Loving Danny Page 10

  To be honest, I was relieved that we were getting on so well. I felt comfortable in Debbie’s company – it seemed almost as if she’d never been away. I decided to forgive her for her laxity in calling and her apparent disinterest in my life during our telephone conversations. It wasn’t her fault, I told myself. She obviously didn’t get much privacy in her hall of residence and it sounded like there was so much going on that she really didn’t have any time. She’d simply stored thoughts of life back home in a little box at the back of her mind.

  When our feet grew sore and our eyes bleary, we headed back to my house. Mum and Dad were delighted to see Debbie. They’d never told me directly, but I knew they thought she was a good influence. She was the sensible one, the one who’d always known what she wanted to do – to become a teacher – and hadn’t wavered. She’d gone straight from school to university and, in four years’ time, would come out with her teaching degree and, no doubt, step straight into a good job. She was intelligent and polite and reliable: the qualities my dad thought most important. Often, if I was rude or disagreed with him, he’d say, ‘I bet Debbie doesn’t talk like that to her father.’ I found it irritating, especially as I knew Dad’s opinion of Debbie was wrong. If she’d been as boring as he thought her, we would never have been friends. The Debbie I knew was fun, a bit of a bitch and a terrible flirt. She’d had far more boyfriends than me; guys liked her because not only did she have great legs, but she also loved football and could act like one of the lads.

  My parents wanted us to join them for dinner, but we said we’d already agreed to get a Chinese takeaway – my treat. We escaped upstairs and ran into my bedroom, locking the door so that nobody could disturb us. Debbie perched on my bed, as she had done a thousand times before. ‘Your room looks exactly the same,’ she said. I wasn’t sure if it was a criticism or a compliment.

  ‘Course it does,’ I replied. ‘No point changing it now.’

  ‘I guess not,’ she said. ‘It’s weird sleeping in my bedroom at home. It doesn’t feel like mine any more.’ She glanced across me and her eyes came to rest on the photograph of Danny. ‘Is that Danny, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, with a mixture of pride and sadness. I looked at the picture and realised that I now knew every part of his face, every angle, almost as well as my own.

  ‘Oh, he’s not what I expected. He looks like a bit of a poser.’

  Debbie had a tendency to be blunt – it often got her into trouble – but I hadn’t expected her to be so unkind.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, unable to conceal my defensiveness.

  ‘Oh, you know, the designer stubble, the long hair and that faraway look in his eyes. He’s not your normal type, is he?’

  ‘And what’s my normal type?’

  ‘You know, like Mark or Jack – boyish, clean-cut, fair . . .’

  ‘Actually, they weren’t my type,’ I snapped, irritated. ‘They’re more your type. I think Danny is gorgeous.’

  ‘OK, sorry. Don’t be so touchy. He is good-looking, just not what I imagined. So what’s he doing tonight? I kind of thought – hoped – I might meet him.’

  ‘He had to go to Brighton,’ I said, trying desperately not to show that I was upset. ‘I was supposed to go with him, but then you said you were coming home and I cancelled.’

  ‘Oh Naomi, I’m sorry.’ She sounded like she felt guilty.

  I decided to tell her the whole story. ‘Actually, we had an argument about it. It’s pathetic, really, but we haven’t spoken properly since. That’s why I haven’t said much about him today.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. You should have said.’

  ‘It’s OK. We can go to Brighton any time.’

  ‘So why aren’t you speaking?’

  Now I wished I hadn’t mentioned the argument. How could I tell her that Danny didn’t want to meet her?

  ‘You didn’t give me much notice . . . and it all kind of got blown out of proportion.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, her tone sarcastic now. ‘Next time I’m mugged I’ll make sure Danny’s informed well in advance.’

  I laughed, but the damage was done. I’d wanted Debbie to be excited about Danny, to congratulate me on finding a wonderful, handsome, interesting guy. Instead, she appeared to dislike him already – and they hadn’t even met.

  Debbie took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Naomi,’ she said. ‘I’m your best mate. If I can’t be honest with you, who can? I want you to be happy, and I know you really like Danny – you always seem so excited about him on the phone – but he sounds so intense and temperamental. I’ve known you forever and I’ve never seen you so moody and snappy. And he’s got you caught up in his silly dream of being a pop star. Are you sure he’s good for you?’

  How could she say that? She must have had some idea how happy Danny made me, even if she hadn’t seen us together. She didn’t know how interesting our conversations were, how much he’d taught me about music and books and politics. Just being with Danny was a buzz.

  ‘It’s not a silly dream,’ I said. ‘He’s talented and ambitious and creative . . .’

  She interrupted me. ‘Ambitious? You told me he dropped out of Oxford.’

  ‘So? He left to follow his dream – that’s pretty ambitious in my book. At least he was bright enough to get in.’

  I knew my comment was cruel. Debbie had wanted to go to Oxford, but she hadn’t achieved high enough grades in her A-levels. I had never worked as hard as her at school, but I always did better; it was something we never spoke about.

  ‘Piss off,’ she spat. ‘That was below the belt. Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t go to snobby Oxford now. I feel right at home at Manchester and from what I’ve heard, it’s much more fun.’

  We both sat silently for a few minutes, sulking. Yet another evening with somebody I cared about had turned into a bickering session. I appeared to have developed a talent for it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, eventually. ‘I take it back. Look, let’s call a truce. We’ll go and get the takeaway and you can choose the film, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Nothing arty or French. I fancy a rom-com.’

  ‘Deal.’

  We made the best of the remainder of the night, eating too much and giggling at the movie, which was about a dumb, blonde American girl who gets herself into lots of scrapes, but – surprise, surprise – wins the gorgeous guy in the end. But my heart wasn’t in it. I kept losing concentration and thinking about Danny and how much I loved being with him. I decided that when he arrived home I would call him and tell him I’d been stupid and that he was right about Debbie. My time with her had only confirmed what he’d said and what I’d feared: Debbie didn’t really understand me any more. She didn’t get me – not like he did.

  At midnight, Debbie said, ‘Do you mind if I call a cab? I know I was going to sleep over, but my parents want me to see my gran tomorrow and then I’ve got to get the train back.’

  ‘Oh, Deb,’ I said, aware that I was losing my last chance to make things right with her. ‘It would have been fun,’ I added, with little conviction, but it seemed the right thing to say.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m knackered. I promise I’ll come and see you again soon. And you’ve got to come up and stay with me too. We must arrange it.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘That would be good.’ We hugged each other, as we always had, but I felt no pleasure in it, no security or warmth. It was like hugging a distant relative at a funeral.

  Emily arrived home a few minutes after Debbie had left. She came into my room and excitedly began to tell me about the party she’d been to and how the guy she’d really liked for ages had kissed her. I tried to feign interest, but then she noticed how sad I looked and stopped mid-sentence.

  ‘Are you OK, Naomi? You seem so miserable. Where’s Debbie? I thought she was staying.’

  ‘She went home,’ I said. ‘I think we’ve grown apart.’

  ‘But you’ve been, like, best mates for years.’

  ‘Yes. I g
uess things change.’

  She rubbed my arm affectionately. ‘I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Maybe we were never as close as I thought and it took her going away to make me realise. And she doesn’t like Danny.’

  ‘What?’ Emily cried. ‘When did she meet him?’

  ‘She hasn’t. She didn’t like his picture and she actually said she thought he was bad for me.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! I think he’s great, not to mention incredibly good-looking. I know you’ve had a bit of a barny and he was out of order and I called him a bastard, but I didn’t mean it. You’ll get it all sorted, I know you will.’

  I really appreciated Emily’s support. She may have been angry with Danny on my behalf the day before, but she genuinely cared about him. She had been out with us several times and Danny had been very sweet to her, letting her come backstage after a gig and introducing her to the band. She’d told me her school friends thought he was really cool which, by association, made her cool too. She’d even said that she looked forward to Sunday lunches now that he was a regular guest.

  ‘I hope so,’ I said.

  ‘You’re perfect for each other, Nay. Anyone can see that.’

  ‘Thanks, Em,’ I said. ‘You’ve really made me feel better.’

  And she had.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday was the longest day. I itched to call Danny checking my mobile and my watch every few minutes, wondering if it was too soon to call, whether he would be home yet, if he would ring me. I ate lunch with my parents, went for a walk in the park, bought myself a glossy magazine and read it page by page. Still, I heard nothing. By five p.m., I was restless and sick with nerves, fussing with my hair and my clothes and chewing the skin around my fingernails. The words I had confidently planned – and rehearsed – to say to Danny no longer seemed appropriate. Like any words repeated too often, they had become meaningless, nonsensical, a jumble of syllables and sounds. ‘Hi Danny,’ I had intended to say. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. Haven’t we been a couple of idiots? I’ve missed you and can’t wait to see you.’ But the longer I waited, the more my courage deserted me. I was afraid that if I dialled his number and he replied, all that would come out of my mouth was ‘Dannyyyyyyyy . . .’

  The way things were, it would not have been sensible to send him another text. It’s so hard to choose the right words, to make sure they don’t have any other, unintended meanings. You can text something with one tone of voice in mind and it will be read in quite another. And, even at the best of times, Danny, always perceptive, had a tendency to analyse everything, to read between the lines. That day, even the inauspicious use of a question mark could have made things a hundred times worse.

  Why hadn’t he called? Surely he must be home by now. Had he met somebody else in Brighton? Had something happened – a fight, an accident? Was he lying in a hospital somewhere, alone and frightened, unable to call me? I knew I was letting my imagination run away with me, but the idea that he was injured seemed preferable to the alternative explanations: that he simply didn’t want to talk to me, or worse, that he was over me.

  At about seven in the evening, I put on my coat and told my parents I was going to the twenty-four-hour garage up the road to buy some cotton wool so I could paint my toenails. I couldn’t think of any other reasonable-sounding excuse for going out on a cold and rainy Sunday evening. I figured that the walk would kill a good twenty minutes.

  I was about to open the front door when I noticed a small, white envelope lying on the doormat. That’s odd, I thought. We don’t get post on a Sunday. It didn’t look like a pizza-delivery flyer or a leaflet advertising window cleaning services. I bent down to pick it up and, on turning it over, saw that it was addressed to me. There was no stamp, just my name and address, handwritten. I recognised the writing immediately: it was Danny’s. I had seen the same slanted, curly-topped lettering in the books of song lyrics he had let me read, and he had used the same purple ink.

  Why had Danny written to me? When had he delivered this? He must have been here, at my house, while I sat in my bedroom upstairs. Why hadn’t he rung the doorbell? I was breathing faster now, my heart beating loud and erratically against the wall of my chest. Still crouching in the hallway, my hands shaking, I ripped open the envelope. As I pulled out the three neatly folded sheets within, a five-pound note fluttered to the floor. I was confused. Why had Danny given me money? What did he have to say that he had to write down?

  I don’t have to try to remember the contents of the letter – I have kept it, to this day, with all my old photographs and mementoes, in a little trunk under my bed. Even now, it pains me to read it.

  Dear Omi,

  Please find enclosed the fiver you lent me the other night. I will give you back the books and CDs that I borrowed soon. It’s two p.m. and I’m perfectly sober. Please bear with me for what follows – for once I’m thinking clearly and being very sensible.

  I apologise if I ramble. All this stuff has been in my head since the other night, since our argument; and today more than ever. It’s not fair on you that we keep on seeing each other. Let me explain my reasons. You want to enjoy yourself, see your friends, go shopping and clubbing, and I just get in your way. You’re planning to go to university and have a great time next year – just like I did a couple of years ago. There’s nothing wrong with that. But that’s not my world any more and I feel that I’m stopping you from doing all that stuff I don’t think I’ve got it in me to try to make conversation with Debbie and your other mates – we’re from different worlds. I’ve got nothing to say to them and I don’t think they’d like me. You understand me, but I don’t think they would. It’s not that I care what they think of me, just that I don’t ever want you to feel that you have to apologise for me.

  I feel like I’ve trespassed into your life. My only justification is the way I feel about you. I don’t know if you feel the same, but even if you do, is that enough? You shouldn’t have to make a choice between your friends and your work and me. It’s not fair on you.

  I’m ending our relationship now because every day I care for you more. Tomorrow, or the next day, I probably wouldn’t be able to write this. I’m in so deep that if I go deeper I won’t stay afloat without you. I care about you more than I have ever cared about anyone before. I love you. There, I’ve said it. I love you. And the more I love you, the more I want to be with you and only you.

  It hurts to write this to you, but it must be written. If I tried to tell you to your face, or over the phone, it would all come out wrong. I’m putting my own feelings last to protect yours. Because you’re the important one. Don’t be angry that I’m making this decision on your behalf. I hope you understand. I want you to be happy, I want you to have a wonderful, successful life, with great friends. I don’t want to hold you back. You are the most special person I have ever met. You deserve better than me.

  I’ve gone on too long. I won’t pick you up from work tomorrow. Don’t come to rehearsal on Tuesday. Always remember the wonderful times we’ve shared and move on with your life.

  Yours,

  Danny x

  I pulled myself upright, leaning on the door frame for support. The acid was rising from my stomach into my mouth and I thought I was going to vomit. I swallowed it down again, burning my throat and leaving an acrid taste in my mouth. From my first reading only five words had stayed with me, jumping out from the text and obscuring everything else: I’m ending our relationship now.

  Danny was finishing with me. He was telling me he didn’t want to see me again. He was leaving me. I was finding it hard to breathe, gasping for air, my ears filling with blood and a strange rushing sound. Was I having a heart attack? Was this what it was like to die? I tried to call out to my parents, but nothing came out of my mouth.

  Focus, Naomi, focus, said a strange, calm voice inside my head. Although I had no control of my body, I managed to slump down into a sitting position. I closed my eyes and co
ncentrated on breathing deeply, in and out, in and out. Then I read the letter again. This time different phrases leapt from the pages: I love you. You are the most special person I have ever met. Danny loved me. He loved me. So why was he dumping me? It didn’t make sense. Because of Debbie? Because I was going to university in October? But I loved him too – didn’t he realise? Didn’t he understand that nothing and nobody else mattered? Now I was angry. How could he simultaneously tell me he loved me for the first time and finish with me? How could he make this decision on my behalf? Who did he think he was?

  I dragged myself up again and opened the front door, drinking the cold, damp air into my lungs. I had only one purpose: whatever the outcome, I had to tell Danny that I loved him too. He HAD to know. My legs started to run of their own accord, pulling my body with them. Soon I was running faster than I’d ever run before, past houses and across roads, dodging traffic and pedestrians, uphill, downhill, through puddles and muddy grass and around sharp bends. I’d never been a very good athlete – I even hated running for the bus – but adrenaline was pumping through my body and fuelling my muscles, propelling me forward. I had no sense of time or distance; I might have been running for five minutes or an hour, covering a hundred metres or a hundred miles.

  I didn’t stop running until I was standing outside Danny’s front door, breathing so fast that I thought my lungs would explode. I pressed the doorbell and left my finger on it, making it scream continuously until somebody came to let me in. I didn’t care what anybody thought, didn’t mind if I was disturbing the peace. I would have stood there all night if I’d had to.