Forever maybe, p.23
Forever, Maybe, page 23
Patsy let herself into the house with a key. This was unexpected. Nell hadn’t prepared for meeting anyone except Reggie and Pamela. Maybe she should wait for Patsy to leave?
Thankfully, the visit was brief. Patsy reappeared moments later, locking the door behind her.
Nell opened the car door and swallowed hard, willing herself not to be sick. Her legs were shaky as she made her way to the Hardys’ gate, where a plaque read: No cold callers. What did that make her—warm, cold, or some catastrophic weather front barrelling in? Just as her hand brushed the latch, Patsy’s voice rang out.
“Can I help you?”
Nell froze but quickly turned, forcing a smile. “Yes… I’m looking for Reggie and Pamela Hardy. I work for… the council.”
“Social work?” Patsy asked, narrowing her eyes.
Nell nodded. “That’s right.” It was a convenient umbrella term, especially for older people who might need help with care, mobility adaptations or filling out claim forms. Fingers crossed, Patsy wouldn’t press for details.
“They’re away,” Patsy said flatly. “Left this morning. Coach tour around Scotland. Back on the twenty-seventh.”
Nell’s heart sank, but she nodded politely.
Patsy squinted, her brow furrowing. “Do I know you? What did you say your name was?”
Nell’s breath caught. She’d come here today ready to tell Reggie and Pamela everything, but Patsy wasn’t the right person for this. Not yet.
“Sarah Murray,” she said, naming her sister-in-law. “I suppose I just have one of those faces.”
Patsy didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, she shrugged. “All right, then. Make sure to come back on the twenty-seventh.”
Nell nodded again, muttering vague assurances as Patsy climbed into her car and drove off.
The irony stung. The Hardys were off touring Scotland while Nell stood here in England, turning her plans upside down. Now, she’d have to come back on her birthday. What a way to mark the day.
Masochism guided her left instead of right at the end of the street, leading her to the pier. Though summer was still weeks away, the beach was dotted with life—dog walkers ambling along the sand, toddlers splashing in the retreating tide under the watchful eyes of parents and grandparents.
The pier itself, which had looked worn and weathered even when Nell was a child, now radiated that brand of melancholy unique to British seaside towns. Their glory days belonged to the late Victorian era and the first half of the twentieth century, when trains delivered eager day-trippers and families crowded into B&Bs for week-long holidays. Now, those same families sought out the golden sands and dependable sunshine of Spain, Greece or the south of France, leaving places like this to quietly crumble into the sea.
Each step on the wooden boards of the pier produced a symphony of creaks and groans. The present blurred as memories swept in, unbidden and vivid: the pale yellow-and-pink ice-cream van that also sold sticky candyfloss; Frying Tonight, the fish-and-chip van, manned by a man so morbidly obese he barely fitted behind the counter; the dark-haired gypsy boy whose mother promised to tell your fortune while he hawked buckets, lines and mackerel bait to hopeful crab fishers.
And Darren. Darren buying her a bag of chips, drowning them in vinegar. Darren laughing hysterically as a fearless seagull swooped down and stole most of them. God, your face! Here, have some of mine. Or I could get you an ice cream, Nelly-welly?
Nelly-welly. The first time Stephanie had used that nickname, Nell had leapt out of her skin.
The sound of the sea pulled her back. She’d reached the end of the pier, where the Pavilion Theatre stood, stubbornly defiant against time and change. A banner outside declared it was the last remaining “end of pier” entertainment venue in the UK, while a nearby billboard announced the one-night-only return of a faded 90s comedian. His face leered from the poster, his large, pore-skinned nose thick with belligerence, daring passersby not to laugh at jokes about mothers-in-law and immigrants.
That crawling sensation returned—a low, miserable itch beneath her skin. It always came when she visited this part of the world, a feeling of something unresolved and unwelcome. She shouldn’t have come here. She should sort out her mother’s hospital appointments and leave before the Hardys returned from their Highland tour.
Her past, like the comedian scheduled for his one-night gig, was best left to decay quietly in the 1990s.
Finito. Over and done with.
Chapter thirty-four
May 2016
“Everything alright?” Joe asked, glancing up from his laptop. He’d perched himself on one of the armchairs in Daniel’s office, one foot resting on the other leg as he investigated options for recipe boxes.
Daniel sighed heavily and tossed the spreadsheet he’d been staring at onto the desk. “No’ really. My wife’s no’ speaking to me, and my mother’s already called me twice this morning wi’ the happy news that Father Reilly offers marriage guidance therapy for couples on the brink o’ divorce. Apparently, it’s a mix o’ Hail Marys and begging God for forgiveness.”
Joe snorted, leaning back in his chair. “That auld hypocrite? D’ye no mind the rumours? The Catholic Church moved him from Ireland to Scotland ten years ago because he had a wee bit on the side. His housekeeper, supposedly. And the woman had a kid everyone in the neighbourhood said was his.”
Joe wasn’t religious, but Nicky had insisted on the full suite of Catholic rites for their brood—baptisms, confirmations, and the occasional mass. The world was hard enough for anyone born in the 21st century, she said; they needed all the help they could get. And this was Glasgow, after all, so she knew exactly which priests had quietly ignored their vows of celibacy.
Daniel didn’t answer, fiddling with the curling edge of the spreadsheet. If only life could be as simple as spreadsheets—problems broken into neat rows and columns, solved by formulas that guaranteed success. My wife wants to leave me because I work too much. Solution? Divide work hours by 3.64 per cent to achieve maximum happiness! Business thrives; wife satisfied!
But there was no formula for this. Nell had been gone almost a month now. The first week, she’d ignored his calls entirely. Since then, their exchanges had been sparse and frosty, conversations that barely qualified as communication. She mostly asked about the cat.
Joe stood, gathering his papers. “Aye, well. Holly wants tae ken about hotels in Leeds. Should she book for one night or two? She’s fair chuffed wi’ herself—found yin place wi’ bidets in the en suites.”
Ah, the wonder of a bidet. Not a staple in your average Scottish bathroom.
Despite everything, Daniel cracked a smile, and Joe’s lips twitched in response. Trust Holly to deliver a rare flash of levity, in her own inimitable way.
For days, Daniel had turned over every possible solution—everything from pitching to the supermarket and whisking Nell off to London for the weekend. But it always led him back to the same, blindingly obvious conclusion. One he should have reached long ago.
“The supermarket pitch,” Daniel said, straight to the point. “Would you take it on yourself, or team up wi’ Liza?”
Dismay darkened Joe’s face. His mouth shifted sideways, and his nose crinkled. “I’m no’ great wi’ presentations.”
Daniel had expected this. He summoned the persuasive charm that had served him so well over the years. Liza could manage the formal pitch; all Joe had to do was deliver the facts and figures—something he excelled at. He’d just proven it earlier that day, laying out a compelling case for how a meal kit plan could work.
“But they’ll be expectin’ you,” Joe argued. “If me and Liza show up, they’ll think you don’t care or that we’re no’ reliable. You’re the yin who’s always harping on about first impressions.”
Didn’t he know it. The supermarket pitch had already stirred Daniel’s imagination, conjuring vivid, tempting images. The panel chair extending a hand, saying, Congratulations, Mr Murray. We’d love to stock your range. How about expanding it…?
Or the ultimate fantasy: being invited to join the Dragons on Dragon’s Den. Sitting alongside Peter Jones, Touker Suleyman and Deborah Meaden, grilling hopeful entrepreneurs and handing out cash to promising ideas.
It was a deeply embarrassing daydream he’d never admitted to anyone—Joe would never let him live it down. He had always made his opinion on the Dragons abundantly clear: “Whit a bunch o’ wankers.”
Daniel leant forward, his expression earnest. “I wouldn’t ask this if I had any other way to stop my wife from walking out on me.” He locked eyes with Joe. “Think about it. If she leaves, I’ll be round your place all the time, in the way, moping and being a pain in the arse.”
Joe snorted. “Nae change there, then.” He blew out his cheeks. “Och, all right. You owe me. But if we dinnae get it, that’s on you.” He jabbed a finger for emphasis.
Daniel nodded. “Fair enough. And if it’s no’ meant to be, I’ll live wi’ that.”
Joe froze mid-motion, staring. “Fuck. This is serious.”
Serious didn’t begin to cover it. As Joe left, Daniel sat back, his thoughts drifting to his marriage. He and Nell had weathered countless storms, including that one time from years ago that still made him flush hot and cold.
Yet, despite everything, Nell remained his delicate, fairy-like wife—the same woman who had once stood in front of his van, tearfully lamenting she couldn’t afford a sandwich. From the start, he’d known she was his future. And he’d do whatever it took to make sure he cemented her place in it.
He needed to prove it now more than ever. Nell had flung at him was that love was in the actions, not the words, which was why he had to back out of the supermarket pitch.
They’d spent Hogmanay at a hotel in Aviemore, where a thick blanket of snow transformed the sprawling grounds into a Victorian Christmas card scene. On the morning of January first, she woke later than him, handing him the hotel’s branded notepad—a sturdy, cream-coloured affair—and a fountain pen.
“That’s for your New Year’s resolution. Singular,” she said with a sly smile. “I, Daniel Christopher Francis Murray, do solemnly promise not to work as hard in 2016.”
He snatched the pad from her grasp with exaggerated indignation. “Fine, fine! This is the year I cut back my hours.”
With an over-the-top flourish, he signed the resolution she had already written for him. She made him fold it into a precise square and tuck it into his wallet, as if that act alone could hold him to his promise.
Later that day, they’d visited the hotel’s gym and swimming pool. When she stepped out of the pool, water streaming off her still-slender, bikini-clad body and her hair slicked back, he noticed the man lounging opposite him on one of the recliners. Lust and envy flickered across the man’s face. Had Daniel not been there, he would have tried to worm his way into Nell’s company, no doubt about it.
Daniel’s own reaction had surprised him. His body stirred in a way it hadn’t in months, enough to make him grab one of the hotel’s thick, fluffy white towels to cover himself until the feeling subsided. But then, he whisked Nell back to their room, where they’d spent the rest of the afternoon reminding each other of why they worked so well.
No. Imagine losing all that.
The thought made his chest tighten. The prospect of Joe taking a sabbatical so soon was enough to make him twitch, but Liza was more than capable. Would it really be such a bad thing to ease off the accelerator and let the business maintain its current level?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
God. The two equally important but perpetually warring parts of his life.
He waited until he was home to call Nell. As he sat in the living room, Corrie jumped onto his lap, purring loudly and kneading his knees with sharp claws that made him wince. The cat’s presence felt like an odd kind of solidarity.
Nell’s phone went straight to voicemail, as it often did when she forgot to charge it—a regular habit of hers. Sighing, he tried Cate and Bobby’s landline instead.
Bobby answered on the second ring. “Hello, Daniel, how are you? I’m afraid Nell’s not here—she’s popped out to Cromer for the day. But I’ll ask her to—oh, hang on a moment. She’s just come back in.”
His voice became muffled as he turned to speak to his daughter. “You alright, love? Is your hay fever acting up? Your hubby’s on the phone. No, c’mon, love, you should speak to him.”
Daniel winced. Bobby clearly hadn’t realised the receiver was still live, leaving Daniel to overhear the exchange.
“Danny.” Nell’s voice came through flat and nasal. Bobby had chalked it up to hay fever, but Daniel wasn’t so sure. Had she been crying? He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing the unease rising in his throat. In the background, Bobby murmured something about giving her privacy, followed by the soft click of a door shutting.
“I’m no’ going to Leeds on the twenty-seventh,” Daniel said without preamble. “Stuff the Asda pitch. I want to spend the weekend wi’ my wife.”
Silence. A long, heavy pause stretched across the line.
“My mother can do one. We won’t see her again until she grovels on bended knee for having a go at you.”
Still nothing from Nell.
“I’m sorry,” Daniel said, his voice cracking slightly. “So sorry. For missing our anniversary. For not cutting back at work like I promised. And for not cancelling the bloody supermarket pitch the second I realised it fell on your birthday.”
A sigh, faint but audible, drifted through the receiver. “Hell will freeze over before Trish apologises to me.”
“That’s as mebbe,” he replied, his voice softening. “But you—you’re my priority now. From now on.”
Another pause, but this time he pressed on. “Tell you what. Think it over. I already spoke wi’ the buyer from the supermarket and told her I wouldn’t be there, so whatever happens, I’m free. I never got round to cancelling the hotel, either. We could still go to London. Hit all those art galleries you love. Find a rooftop cocktail bar. Wander through the Harrods food hall—not that you care, but it’s heaven for me. If only I could get away wi’ charging that much in Stuffed!’s shops.”
Still no answer. Just the quiet crackle of the line and the weight of her silence.
“How’s your mum doing?”
Nell sighed deeply, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “We took Mum to the doctor last week. They’ve run a bunch of tests to rule out other conditions that might cause confusion, but we haven’t got the results yet. If they come back clear, the next step is the memory clinic. I want to be there—with her and Dad—for support.”
“Of course,” Daniel said softly.
In the background, Bobby’s voice floated through the hallway, mentioning a vegetarian cottage pie for dinner. He must have reappeared briefly, and Daniel heard Nell reply, “Yes, I’ll make it for us as soon as I’m off the phone.”
“Take your time, love,” Bobby added, followed by the click of a door as he left them alone again.
Nell returned her attention to Daniel. “The supermarket pitch means a lot to you.”
“Not half as much as you do,” he replied.
A pause, and then, more gently, she said, “Tell you what—if Mum doesn’t need an appointment or it’s scheduled before the twenty-seventh, I’d love to spend the weekend with you in London. Thank you.”
He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Relief surged through him, although self-consciousness followed close behind. Her continued absence meant he’d have more time to focus on work—eighty-hour weeks and coaching Joe and Liza for Asda. A selfish silver lining.
“Aye, of course,” he said, keeping his tone even.
“Danny…” Her voice wavered slightly. “I’ve been thinking about something a lot, but I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. If we end up in London, can we sit down for a proper chat?”
A proper chat. Those three words were enough to make the average West of Scotland man bolt for the hills. But a sudden thought struck him, one that sent a jolt through his chest.
What if… what if, at long last, she’d taken note of their conversation weeks ago and wanted to try for a baby after all? Despite their ages, despite everything? The idea of becoming a dad, however belated, flared brightly in his mind.
Unseen by anyone except Corrie, who protested loudly at being jostled from his cosy perch on Daniel’s lap, Daniel punched the air, grinning like an idiot.
Yes!
Chapter thirty-five
May 2016
“Is he whistling?” Joe asked, incredulous, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Aye,” Holly replied with a shudder. “Gonnae ask him to stop? It’s doin’ ma head in.”
Daniel poked his head out of the office door, his expression halfway between amused and exasperated. “Oi! I’m still the boss here, mind. If I want to whistle, I’m allowed to whistle.”
Holly, seated at her desk in the reception area, made a face that could rival a troll’s. “Aye, but it’s the same bloody tune. Over and over for two hours. Honestly, why don’t you just leave? Everything’s under control here. We’ll see you Monday morning.”
Joe, perched precariously on the corner of Holly’s desk, nodded in agreement, his chin dipping to his chest. “Aye, off ye go. Liza’s coming in this afternoon to go over the Asda pitch one last time. We’ll manage fine without you.”
Daniel hesitated. The earlier train was tempting. Holly had booked open tickets, so he could catch it anytime. If he left now, he’d make it to central London by three, with a few precious hours to spare. Days of bliss stretched ahead: a wife he hadn’t seen in three weeks, hopeful talks about starting a family and all the other joyful efforts required to make that happen.
“You know what?” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I get it. I’m off. Joe, I hope everything goes smoothly on Saturday, but I don’t want to hear about it while I’m away. Even if the buyer gives you an answer on the spot.”
