Page 89 of Forever, Maybe
They found a table near the bar—one of the few still free—and she sank into a chair while Danny went to get drinks. He returned five minutes later, holding two tequilas. Nell raised an eyebrow as he slid a shot glass across the table toward her.
“Um… you don’t drink,” she said, catching it mid-slide.
“Just the one tonight,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m a Scotsman. I can’t dance wi’out a drink in me. Down it in one?”
She lifted her glass and clinked it against his.
“To you, Danny Murray.”
“And you, Nell Murray, my young wife! Cheers!”
She watched him closely as he tipped the tequila back, grimacing as the fiery liquid burned its way down. It had been seventeen years since he’d last touched alcohol—a decision made after a catastrophic stag weekend. She half-expected him to keel over or launch into an impromptu rendition ofFlower of Scotland.But, for now, he seemed fine.
Danny glanced toward the dance floor, where only a handful of people had dared to venture. A small group of women flailed in and out of time with the beat, while a couple clung to each other, clearly drunk well before arriving.
“We should show them how it’s done,” he said, his lips curving into a questioning smile.
Nell narrowed her eyes. She knew where this was going. He was baiting her, tempting her into the kind of smug conversation about how music, dancing, andeverythinghad been better in their day. The sort of talk that made you sound ancient and pitiful.
“No way.” She poked her tongue out at him.
“Please?” He stroked her knee, his fingers creeping higher, hiking her dress dangerously up her thigh.
She swatted his hand away and stood. “Alright, fine. If you insist.” She extended her hand, and he took it with a triumphant grin.
The song changed, the opening notes of Jason Nevins’ remix ofRockstarby N.E.R.D. blasting through the speakers. One of Nell’s favourites and one Danny hated. Too late for him to back out now.
He stepped onto the dance floor and closed his eyes, moving his hips in time to the beat. The subtle thrusts were maddeningly seductive, his effortless rhythm drawing her in just as it had when they first met. Back then, dancing had been their unspoken foreplay—a prelude to what would come later, limbs entwined in ways that made the club seem tame.
As the track ended, the Pixies’Cecilia Annkicked in—one of Danny’s favourites. He immediately launched into head-banging, his hair flying in every direction.
“You’re embarrassing me!” Nell hissed, though her laughter betrayed her. At leastCecilia Annwas mercifully short.
Next up was Calvin Harris and Rihanna’sThis Is What You Came For,a track that invited nothing more than an awkward shuffle from foot to foot. It was quintessential Trashed—an eclectic playlist that defied logic but somehow worked.
Danny screwed up his face as the song’s cheesy climax blared, and Nell gave a reluctant nod of agreement. It had defeated them. She trailed behind him back to their table, pausing at the bar where he ordered two more tequila shots.
Alarmed, Nell stepped in. “Are you sure?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, this’ll be the last one. Promise.”
Danny slung an arm around her, carelessly catching one of her dress straps. It slid down her arm, dragging the fabric with it and briefly exposing more than she’d like. The barman’s eyes darted away as Nell yanked it back into place, cheeks burning.
Grimacing, she grabbed both tequila shots. They might be small, but for someone as out of practice with booze as Danny, the stuff was a weapon. By the time they sat down, though, he’d already swiped a shot glass and slammed it back.
Dear oh dear.
Danny took himself off to the toilets, Nell sending him on his way with a jokey warning not to sniff anything while he was in there, as the loos had once been notorious for cocaine use.
She toyed with her tequila, swirling it round the glass and grimacing at the oily sheen. When Danny got back, she’d ask him to buy her a drink she actually liked. A Prosecco, maybe. Or a vodka and Diet Coke.
A couple sat at a nearby table. Early twenties, Nell guessed. They had that maddeningly fresh glow and plump skin that no serum, facial or tweakment could replicate—no matter how much money women her age chucked at them.
The woman, blonde hair in bunches on either side of her head—something only the young could pull off—laughed at something her boyfriend said, then leant in to peck him on the nose. He was dark-haired, thickset and swarthy-skinned, which reminded Nell of Dr David Delvin’s old sex advice column inSHEmagazine, long defunct now. It had covered positions, reader queries—the funniest reply she remembered, “No, Mrs Smith, cunnilingus isnotan Irish airline.”
The column had always been illustrated with cartoons: a man and woman, distinguishable only by the slightly darker tint of the man’s body.
Like the couple in front of her.
