Page 90 of Forever, Maybe
Her eyes welled up. Andthat—that right there—was the bit nobody had warned her about with menopause. The emotional ambushes. The way the stupidest things could crack her open.
She didn’t even know what, exactly, about the couple made her sad.
Their youth? Her distance from her twenties?
The way the girl was now gripping the boy’s thigh and whispering things that suggested they’d be leaving soon—or perhaps sneaking into the toilets, where he’d hitch up her skirt and take her right there—and how that kind of sex, the urgent, half-drunk, reckless sort, was probably over for Nell?
Or just… who knew?
She wiped the tears away with a bent-in-half finger.
Where the hell was Danny?
The irritating thing about men—and Christ, there were many contenders—was that they could vanish to the bogs and reappear two minutes later. No queue. No drama.
And yet.
She glanced at the clock on the wall opposite.
He’d been gone eight minutes now.
She was about to stand up when she spotted him—Danny—walking towards her. Not alone. A woman walked beside him.
Nell squinted. It didn’t compute. Danny wasn’t someone she associated with arriving in anyone’s company, let alone a woman’s. The sight was jarring. Off. And then—
Oh.
Oh,hell.
Her fingers tightened around her glass, knuckles blanching.
Jennifer Frazer. She met Nell’s stare with a smile that could melt steel if only to reform it into a dagger.
And suddenly, Nell remembered exactly who she was, and exactly where she’d seen her before.
Every muscle in her body locked.
After all these years, the reckoning had come and she was just as unprepared as she’d always feared.
Chapter thirty-nine
July2003
The night out had been full of surprises, starting with the fact that it wasn’t planned. Marcus Sterling, White Lightning Communications’ owner and boss, burst into the office grinning like a Cheshire cat fresh from a feast. He’d just returned from pitching for one of the Scottish Executive’s high-profile campaigns.
Marcus never entered quietly. This time, he made a beeline for Morag, the receptionist, and planted a dramatic kiss on her cheek. It was a move designed to grab attention—and it worked. Heads turned, keyboards stilled and a ripple of murmurs spread through the room.
“You got the job, then?” Stephanie called, breaking the silence.
Marcus stepped away from Morag’s desk, ensuring he was at the centre of everyone’s gaze. Clenching his fists, he raised them to chest height in the classic footballer’s goal celebration, chin tilted skyward like he’d just scored a hat trick.
“Yes, you fucking bunch of beauties! We got the job!” he bellowed. “And not just that… they’ve invited us to pitch for a whole lot more long-term work.”
Scattered cheers and a few half-hearted claps followed. There were muttered congratulations—“Well done,” “Great news”—but the enthusiasm was muted. Marcus, whose vision of workplace loyalty involved his employees eating, sleeping and breathing White Lightning Communications, seemed momentarily disheartened by the lack of euphoria.
No doubt the shouting match he’d orchestrated during yesterday’s pitch prep still lingered in everyone’s minds.
“No, no,” Marcus said, holding up his hands for silence. “Not just ‘well done’ me. Well done you. All of you. We’re a team. A terrific team. Your hard work made this happen.”
