Page 104 of Forever, Maybe
One beer remained. Daniel twisted off the red-and-white cap and glanced at his own phone lying faceup on the table. Nell had flooded him with messages after he’d left, but they’d stopped two weeks ago. Still, what if there was a new one now? If she’d sent one tonight, he’d…
He’d go to the house. The beer buzzing through him made it feel like a good idea. Maybe he should apologise. People made mistakes. God knows he had, even if the details of what he’d done—or hadn’t done—were hazy at best.
But when he checked, the notifications told him everything: nothing from Nell. Not a missed call, not a text, not a WhatsApp.
Setting the phone facedown, Daniel drained the last beer in record time and dragged himself to bed.
Chapter forty-three
August2016
Nell opened the door for Stephanie, who was armed with a takeaway, a suitcase, a six-pack of lager and a determined expression that Nell recognised as befitting a woman on a mission to cheer up someone.
“I swung by Spice City to see Hardeep,” Stephanie announced as she stepped inside, casually name-dropping the best Bengali restaurant in Glasgow. She nudged the door shut with her foot. “He insisted on giving me all this food.”
Which, of course, meant it was free. Stephanie had a knack for turning her PR work into a barter system, often walking away with meals, manicures or bouquets on top of payment. Nell took the bag from her, pulling the handles apart to take a sniff.
The rich aromas of garlic, coriander, fenugreek and cumin hit her like a culinary sledgehammer. She fought back the instinctive grimace Stephanie would notice and forced a smile instead. “Yum!”
They wandered into the kitchen, where Nell had left the patio doors open to invite in the fading warmth of the late summer evening. Outside, Corrie lounged on the sunlit paving stones, his tail flicking lazily. He gave them a slow blink of acknowledgment before resuming his watchful vigil over the sparrows darting around the bird feeder mounted on the shed.
Stephanie plunked the six-pack onto the counter and wagged a can of ice-cold Budweiser in Nell’s direction.
“Better not,” Nell said, shaking her head. “I’m up at six tomorrow for the drive down south. You sure you’re okay house-sitting?”
Stephanie peeled off the cardboard lids from the foil containers, releasing a burst of aromatic steam, and began doling out heroic portions of paneer saag, fried rice, and torn-up pieces of naan, glistening with garlicky ghee. “No problem, Nelly-welly. Does Daniel know I’m staying here?”
Nell accepted the plate Stephanie handed over, eyeing the mountain of food warily. If she managed even a quarter of it, it would be a personal triumph. “Yeah, I sent him a message to say you’re looking after Corrie for me.”
As if summoned, Corrie—who typically ignored his name with princely disdain—stirred from his post on the patio and padded into the kitchen. He weaved around their legs, his nose twitching expectantly. The scent of Spice City must have awakened memories of Danny rinsing the sauce off chunks of lamb bhuna to share with him.
The thought of Corrie never tasting lamb again made Nell’s throat tighten. Would this be his last connection to Danny? They hadn’t even discussed who’d get custody of the cat. Corrie had been her idea, after all, and wouldn’t he’d be better off with her? But what if Danny insisted otherwise? He could argue that Corrie was used to him, that he would miss him. Would he fight her for the cat?
Stephanie, ever attuned to Nell’s shifting moods, cracked open a can of lager and launched into a story, cutting through her snowballing thoughts.
“So, get this,” she said, jabbing her fork at an imaginary idiot, her voice adopting a Liverpudlian lilt. “My new client, the bathroom showroom guy. ‘Can you get me on the telly?’” She mimicked, rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity of the request. “Like it’s that easy. What a knob.” She paused for effect, taking a swig of beer. “Anyway, have I mentioned myotherlatest client? The Evergreen Clinic. Guess what they do? Only bloody Botox and fillers! Their marketing manager reckons I should try it out to write about it properly. The best part? If you agree to before-and-after pics they can use on their website, the treatments are free. Thee and me could knock twenty years off our faces!”
Nell forced her head to nod in agreement. If she stopped crying so much, ten years would vanish in a heartbeat. “What if we end up looking like those trapped-in-a-wind-tunnel women?”
Stephanie stabbed her fork into the chicken tandoori. “We won’t. Promise. The Evergreen Clinic says subtlety is the key. Their doctors specialise in micro-dosing, so it never looks unnatural.”
Nell poked at her curry, the pools of black-speckled yellow oil gathering on her plate. The naan, despite its buttery sheen, felt dry and crumbly in her mouth, every swallow a Herculean effort. She gave up, sliding her plate away.
Stephanie, she could tell, was itching to say something encouraging—Come on, eat up, it’ll make you feel better.People always seemed to think food or drink could fill the void left by emotional pain. And she wasn’t innocent of it herself, showing up at Stephanie’s flat with bottles of wine, tubs of Haagen-Dazs or boxes of chocolates after yet another fledgling romance had fizzled out.
Now the roles were reversed, and it only amplified the alien awfulness of her situation. The idea of being pitied made her skin crawl.
To make it look like she’d eaten more, she rearranged the food into little piles, then leant back and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. “How’s it going with Keto Nate?”
Stephanie’s romance with Keto Nate had all the hallmarks of a classic romcom. They’d started as sworn enemies—he was smug and insufferably judgmental; she thought his carb-free evangelism was cultish. Then, predictably, one of them had caught feelings while the other remained oblivious, fate had thrown in a few well-timed obstacles, and true love had seemed entirely off the menu. And yet, against all odds, here they were, basking in their happily-ever-after.
Stephanie had even managed to give up smoking, given that Nate was a one-man public health campaign on the topic.
Her friend took a long sip of lager before answering, swallowing with deliberate slowness. Nell knew what she was doing—masking the first flash of joy on her face, softening it into something less likely to sting. Bless her. She didn’t want to rub her happiness in Nell’s face.
“Not bad, thanks,” Stephanie said, setting the can down. “That story in the papers about him and Avril Taylor… keep it under your hat, but it’s true. They actually had a thing.”
Nell blinked. “No,really?”
