Loving Danny Read online

  Hilary Freeman is married to a musician and lives in Camden Town, North London. She is a regular contributor to The Times, the Daily Mail and the Daily Express and is an agony aunt for CosmoGIRL! She is also a relationship advisor for online advice service askTheSite and makes regular TV and radio appearances. This is her first novel.

  To Steve, for believing

  First published in Great Britain in 2006

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Hilary Freeman, 2006

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Hilary Freeman to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978 1 85340 867 0

  eISBN 978 1 84812 322 9

  3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bookmarque Ltd

  Typeset by M Rules, based on a design by Louise Millar

  Cover design by Susan Hellard, Fielding Design and Simon Davis

  Set in StempelGaramond and Carumba

  The expression CosmoGIRL! is the registered trademark of the National Magazine Company Ltd and the Hearst Corporation

  Papers used by Piccadilly Press are produced from forests grown and managed as a renewable resource, and which conform to the requirements of recognised forestry accreditation schemes.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  The day I met Danny I had a hole in my tights. It appeared that morning, when I snagged them with the corner of a jagged fingernail as I pulled them up, and worked its way southwards as the day went on. By six p.m., when I made my way home from work, it had eaten its way past the hem of my skirt and stalled just above the cuff of my left, knee-high boot. No amount of skirt rearranging, leg crossing or bag repositioning could hide the hole from public view.

  I mention this because it’s one of the few things I remember about that day. I can’t tell you what the weather was like or what I ate for breakfast. I have no idea what was on the news or what came in the post. Work is a blur. Before I met Danny, all I remember about that day is thinking how my mother would call me a trollop for wearing laddered tights to work, and cursing myself for still biting my nails, especially as I’d spent a fortune on expensive nail polish at Boots.

  Isn’t it weird how the truly significant days of your life often begin as the most banal? There you are, just minding your own business, doing something boring and ordinary like buying a Kit Kat or, in my case, catching the number 29 bus home from work and – boom! – the most momentous and life-changing event happens to you. You don’t have time to rehearse or prepare or compose yourself. You don’t even have time to change your tights.

  My life-changing moment occurred shortly after ten past six, which was the last time I’d checked my watch. Danny (or the guy whose name I would later find out was Danny) got on the bus halfway up the high street. I was sitting at the back where there’s more leg room, so I didn’t notice him until he’d squeezed his way past the pushchairs and the strap-hangers and the men who territorially stretch their legs into the aisle, and made his way to the row of seats facing mine.

  It was hardly the most romantic of beginnings. The very first words he said to me were, ‘Uh, sorry,’ as the bus choked and spluttered and sent him stumbling forwards on to my foot. I muttered something back and leaned down to brush his dusty footprint off my suede boot. When I looked up again he’d settled into his seat and was putting in some earphones.

  I didn’t want him to see me staring, so I turned to look out of the window. It was October and the nights were drawing in. Although it had been light when I left work, the sky was now the deep navy blue of dusk and the harsh lights on the bus were beginning to transform its windows into mirrors, reflecting everything inside. Soon, I could clearly see both my reflection and his.

  He was fiddling with an iPod inside his jacket pocket. I tried to work out what type of music he’d be into. He was a wearing a beaten-up, vintage leather jacket, so old that the black looked almost brown, ripped jeans and a tour T-shirt for some obscure American band I’d only vaguely heard of. His hair was dark and almost shoulder-length and it looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a day or two. He’d obviously tried hard to look like he wasn’t trying too hard. But somehow, it worked.

  I thought, I bet he’s listening to indie music.

  A few seconds later a familiar guitar riff began to bleed from his earphones. I smiled to myself; I was right.

  It took me a moment to realise he was smiling too. He had very white, very even teeth and I liked the way his eyes crinkled up in the corners. Then, to my horror, I realised he was smiling at ME. I’d forgotten that when you look at somebody in a mirror they can see you too. It’s like when you’re a child and you close your eyes and really believe you’ve become invisible, but of course you haven’t.

  I watched my reflection turn crimson with embarrassment and I turned away from the window as quickly as I could, fumbling in my bag for something that wasn’t there. I’ve never been any good at flirting. If someone makes eye contact with me I always feel so uncomfortable that I have to look away at once. If I try to smile I end up making an ugly grimace. It’s even more discomforting if the person staring at me is cute. And he certainly was cute.

  I also felt self-conscious about my clothes. Not the hole in my tights, which I was sure wouldn’t bother him (it matched his tattered jeans, after all), but my boring wool coat, white shirt and navy, A-line skirt, which had actually belonged to my old school uniform.

  I had started working at a solicitor’s office just a week after I’d finished my A-level exams and I still hadn’t got round to shopping for new work clothes. To be honest, I hadn’t really been bothered. I was saving all my money for university the following autumn, and, if I earned enough, a spot of travelling later in the year, before term started. Why waste money on drab suits to please my conservative boss, when I already had a wardrobe full of great clothes? I hadn’t factored in wanting to impress a cool-looking guy on the way home.

  There’s only a limited period of time that you can pretend to be searching for something urgently, and remain convincing. Mine was running out fast. I was, however, aware that the moment I stopped peering in my bag my gaze would inevitably meet his. If I looked out of either window I’d see his mirror image; if I looked straight ahead, I’d be looking directly at the real him.

  ‘Have you lost something?’ he said.

  Oh God.

  ‘Um, yes, my . . . er . . . mobile,’ I replied, my voice cracking with embarrassment and the knowledge of my lie. I’m almost as bad at lying as I am at flirting. My phone was, of course, beside me on my seat, tucked between my thigh and the armrest. I’d placed it there earlier for easy access.

  I dared myself to lo
ok up at him, crossing my legs and smoothing my skirt down as I did so, in the hope that it would better conceal my phone. I felt certain everybody on the bus was looking at us; people don’t talk to each other on public transport – it’s one of those unwritten, universal rules that we must all be born knowing.

  ‘Bummer,’ he said. ‘I’m always losing mine.’

  His voice was deep and cigarette-croaky and he had a strange accent, which made him sound as if he was both well spoken and common at the same time.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, playing along with my own story. ‘I don’t have half my numbers written down anywhere. My life is stored in that phone.’

  He smiled again and shrugged his shoulders. I decided that he looked even more attractive in the flesh than in reflection. It might have been because of the slight bend of his nose. It’s funny how different people can look when their features are reversed. I think it has something to do with how symmetrical you are. I’m always surprised when I see photos of myself and they don’t look anything like the me I see in the mirror.

  While we’d been talking I’d stopped looking at the road. Usually, I pressed the bell as soon as I saw the second-hand furniture shop at the end of my street. But on that fateful evening, by the time I noticed I was at my stop the bus doors were already open.

  I leapt out of my seat, grabbing my bag and pushing past the other commuters who blocked the aisle, creating an obstacle course made up of bodies, umbrellas, briefcases and rucksacks. I reached the doors just as they slammed shut. Somebody pressed the bell urgently on my behalf and the doors flew open again, giving me just enough time to step on to the pavement before they closed emphatically behind me. Then, without pausing for breath, I turned into my street and broke into a half-walk, half-jog.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  The male voice came from behind me. I quickened my pace. It was now completely dark and the lighting on my street was notoriously poor – my dad had even written to the council about it. Whoever owned the voice could only be a beggar asking for change, or worse, a mugger or a rapist.

  ‘Excuse me! Hello!’

  Something about the voice sounded familiar.

  ‘SLOW DOWN!’ he shouted. ‘I’VE GOT YOUR PHONE!’

  Still walking, I swung round, at the same time feeling for my phone inside my bag. It wasn’t there. In my hurry, I hadn’t picked it up off the seat. Panic turned to relief then to embarrassment as I was struck by a second realisation: the voice belonged to HIM.

  If I’d been a cartoon character, like the ones I grew up watching every Saturday morning when my parents were still in bed, I would have screeched to a halt, leaving track-lines in the pavement behind me. Instead, I clumsily stumbled, tripping over my feet as I came to an unplanned stop.

  ‘God, you don’t half walk fast,’ he said, finally catching up with me. ‘Who did you think I was, some mad axe-man?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said, with little conviction. The truth was, he was a stranger on a bus. We’d had a thirty-second conversation. He could have been a mad axe murderer for all I knew, albeit a very cute one.

  He handed me my phone. ‘It must have been on your seat all along,’ he said, smiling so broadly and cheekily that I knew he had caught me out. I felt myself reddening. ‘I saw it when you rushed off. Lucky, that.’

  There was a pause. It was, in retrospect, a very important pause, the ideal chance for him to say goodbye and walk away and never see me again. If he had taken advantage of the opportunity that pause afforded him, he’d have been forever just ‘the guy on the bus who kindly gave me back my lost phone’ – a bit-part player instead of the lead actor.

  But he didn’t. Still sporting that mischievous, dazzling grin, he said, ‘My name’s Danny, by the way. And you are?’

  ‘I’m, er, Naomi.’ Until I actually said it, I hadn’t been sure if I’d give him my real name or a made-up one.

  ‘So where are you off to in such a hurry, Naomi?’

  I really liked the way he pronounced my name, emphasising the ‘o’ and not the ‘a’, like most people do. When your name has as many vowel sounds as mine, there’s a big margin for error.

  ‘I’m just going home,’ I said, remembering again that he was a stranger. I didn’t want him to know where I lived. I rearranged my bag on my shoulder, to indicate that I was about to start walking again.

  He understood. ‘Sure,’ he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. It was a piece of paper. ‘I’m playing a gig at The Bunker, next Thursday – why don’t you come along? Bring a friend, if you like. I’ll put your name down on the door.’

  He pressed the paper into my hand. His fingers were long and the tips rough – a guitarist’s fingers.

  ‘See you, Naomi,’ he said, with the self-assurance of someone who knew that he would. ‘I’d better get going – you made me get off the bus about four stops early.’

  He smiled, playfully, then turned and walked away. I opened my mouth to shout ‘goodbye’ or ‘thank you’ after him, but he was too quick for me. Soon he had vanished into the darkness.

  I unfolded the piece of paper. It was a flyer.

  New Band Night at The Bunker

  Thursday, October 28th @ 7p.m.

  Live on Stage:

  The Ring Pulls

  Collateral Damage

  Billy Franklin and the Hot Press

  The Wonderfulls

  Dandelion

  Tickets £5 in advance – available from

  www.bunkermusic.co.uk

  or £7 on the door

  He hasn’t told me the name of his band, I thought, unzipping my bag and placing the flyer inside.

  It would probably have remained there for weeks, nestling amongst the receipts, crumbs and grubby, loose mints, if it hadn’t been for one thing: from that moment on, I couldn’t stop thinking about Danny.

  Chapter 2

  When I reached the house I noticed that Mum’s car was parked in the drive. I didn’t feel like recounting my boring day at work – just living it was tedious enough – so I let myself in as quietly as I could, hung up my coat, unzipped my boots and crept straight upstairs to my bedroom.

  I had slept in that room since I was six months old, but it didn’t feel like mine any more. It belonged to someone younger, someone who liked pink, fluffy cushions and curled-up posters of faded pop stars whose names I had all but forgotten. That naïve and unsophisticated girl enjoyed skipping and Scrabble and playing with dolls. She had become an embarrassment; I didn’t want to share my space with her. Now I wanted a room with freshly painted white walls, neat blinds and a sofa. But there was no point redecorating – my bedroom had no place in my plans for the future. Why waste my energy? I’d be leaving home for university in under a year.

  I peeled off my tights (or what was left of them) and dropped them into the bin under my desk, watching as the lid swung back and forth in rhythmic applause. I couldn’t wait to get out of my work clothes and into my jeans. Only four months into my placement and I was already beginning to wonder whether I really wanted a future career in law. Still, Dad had used his contacts to get me a gap-year job with a reputable firm and I knew I should be grateful. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he had said, in his most headmaster-like voice. ‘You’ll be streets ahead of the other students and it will help you get a job after university.’ But I didn’t feel grateful. I felt trapped, as though my life’s path had been laid out in front of me and I would have to walk along it, without any say in its direction.

  ‘Naomi? Is that you?’ Mum was coming up the stairs, the sensible heels of her court shoes clip-clopping on the wooden slats.

  ‘I’m just getting changed,’ I shouted back, willing her not to come in. I could sense her loitering outside the door, her hand poised above the door handle.

  ‘All right, then.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘But make sure you come down for dinner. Dad will be home soon.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I couldn’t hide my lack of enthusia
sm. Over the past few years family dinners had become an ordeal – and it had nothing to do with Mum’s cooking. My parents didn’t believe in eating in front of the TV. We had to sit around the table all together, making polite small talk about our school or work days and offering ‘intelligent’ comments on the day’s news. I think Mum and Dad saw it as some sort of family-bonding exercise, a way of ensuring my younger sister Emily, who was sixteen, and I confided in them. Of course, we never, ever told them anything interesting or important about our lives.

  And that night, I had absolutely no intention of telling Mum and Dad that I’d met a guy named Danny on the number 29.

  But I did want to tell someone. I was already beginning to forget what Danny looked like and what he’d said. Talking about him would make him real again. I felt for his flyer in my bag and unfolded it, brushing off the crumbs. It was just a meaningless list of band names. Reading it three times didn’t help either.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I jumped. Emily had come into my room. She never knocked. Usually, I’d have been irritated, but this time I was glad of the opportunity to talk.

  ‘It’s a flyer. For a gig.’

  ‘Cool. Who’s playing?’

  I handed her the piece of paper and she studied it for a second, chewing her lip and then frowning dismissively.

  ‘Never heard of any of them. Where did you get it?’

  ‘A guy gave it to me. He’s in one of the bands. I met him on the bus.’

  Now she was interested. She sat down on my bed, crossing her legs. ‘Really? What was he like?’

  ‘He was cute.’ I felt myself reddening. ‘I didn’t speak to him for long. Er, he was nice,’ I said and smiled, unintentionally. ‘He had something about him. I’m not sure if he’d have been your type. Scruffy – you know, an indie boy. He was looking at me and I was embarrassed. So I sort of lost my phone – even though I really did know where it was – and he found it and gave it back to me.’