Page 86 of Forever, Maybe
Daniel and Liza exchanged sceptical glances. Joe’s tastes were far too eclectic to align with the mainstream.
Bidding them farewell, Daniel stepped into the brisk morning. Barky Dog Guy was still there, glued to his phone, while the staffie reared up on its hind legs again, the favoured breed of neds across Glasgow and beyond.
The guy glanced up, met Daniel’s eye and shot him a filthy look.
As the man shifted, his profile caught the light, and something niggled at Daniel’s memory.Clyde Confidentialand its grainy front pages, the endless parade of alleged gangland figures. Was he one of the Kellys?
Daniel took another look, but the guy had already yanked his hood back up, leaving only the tip of his nose visible before he turned and strode off.
Ach, whatever. Daniel shook it off and headed east toward the office.
His route took him past a private nursery, where polished SUVs and glossy saloons lined up to deposit small children in miniature puffa jackets, their parents hurrying off to work.
A man about Daniel’s age stepped out of a sleek black Land Rover, a phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. His voice carried across the pavement, clipped and irritated. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll make sure they don’t let him sleep. If you’re that worried, maybeyoushould’ve dropped him off yourself instead of making me late for work.”
He yanked open the back door and wrestled a wailing toddler out of a car seat—a boy no older than three, thrashing and screaming. “No, no! Don’t want to! Where’s Mummy? Mummy!”
Ignoring the child’s pleas, the man strode toward the nursery, his jaw tight. A low curse, which if it wasn’t,“Oh, for fuck’s sake,”did an excellent job masquerading as it, escaped as the boy’s tiny fists pounded his shoulders.
Nearby, a woman stood holding the hand of a perfectly composed little girl dressed in a yellow-and-green sundress and matching hat. She stared after the scene, her expression equal parts horrified and judgmental. “Some people don’t deserve kids, do they?” she remarked to no one in particular. “Did he think it was going to be easy?”
Her questions hung in the air, rhetorical. Daniel gave a noncommittal shrug and continued on his way.
What kind of father would he have made? He imagined himself in the Land Rover dad’s shoes, and the answer wasn’t flattering. The past seven weeks had been the busiest of his life. Liza’s absence had been a major factor, but it wasn’t the only one. The long-shot supermarket pitch had resurfaced, just when it seemed like they’d missed their chance.
Joe and Holly had initially cancelled the bid after Josh’s accident, assuming the opportunity was lost. But the buyer had come back, surprisingly understanding. “A key staff member’s absence due to personal circumstances—we can take that into account,” she’d told Daniel. “Why not come to Leeds in a month and pitch the idea yourself?”
And so he had.
The effort paid off.Stuffed!’sorganic hummus, sour cream and chive dip, and hand-cut crisps—flavours like salted, sea salt and balsamic vinegar, and vintage cheddar and onion—were about to hit the shelves in the supermarket’s branches across Scotland. If things went well, the range could expand to stores across the UK next year.
It was a triumph for the business, but at what personal cost? The more he achieved, the clearer it became. Work consumed his life. Would he ever have time—or patience—for fatherhood? If the Land Rover dad was any indication, he wasn’t sure he would be any better.
In all that time, Nell hadn’t uttered a single objection to his broken promises. She never complained when he rose at five a.m. and didn’t return until eight, nine, sometimes ten at night. When he suggested working Sundays as well as Saturdays, she simply shrugged.
She’d even taken a week off in late June to accompany her parents on a trip to Newquay. Cate had spent her childhood summers in Cornwall and had been reminiscing about the place more and more. Nell and Bobby hoped that immersing her in those familiar surroundings might not restore her memory but at least bring her some happiness.
A van roared past, windows down, blasting a late ’90s hit dubbed a drinking anthem, though the songwriter had never meant it that way. The song triggered a memory so vivid it stopped him in his tracks, a longing for the past so intense it left him sighing. On a whim, he pulled out his phone.
“Nell?”
“Hey, you. How was Liza’s first day back at work?”
“Fine. Listen… d’ye fancy a night out? AtTrashed. Tonight?”
She paused. “Good God.Trashed. Seriously? We’d be at least twenty years older than everyone there.”
“Not twenty, ten maybe. I was just thinking about the fun we used to have.”
“It was only fun because we were off our faces on coke half the time.”
“I could probably still track some down if I gave Mark a call,” he said, half-joking.
She giggled—a sound so rare these days it caught him off guard. “No thanks. There’s something deeply tragic about middle-aged folk taking drugs. But a night out? That sounds amazing.”
“Great. Dig out your glad rags, and I’ll be home by four.”
They said their goodbyes, and he ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
