Page 40 of Forever, Maybe
“How about a wee bottle of Prosecco?” he asked, pulling a cool bag closer.
“Doesn’t Glasgow’s byelaws ban drinking in parks?” she teased, watching as he stripped the foil cap off with practiced ease.
“Nobody can see us from here,” he replied, handing her the bottle.
Inside the cool bag lay a feast: baby peppers stuffed with cream cheese and paprika—her favourite—plump mixed olives, and a couscous salad. For himself, Danny had packed rotisserie chicken and a freshly baked baguette.
Nell took a sip of the Prosecco, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue as she leaned further into him, letting the city stretch out below them like a living, breathing postcard.
“You should paint this,” Danny said, gesturing to the view. “Bet you could sell pictures, no bother.”
“Mmm.” Nell’s response was deliberately vague. Art for art’s sake often left her feeling hollow, like a pretender. Really, what had she achieved in life? A freelance graphic design career that was only sustainable because she was married to a rich man, and those charcoal drawings adorning their walls. They sometimes felt no better than the crayon scrawls parents proudly stick to the fridge.
The thought of offspring nudged her down an old, familiar rabbit hole, the kind she usually avoided. A pang of something—shame, longing, or maybe both—lingered in her chest until an overweight golden retriever came bounding towards them. Its tail wagged with unrelenting enthusiasm, swinging side to side on overdrive, its tongue lolling happily.
The interruption was a welcome reprieve.
“Daisy, Daisy, come here at once!”
Daisy’s ears barely twitched in response, as a woman approached them. “So sorry, she’s my mother’s blasted dog, and she gets far too much…” She paused, taking in Daniel.
“Hello, Sandwich King! How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. You?” Danny and the woman exchanged small talk. She must be the features editor who had interviewed Danny the other day, the one her husband had driven home the other night.
Nell studied her discreetly. She and Stephanie had a lot in common. Even out for a dog walk, the woman was dressed to impress in a silver-knit jumper that shimmered in the sunlight, skin-tight white denim jeans hugging her wide hips and high-heeled boots. Her face was a canvas of perfectly applied makeup, crowned with scarlet lipstick. The heavy, sweet scent of her perfume lingered in the air, impossible to ignore.
The conversation meandered on, but Nell couldn’t miss the way the woman’s gaze lingered on Danny, appraising, before skimming dismissively over her. Something about her nagged at Nell’s memory. Where had she seen the woman before?
The woman extended a hand with a practiced smile. “You must be Nell. I’m Jennifer Frazer. I interviewed your husband for theScottish Post.”
Nell shook the offered hand, noting that Jennifer’s long nails matched her lipstick perfectly, save for a tiny chip on one edge. For reasons she couldn’t explain, that small imperfection made her feel a little better.
“Nice to meet you,” Nell said.
“And you.” Jennifer’s eyes swept over Nell, a flicker of judgment in her expression. “You’re a freelance graphic designer, right? Do you get much work?”
The tone was casual, but the subtext clear—Jennifer considered it a hobby at best. Nell’s hackles rose. She found herself rattling off her client list, inflating the scale of her projects so her work sounded vital and high-profile.
Jennifer’s dog, Daisy, in the meantime nosed Danny’s elbow, her eyes fixed longingly on the box of chicken.
“Stop mooching!” Jennifer snapped, yanking Daisy’s collar and pulling her away. But the retriever persisted, her nose pointed stubbornly at the chicken, tongue lolling so low it almost scraped the ground.
“Honestly, don’t give her anything. The vet read my mum the riot act the last time she was there. Daisy’s five kilograms heavier than she should be, and it’s already affecting her joints. Incidentally.” She gazed at Nell, a speculative look on her face. “Daniel said you used to work for White Lightning Communications. Someone I used to know worked there.”
Nell nodded, her guard instantly up.
“God, you hated that place, didn’t you?” Danny chimed in, oblivious. “The boss, especially. What was his name again?”
“Marcus Sterling,” she and Jennifer said in unison.
“A friend of mine worked there,” Jennifer said lightly, her tone almost conversational. Nell’s insides knotted even tighter.
“Always complained about what a total arsehole Marcus Sterling was. When did you work there?”
The question seemed innocent enough, but something in Jennifer’s wide-eyed expression turned Nell’s blood to ice. It wasn’t artless—it was calculated.
“Oh, it was a long time ago,” Nell replied, her voice carefully neutral.
