Forever maybe, p.43
Forever, Maybe, page 43
They never questioned why, months later, she still burst into tears for no reason at all.
Except now, Nell had plenty to cry about.
According to the book she’d skimmed in the library—standing between the shelves, heart pounding, making sure no one saw—the baby would arrive on or around the third of September.
She couldn’t picture her future. Not properly. It was too hazy, too slippery—something she reached for but could never quite hold.
But one thing was certain.
It did not include a child.
It was time to tell her parents.
Downstairs, her mum moved around the kitchen, the faint clatter of plates and running water drifting up through the floorboards. The front door slammed. Her dad’s voice rang out, warm and familiar, delighted—as always—to be home.
In a few minutes, she would walk down those stairs, and everything would change.
There would be yelling. Tears. Disappointment.
For a few seconds more, she lay still, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars. Holding onto these last moments of calm before her world cracked open.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Darren.
Chapter sixty-four
“Oh, Nell.”
Daniel pressed her head tighter to his chest, feeling the warmth of her tears seeping through his shirt.
She had only told him half the story.
Questions churned inside him—Why didn’t you tell me before? How did you keep this to yourself for so long? And how had her parents managed to carry the weight of this secret, too?
But he said nothing. He wasn’t a journalist. Nell needed to tell the story in her own time.
She exhaled shakily. “They hit the roof, of course. Dad was ready to march over to the Hardys’ house and give Darren’s mum and dad a piece of his mind—Your scumbag son wasn’t such a golden boy after all! But Mum and I talked him down, and the Hardys moved away a week later anyway. Said the house held too many memories.
“And then Mum and Dad came up with a plan. Since she worked as a school secretary, she could take two months off over the summer. Dad decided he’d commute. So we packed up and moved to Cambridge. I gave birth there. Two days later, the baby was placed with foster parents. The social workers assured us he’d be adopted once they found the right family. And then we went back to Norwich. I’d only missed two weeks of school.”
Daniel felt her inhale, deep and slow, as if steadying herself.
“And after that,” she said, voice quieter now, “I spent the next few years trying to erase it all.”
She hesitated. Then, as if something inside her had cracked, the rest spilled out.
“Artie and Lee don’t know. They’d already moved out, living in the States with their dad's relatives. But Artie always said Mum and Dad tiptoed around me. He thought I made too much of a fuss over Darren’s death. That they indulged me. As far as he was concerned, Darren was just a neighbour. A childhood friend.
“After the baby was born, I lost a ton of weight. Artie thought that was another affectation, like I was milking the tragedy. Said Mum and Dad should stop fretting, sit me down, and make me eat.
“But the truth is… I wanted to lose weight. Because I knew if I got thin enough, if I made myself small enough, I wouldn’t be fertile anymore.
“And then it couldn’t happen again.”
Her words hung between them, fragile and heavy at the same time.
Daniel swallowed. Held her tighter.
Still, he didn’t speak.
She wasn’t finished yet.
Danny stared out of the window, eyes unseeing. A baby at the age of fifteen. There were phantom children everywhere—their child that never was, Ryan, and this—the actual grown-up kid, who would now be in their twenties.
“A woman who has two unplanned, unwanted pregnancies is very, very stupid,” she continued. “When the Jamie Curtice thing happened, it was all there in my records. The consultant made it clear what he thought of me. He insisted I use the Mirena coil from then on. Or get myself sterilised.”
“Sanctimonious prick.”
The insult made them exchange a moment of complicity—light relief.
Nell held up her hand. “No, he had a point, however nastily conveyed. Later, I discovered that he and his wife were undergoing fertility treatment. It must have been tough for him dealing with me. But after… the baby was born, I made up my mind that I couldn’t, wouldn’t have children. It would be a betrayal of that child. And to this day, I am so, so sorry I didn’t make that clear enough.”
“What about… what about when I spoke to you about trying for a kid when we were in London? What if…”
The eyes that met his mingled sadness and regret. “I honestly don’t know. All sorts of things floated through my mind, excitement, guilt, fear, but none of them stuck around for long enough. When I thought Ryan might be yours, part of me was relieved. Oh, look, Danny’s got a kid too… And I had daft dreams where both of our long-lost children turned up at the house, full of forgiveness and eager to meet us.”
The irresistible image shimmered in front of him, and he swallowed hard. Daniel and Nell, the latter-day parents, kinda cool because they had never had to deal with the practicalities, nappy changes, constant meal prepping and forcing fussy children to eat, chauffeuring kids to school and clubs, nagging them to brush their teeth, wash their faces, do their homework and spend less time online.
Nell stood up and handed him a sheet of paper.
“When I had Mikey, I was so young. Back then, social services let parents and carers make decisions on your behalf. Without my knowledge, Mum and Dad registered my name—just in case he ever decided to look for me. And yesterday, I got an email from a woman called Chrissie Gordon. About her brother, Michael. Mikey, he goes by.
“Mikey is my… son.”
He could hear her stumble over the word ‘son’.
“Chrissie is adopted too. After her mother died at the beginning of the year, she researched her background and tried to persuade her brother to do the same, though he was—is—reluctant, but he does have my name, and Chrissie did some detective work to find me. Mikey fell out with her, but he has now said he would be interested in contacting me. I… I think Chrissie reached out on his behalf in case I said no. So that if she passed on that news, it wouldn’t be as hurtful. I am desperate to meet him.”
The ‘desperate’ sounded defiant, Nell telling him what she was going to do, instead of asking the way she may have once. He flicked his gaze up at her, nodding slowly. “You should. If you can.”
He read the two other email exchanges Nell had printed out. Twenty-four-year-old Mikey had been adopted by a couple from Lincolnshire who had previously adopted Chrissie. He’d grown up in Boston and was now a police officer.
Mum and Dad never concealed the fact that we were adopted, Chrissie wrote, but we didn’t think it was right to look for our biological parents while Mum was still alive. When I told Dad, I wanted to learn more about my family history, he supported me.
He flipped the page over, letting out a surprised “Oh”. Chrissie had included a head and shoulders shot of Mikey in his police uniform. Nell must have studied the picture obsessively, looking for a resemblance. Mikey faced the camera straight on, his mouth open but not in a smile, and his hair styled in the traditional short, back and sides, with the curly top of it flopping over half of his forehead.
“He doesn’t look like you.”
“No, he’s the spitting image of his biological father. Speaking of which, there’s something else I need to do—tell the Hardy seniors about Mikey. He’s their grandson. I know they’ll want to meet him, and I hope he’ll want to meet them too.”
He nodded, knowing it would not be an easy conversation. How did you tell a couple who had lost their son so young that a part of him had been out there all along, waiting to be found?
What now? Corrie purred as he kneaded Danny’s lap, sharp claws digging into his thighs.
She knelt so her face was level with his knees. “Danny, I don’t want our lives to be the same as they used to be.”
He pressed his hand against the back of her head. He’d forgotten how silky her hair was and how lovely it felt under his touch.
“Nell, I’m sorry for everything.” He paused for a few seconds, hoping the silence emphasised how much he meant it, and almost as anxiety-ridden now as he had been all those years ago when he had chased after Nell, desperate to arrange a time for that date.
‘Everything’ though, required further explanation.
“For Amsterdam, for being an arsehole when you told me about Jamie Curtice, and most of all, for always prioritising work. I’m sorry that the business got in the way so often. Let’s go and stay in Norwich for a while. We could rent this place out, and find an Airbnb place close to your Mum and Dad’s? And if you’re in Norwich, you're not far from Boston. If Mikey says ‘yes’ to meeting you, it'll be a lot easier. And I can come with you. Or not. Whatever you want. And then, how about returning to Crete for a few weeks, a month even?”
“Danny…”
“And I know you think I won’t stick to it,” he was babbling, anxious to get the message of I can change across. “I might no’ be a good Catholic at all, and going to hell, but I’ll swear it on a Bible if you want. I, Daniel Murray, solemnly promise no’ to work so hard from now on because I will be too busy spending quality time wi’ my wife.”
It had been far less difficult than he had anticipated. Though how would he manage to stick to what he had promised? Could he let go of the urge to work that was so deep-rooted and entangled in his psyche so easily?
Her eyebrows waggled. “Six months not working? How will you cope?”
It was a casual enquiry, but pertinent. How would he fill his time when he wasn’t managing a business? Could he resist the impulse to call or answer the phone, check emails and Stuffed!'s social media accounts fretting all the time that the business would falter and grind to a halt without him?
“No idea, but I’ll give it a shot. For you, for us and for me. We’ve had our ups and downs, Nell, but the twenty-two years, I’ve spent wi’ you have been…”
They spoke at the same time. “Bloody brilliant.”
The lines between Nell’s brows formed a perfect eleven these days, and the hair at her temples had thinned, grey among the blonde. The skin on her jawline, once taut, now puckered.
Had she ever been so gorgeous?
“I never wanted anyone else but you.”
Life retreated then. The years pealed back to 1994, and their mouths met for the first time again, a gentle touch of soft lips on an exploration expedition, rediscovering the past in all its technicolour glory.
Her lips parted, his tongue met hers, and his arms tightened around her back. Twenty-year-old Daniel Murray cheered him on, delighted and pleased that that what he’d wanted as a young man was still there.
Everything was going to be alright.
A SANDWICH AT THE BEGINNING OF THE DAY
Michael Stephenson. Or should it be Hardy? As he sat in Luton Airport, waiting for his flight to be called, he turned the unfamiliar names over in his mind.
For twenty-five years, he’d been Michael—Mikey—Gordon. His adopted father used to joke that his long-dead great-grandparents had declared themselves thoroughly done with Scotland and moved “abroad”—to England.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad.
The thought came automatically, trigged by why he was at the airport in the first place. Alan and Karen Gordon had always been open about his adoption.
“Your poor, dear mum,” his mother would say, pulling him close, the scent of her flowery perfume tickling his nose. “She wanted the very best for you, the best ever, but knew she couldn’t give it, so she gave you up for adoption. And then me and your dad came along, and we wanted a lovely little boy like you so, so much!”
She’d first told him the story when he was five, then again and again over the years, always the same: your poor mum, she wanted the best, and the lovely little boy part. And it worked. He didn’t feel any “less” than the kids he met at nursery and then school up until a point.
“Hurry up, lads! There’s drinking to be done!”
A group of guys around his age strode past, decked out in lurid shirts and shorts, their energy dialled up to way beyond one hundred per cent. One of them launched into a chant—“Oggie, oggie, oggie!”—and the others roared back, “Oi, oi, oi!”, clapping in raucous unison.
Stag weekend.
Ibiza, Tenerife, Prague, Dublin, Belfast—wherever they were headed, for one mad second, Mikey considered ditching his flight and tagging along. A weekend of sun, booze and absolutely no life-changing meetings. What was not to like?
A security guard materialised beside the ringleader, whispering something in his ear. Mikey tensed. He might be off duty, but once a police officer, always a police officer. The group had probably had a few too many already, and a drunken stag party could turn ugly in seconds. Instinct had him springing to his feet, ready to intervene if necessary.
But the ringleader merely turned to his mates and pressed a single finger to his lips. Instantly, the noise died down. No complaints, no protests—just a collective shuffle in the direction of Burger King instead of the bar.
Mikey let out a slow breath, tension draining from him like sand slipping through an hourglass. He sat down again and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
He studied the photo for what must be the hundredth time. He’d ‘met’ Nell on Skype already—an awkward, stop-start conversation full of overlapping sentences and hurried apologies. No, you first. No, you go. Both of them pretending not to stare, Mikey thrown by how young she looked—barely older than him—and searching for traces of himself in her face.
He couldn’t see it.
Nell swore he was the spitting image of Darren Hardy, his long-dead father. She didn’t have many photos— their brief teenage romance had happened in the days before everyone carried a camera in their pocket—but her father (his grandfather!) had dug one out. She’d scanned and sent it to him that morning.
“See what I mean about your dad? X”
In the grainy photograph, Darren stood in a doorway, dark shirt, jeans, cigarette hanging from his lips. One hand lifted absently, fingers brushing the frame. His eyes were red—“Cameras back then weren’t as good as even the most bog-standard phones now,” Nell had told him—but despite the poor quality, the image crackled with something real. A moment of pure teenage joy. That feeling when the world was yours for the taking, when you were untouchable, immortal.
Mikey’s vision had blurred then, the photo dissolving behind unshed tears. Now, on his hundred-and-first viewing, he held it together—just. But the past still pulled at him, a dull ache, like pressing on an old bruise.
Seventeen-year-old Mikey Gordon had once felt invincible, too. Right up until his so-called “brief wobble”. That was what his parents called it. Charitable of them, considering the wobble lasted almost a year.
The once-promising student, set for university, had stopped showing up to school. Instead, he spent his days holed up in his room or getting high in a cramped, smoke-filled bedsit with a couple who dismissed universities as nothing more than factories for the bourgeois elite.
They tapped into Mikey’s feelings about adoption—the bit where he felt rejected and in turn where he rejected the kind folks whom he’d called Mum and Pops from the time he could talk—loading him with a great big dose of insecurity coupled with entitlement.
By the time he came to his senses, the damage was done—no exam passes, university no longer an option.
Then came the police officer.
“Well, there’s another path you can take, son. Why not join the force,?” the man had said. “It’s a satisfying job. And we’ve always got room for people with brains.”
So he had.
Darren Hardy, according to Nell, had been a model student aside from questionable dalliances with underage girls. Scouts from Norwich FC had been sniffing around him, convinced he had a shot at the big league. His whole future ahead of him. Until the night he took a corner too fast, when the Audi TT he’d ‘borrowed’ from his father hit a tree and exploded on impact.
“EasyJet Flight EC4763 for Glasgow is now boarding. Please could all passengers make their way to Departure Gate 14.”
Mikey slung his rucksack over one shoulder. Two nights in Glasgow—hand luggage only. His phone buzzed as he joined the swarm of passengers heading for Departure Gate 14.
“Watcha.” Chrissie. “Nervous, bro?”
Mikey nodded automatically before remembering this wasn’t FaceTime. “Yup.”
“Mmm. There’s always the risk you won’t like her. Or maybe, and I wouldn’t blame her at all, she won’t like you!”
“Chrissie, for goodness’ sake! Give me the phone!”
In the background, the sounds of a scuffle—his father wrestling the phone from her grasp.
“Mikey, please ignore your sister,” his dad said, his voice warm, steady. “She is a terrible, terrible human being.”
Mikey wasn’t bothered. He and his older sister had survived—thrived, even—on banter. But that feeling hit him again. Panic, rising like a tidal wave. The urge to turn back, to run in the opposite direction. His dad and sister were at home. His home. The semi-detached on Aldar Street.
This morning, they’d insisted on making him a packed lunch. Chrissie, in the grip of one of her periodic health kicks necessitated by the cake-baking side hustle, had mashed avocado with lime, mixed it in with slithers of smoked salmon and finely chopped spring onions, and spread it on thick slabs of her home-made wholemeal bread.
“You’re off to Glasgow, home of the deep-fried Mars Bar,” she declared, presenting him with the foil-wrapped sandwiches. “No fruit or veg for two whole days. You’ll come back riddled with rickets and constipated!”
Their dad had swatted her. “Chrissie! That’s not true!”
But they’d both fussed, urging him to eat the homemade muesli Chrissie had also prepared when he wasn’t hungry, running through checklists. Did he have his passport? Were his liquids under 100ml?
