Page 84 of Forever, Maybe
Message for Daniel Murray, booked in for Thursday 26 May to Sunday 29th.
Liza’s Josh was critically injured in a motorbike crash this morning, and she is signed off work indefinitely. Supermarket pitch now not going ahead, as Joe will need to cover her job at the Hyndland shop for the next few weeks/months. I’ve sent flowers. Sorry, I know you said no contact, but I thought you might want to message Liza. Best wishes, Holly.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Danny admitted, rubbing his temples.
Only the coldest, meanest woman in the world could begrudge her husband’s reaction to news like that. Josh had been a fixture at the annual Murray barbecue over the years—a warm, cheerful man, with his easy smile and London accent. The thought of him now, mangled and in pain, sent a shiver of revulsion through her.
Would he recover? Or would this mean a wheelchair and a lifetime of adjustments for both him and Liza? How would their relationship survive that kind of strain?
Danny glanced at her phone again, an involuntary flicker that betrayed his inner turmoil.
Nell picked up the device and pressed it into his hand. “Call her,” she said gently. “You’ve known her for years. She needs to hear from you. Give her my love, too.”
He shot her a look that blended gratitude with relief before wandering into the room’s living area, phone in hand. Nell pulled the towel from her head, shaking out her damp hair and running a comb through it.
The serious talk—the one she had planned—Danny’s baby chat had hijacked it. Now what? Did she too wait to bring it up later that weekend, waiting for the fabled right moment…?
“Christ, I’m so sorry, Liza. Aye, of course. Take all the time you need. Don’t rush back. We’ll manage fine wi’out you…”
Danny’s voice drifted through the suite, one side of a conversation steeped in sympathy and practicality.
Poor Liza.The thought flitted through Nell’s mind. But oh, the timing…
Tonight, they would sit in that fancy restaurant, waiters bustling around them with practiced efficiency. Cloth napkins would be laid on their laps, iced water poured into his glass, perfectly chilled white wine into hers. Plates would be presented like works of art, adorned with swirls of sauce, delicate fronds of greenery, tiny portions of meat, fish, and eggs crowned with shavings of truffle and glistening pink pearls of salmon roe. Mushrooms in pastry because that was always the default veggie dish.
“Is everything alright? Can we fetch you anything more?” the staff would ask, their attentiveness bordering on reverence.
Danny would smile, meeting her gaze across the table, his words full of warmth as he asked her the same—checking in, making plans for her birthday tomorrow. Yet his mind would be somewhere else entirely, preoccupied with what Liza’s absence meant for the business, how it disrupted his carefully laid plans to slow down.
How would she possibly bear it? Sitting there, pretending everything was fine while her husband’s thoughts drifted miles away, tethered to responsibilities and a future they hadn’t yet agreed on.
And all the while, she’d be bracing for him to bring it up again—the baby question—turning over the odds of getting pregnant, of becomingthatNell again.
The one who’d been pregnant before.
Chapter thirty-seven
July2016
The banner outside the Hyndland shop fluttered in the breeze, its shiny capital letters spelling outWELCOME BACKin gold against a pink background.Daniel shivered, regretting his decision to leave his jacket at the office. It might be July, but this was Scotland, where a coat could be as necessary in summer as in the dead of winter.
Joe emerged from the shop, a wrap in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. He took a hearty bite of the wrap, releasing a wave of pungent fumes. His latest culinary fixation was the shop’s homemade falafels, generously drenched in tahini garlic sauce, sauerkraut on the side.
Daniel took a discreet step forward, edging beyond the smell’s reach.
“Cannae lie,” Joe said, chewing as he spoke. “I’ve had ma total fill o’ the public.”
Daniel smiled. “Aye? What’ll you miss most about Glasgow’s fine folks?”
For the past seven weeks, Joe had been covering for Liza at the Hyndland shop. Today marked his last shift before returning toStuffed!HQ for a few months, then heading off on his long-anticipated sabbatical.
Joe leant against the shopfront, gesturing with the wrap as if it were a pointer in a lecture. “Och, where dae I even start? Is it the schoolkids fae that posh private school who all seem tae be called Tarquin or Sophie, jabbering away about how the olive oil here’s never as good as the stuff in Provence? Or maybe it’s the West End mummies wanting aw the gluten-free stuff because they’re ‘wheat intolerant.’”
He raised his voice to a falsetto, mimicking one of the customers. “‘Oh, wheat makes me so gassy,’ they say, then gie me a look like I’ve dragged in dog shite when I ask,‘Does that mean ye fart a lot?’”
Daniel snorted. Across the road, a dog barked, straining against its lead, as it leapt up, front paws paddling the air while its owner—a guy in a hoodie and black jeans—yelled at it to shut up.
Joe barrelled on, warming to his rant. “And dinnae get me started on the folk who ask for wraps wi’ five different fillings, then lose their minds when ye tell them the price.‘Whit? For a silly wee sandwich?’Even though there’s a massive sign above the counter telling them exactly how much everything costs!
