Authors: Portia MacIntosh
Drive Me Crazy (13 page)
The TV may have a volume cap, but there are no such restrictions on the volume of Danny’s laugh, and he cackles wildly as he watches. Meanwhile, I sit on the bathroom floor and allow myself a little designated crying time while no one can see or hear.
If the Isle of Man branch of Starr Haul makes one thing clear, it is that the yellow branding of the company is very much set in stone. This particular branch is the newest addition to the company, but things aren’t just shiny and new, they’re shiny and new and yellow – oh my!
Like the Manchester branch, this place also has a secretary called Caroline, although unlike Sweet Caroline, Isle of Man Caroline is young, fun and friendly. When she introduced herself to us, she insisted we call her Caz, which suits me just fine because, weirdly, if there is a person I don’t like I have been known to inexplicably dislike others who go by the same name. She has bleached-blonde hair, although it looks like maybe she did it herself because she’s a little orange in patches, and she’s wearing a very stylish blue pencil skirt and white blouse, but she looks entirely uncomfortable in them.
Every word she says is accompanied by a hand action, like she’s using a kind of sign language that only she understands, and as her arms move around her short sleeves keep revealing a glimpse of a tattoo at the top of her arm – something Danny notices during the rushed tour she is giving us of the warehouse before they shut up shop for the day. If there’s one thing I’m noticing about how this branch of Starr Haul differs to the flagship branch, it’s just how young the workforce is here. It’s like head office is staffed with all the dinosaurs, the ones who were a part of the company when it first opened its doors. With branches like this one popping up, it’s inevitable that when the Manchester lot become extinct, these guys will be taking their places.
‘Cool ink,’ Danny tells Caz. ‘Let’s see it properly.’
We’re standing right in the middle of the warehouse, but Caz obligingly unbuttons her blouse enough to slip out her arm, fully revealing the tattoo that covers almost all of her upper arm and her shoulder. I look closely, trying to take in all of the detail because there’s just so much going on. It’s Alice in Wonderland themed – specifically the Tim Burton take on the classic tale – and I’ve never seen a tattoo with such vivid and beautiful colours. I don’t have any tattoos, but I’m impressed by Caz’s.
‘Wow, that’s beautiful work,’ Danny admires. I glance around the warehouse, but no passers-by seem even remotely phased by the fact Caz is hanging out of her top. She couldn’t do this if she worked in Manchester, not with Matt the warehouse wanker at large.
‘Where did you get that done?’ Danny asks. ‘America?’
‘No, right here! Just down the road, actually. There’s a place – Sami, the guy who works there, is just amazing.’
‘Got your tits out again?’ a big, hairy, beardy man asks Caz, although he doesn’t sound surprised.
‘Only at the Christmas party – you know that,’ she jokes. ‘Just showing Danny here my ink. Show him yours, show him yours. This is Dowdy, by the way.’
As we introduce ourselves and exchange how-do-you-dos, Dowdy happily drops his trousers to his ankles, revealing his heavily inked legs. His legs are just the most beautiful showcase of different games: board games like Snakes and Ladders, Cluedo and Mouse Trap on one leg, and then the other has a Rubix Cube, Lego, a Slinky and countless little toy soldiers performing a variety of military manoeuvres across his skin.
‘I got one on my cock as well – had it done in Amsterdam,’ Dowdy tells us, although thankfully he doesn’t show us that one.
‘Mate, Amsterdam is awesome,’ Danny enthuses. ‘I went there while I was travelling, and we’d heard about this coffee shop where they have a cat that is just permanently stoned…so, the first thing we do off the ferry, we go to check out this stoned cat, right? Anyway, turns out it’d died.’
‘That’s so sad,’ Caz says, tipping her head to one side.
‘I’m actually thinking of adding to my tattoos,’ Danny says, whipping his shirt off. Suddenly I’m the only person fully clothed, and like a Jimmy Eat World video,
I
feel like the weird one. I only have a second to feel weird before I am captivated by the sight of Danny with his shirt off. Nerds don’t have bodies like that. OK, maybe I expected him to have one impressive bicep on his dominant side (if y’know what I’m getting at) and maybe strong thumbs from playing too much Call of Duty, but he looks like he works out. A lot. With
very
heavy weights. If this were ancient Greece, they’d be making sculptures of him.
I know that I’m staring, but it’s hard to look away. The only man I ever see without a shirt on is Will, and even when he was younger and fitter, I’m sure he wasn’t this hot. I remind myself that, as sexy as Danny may seem, he is annoying and insulting and unstable. I try to focus on his various tattoos as he talks Caz through them. I don’t know if he’s shutting me out for this newer, shinier, blonder blonde, or if he just assumes I won’t be interested, but I find myself moving closer to him, trying to prove to him that I am interested in his ink and not as boring as he thinks I am.
‘This one, I had done in LA,’ he says, pulling down the waistband of his boxer shorts. Across the bottom of his stomach is the line ‘Put your drawers on, and take your gun off’. ‘I lost a bet,’ he explains. ‘It’s a quote from
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
– my favourite film.’
‘I love that,’ Caz says, leaning in close for a look.
‘Fantastic,’ Dowdy agrees.
‘My ribcage.’ Danny lifts his arm and twists his body for us to see. This one is weird. It’s like you can see his ribcage through his skin, but rather than the usual organs you would expect to see hiding behind the bones, there are all kinds of creatures that look like they’re trying to break their way out. It is weirdly disgusting, but oddly captivating to stare at. ‘A guy in London did that one for me. You wouldn’t believe how many hours it took – easily the most painful. And my back.’ Danny turns around and stretches out his arms to make a T shape, showing us his biggest tattoo: a pair of angel wings that start at the centre of his back and stretch out down the backs of his arms. It’s something that I could never have imagined looking good, but across Danny’s muscular back, it just suits.
‘Protesting too much.’ He turns around again and chuckles, his cheeky smile with those dreamy dimples lighting up the room.
‘Wow,’ I can’t help but say. ‘I wish I had the guts to have something like that done.’ The three of them stare at me, none of them considering for a second that I might be being sincere. I realise that the cool kids are talking, and shut up.
‘We’re clocking off any minute, then we’re having a work do tonight,’ Caz tells us. ‘We get pretty wild. You guys should come.’
I see Danny’s eyes light up for a second, excited by the invitation of a wild night out with wild Caz and the wild team, but then his face falls.
‘I don’t think Candy will be up for it,’ he says, visibly disappointed.
Caz and Dowdy stare at me.
‘I’ll get an early night, but you can go,’ I tell him, and I mean it. To be honest, I’d much rather go back to my room, on my own, jump in the bath and then eat room service and watch TV. It would actually delight me to be shut of Danny for a few hours, especially if he’s in one of his ‘fun’ moods.
‘It’s cool,’ Danny tells her. ‘Thanks for the invite though.’
There’s a loud clatter from the far corner of the warehouse, so Caz excuses herself to go and see what’s going on, closely followed by Dowdy.
‘Think about it,’ he yells to us as he dashes off.
‘You should go,’ I tell Danny as he puts his shirt back on. ‘That’s the kind of thing you were hoping to get out of this trip. I really don’t mind if you go.’
‘Why won’t you come?’ he asks me, raising his eyebrows expectantly, like I might be able to give him an answer that he’ll accept. ‘I find it enriches my life, to go Batman on a regular basis.’
I pull a face at him, letting him know I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Going Batman – taking care of business during the day, before taking on the nightlife at night.’
‘Not my scene,’ I tell him.
‘Why isn’t it your scene?’
‘It just isn’t,’ I insist.
‘But why?’
‘You’re like a child, you know that?’
‘And you’re like an old lady,’ he tells me. ‘What’s the worst that could happen? It’s like you’re scared of letting your hair down.’
‘I’m not scared. Just because I choose not to have wild nights out, doesn’t mean I’m not capable of them.’
‘Fine then, don’t come,’ he sings, and if this is reverse psychology, annoyingly, it’s working.
‘Fine. I’ll go. But if I do this, you have to promise to get off my back for the rest of the week because you are like a broken flipping record with this.’
‘Deal,’ he says, jumping up and punching the air. ‘I’ll go find Caz and tell her. You won’t regret this,’ he calls back to me as he jogs off.
‘I hope not,’ I say quietly to myself.
My body aches from head to toe. It’s that kind of uncomfortable feeling you sometimes get, that can only be righted by moving…but I can’t move.
Perhaps my balance is off – maybe something is wrong with my inner ear, my trip across the Irish Sea having messed with my head. This is definitely the worst headache I have ever had in my life, I know that for sure. So bad, I’m scared to open my eyes, let alone get out of bed. That’s when I realise that I don’t remember going to bed… Come to think of it, this doesn’t feel much like a bed that I’m lying face down on. It’s too hard.
I raise my head with great care before slowly opening my eyes. Not only am I in the back of the Love Bug, but I’m lying face down on top of Danny, cuddled up on his bare chest like we’re replicating a black and white photo of a proud, handsome dad with his newborn. He’s fast asleep, looking quite peaceful and comfortable, but I can’t help freaking out the second I realise where I am, who is under me and just how little of the previous night I actually remember.
As I attempt to jump up, all I achieve is a bump on my head courtesy of the roof of the car, not only making my epic headache much worse, but also sending me back down towards Danny, my face stopping just inches from his as he wakes up. He doesn’t seem as alarmed by our close proximity as I do, and as I freak out on top of him, he gently holds me still by my arms.
‘Candy, calm down, you’re flailing like a cat trapped in a ball pool,’ Danny says as he tries to keep me still.
I pause for a moment. I have too many unanswered questions to calm down though, like how did we wind up sleeping in the back of Danny’s little two-door car? Why am I on top of him? Why is he shirtless? I glance down at my own body. My skirt is rolled up and my shirt is unbuttoned and tied under my boobs, like a cross between Britney Spears in the ‘Baby One More Time’ video and a rebellious schoolgirl, tarting up her outfit once she’s safely out of the sight of her parents. Why the hell am I dressed like Britney circa 1999 and, worse still, behaving like Britney circa 2007?
None of these questions are the one I ask out loud though. Oh no, the question I ask Danny – while still sitting on top of him – is: ‘My arse is killing me – what the fuck did we do last night?’
‘Well we didn’t do
that
,’ he says with a cheeky laugh. ‘I’d remember
that
.’
I stare at him in horror. ‘I’m serious,’ I insist. ‘My skin is stinging and burning; I’ve never felt anything like it.’
Danny yawns a loud, exaggerated yawn. As he stretches his arms out as far as he can in such a confined space, he seems truly relaxed, like his night out did him good. I scoot off him onto one of the seats, so he pulls his legs closer to his side of the car, so that we’re no longer touching or so squashed up together.
‘What are you fucking smiling about?’ I ask, angrily.
‘You, sailor mouth.’ He laughs. ‘You’re swearing like a motherfucker. We broke you. Well, I suspect we didn’t break you, I think we just broke down whatever wall you’d put up to stop the “fucks” and the “arses” slipping out.’
‘It isn’t funny,’ I snap, wincing in pain now that I’m sitting on my bum. ‘Will you have a look for me, see what I’ve done?’
‘Yes,’ Danny replies in an instant, clearly not about to waste his one and only opportunity to see a part of my body that I would normally keep hidden from acquaintances.
I flip over onto all fours, so that my bum is pointing in Danny’s direction, pulling my pants down slowly enough so that I only have to show him as much as is absolutely necessary. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’ve clearly injured my self somehow, and it needs checking out. Oh, God, what if I need to go A&E? I feel my cheeks (my face, that is) flush with embarrassment.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ Danny says cautiously. ‘I think you must have met Mr Right last night.’
‘W-what? What do you mean?’ I stutter.
‘You have a tattoo on your arse that says “Mr Right”.’
‘No!’ I gasp.
‘Yep,’ Danny says, stifling a laugh.
I don’t believe him, so as I spot my phone on the floor of the car I grab it and ask him to take a photo. As Danny obliges, there’s a knock on the window.
‘You can’t do that here,’ the hotel car park attendant advises us as he stares at us both in the back seat, Danny taking pictures of my arse.
‘No, we’re not – ’ I call after him, but he’s already gone.
Danny is laughing uncontrollably now as he hands me my phone. Sure enough, in a pretty swirly, girly font and surrounded by hearts is my new tattoo: ‘Mr Wright’.
When I asked the universe for a Mr Right, I feel like it wasn’t really listening. That’ll teach me to take the piss out of cosmic ordering.
I delete the picture as quickly as possible, not only to get it out of my sight, but because, somehow, if the picture no longer exists, maybe my mistake won’t either. As I shift in my seat and feel the stinging pain, I am reminded of how real this is, and how there’s no way I can put what I’ve done to my behind, behind me.
‘Why do I have Snapchat?’ I ask Danny, noticing it on my phone’s home screen.