full-to-the-brim glass of rosé.
“Thanks again for the make-overs.” She passed the glass to her friend.
Stephanie shrugged. “Nae bother. It’s good practice, anyway, for someone who intends to set herself up as a make-up and skincare expert online.”
“How’s that going?”
Stephanie took a sip, carefully angling the glass to preserve the dark plum lacquer on her lips. She pursed them, tongue flicking out to avoid smudging the colour, then let out a soft, appreciative sigh. “Aye, not bad. Still haven’t launched the platform, though. Sticking to the advice I give every client to create loads of content first, then hit your audience with it. Bang, bang, bang.”
“I’m happy to help tweak your website,” Nell offered. “And sort out branding for your new identity. For free, obvs.”
It would make a nice change to design something that would look truly beautiful. In her mind’s eye, she could see it now. High Heels and Pink Glitter, the name Stephanie had chosen, permitted all kinds of delightful artistic interpretations. A modern, pink-based palette for the background, logos and headers in serif typography, the hero image on the front page a chic flat lay of heels and beauty essentials.
Stephanie raised her glass in a mock toast. “Careful, or I’ll take you up on that.”
“Please do, honestly. It would be an absolute pleasure.”
The garden buzzed with a rising tide of voices and movement, teeming with bodies of all sizes—adults and children alike. More guests must have slipped in through the back gate. Nell spotted Luke and Sarah, Danny’s other siblings, and Dennis with his partner.
“Where’s your ma-in-law?” Stephanie asked, nodding toward the garden.
Nell pulled a face. “Cleaning the toilets. Because obviously, they’re in dire need of it.”
Stephanie’s lips twitched. “Nell, love. Shall I give the loos a quick once-over for you? Just to make sure there are no lingering skid marks or—heaven forbid—anyfloating presents? Because Lord knows, you’ve never prayed hard enough to Saint Zita for help with the housework.”
The mention of Saint Zita gave Nell pause for a second until she remembered the Italian patroness of domestic servants and the poor. The reference was spot-on, but it was the mimicry that really did it: Stephanie nailed Trish’s faint Irish lilt—“wid da”for“with the”—so perfectly that Nell burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, it was at that precise moment Trish reappeared, clutching her tote bag full of bathroom sprays and scrubbing brushes.
She gave them both a look that could strip wallpaper. “I’ll see if anyone wants sandwiches,” she announced stiffly, sweeping up a tray and clicking out of the kitchen in her heels.
“Oops,” Stephanie whispered, slapping a hand over her mouth. “I’ve just reconfirmed her terrible opinion of me.”
Nell shrugged. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You know what she’s like. Trish’s list of disapprovals could wrap round the garden twice. If you’re going to end up on it, might as well land with style.”
