Drive Me Crazy (14 page)

‘Oh yeah,’ he starts. ‘Caz told us to download it, remember?’

I shake my head.

‘Yeah, she said the nights get pretty wild, so everyone adds everyone on Snapchat, they keep their stories updated all night and then the next day, everyone can see what everyone got up to before the images and videos self-destruct. Then they all pretend it never happened.’ He laughs.

‘How do I check my story?’ I ask.

Danny taps my screen a few times.

‘You don’t have one,’ he tells me, and I exhale with relief. ‘But you see all these bubbles? These are the stories from the people we were with last night.’

I glance down the long list of usernames, not a single one of them sounding even remotely familiar to me.

‘Oh God,’ I whine.

‘Come on,’ Danny insists, excited to see the video evidence of the wild night out that neither of us remembers. ‘It’s like taking off a plaster. Grip it and rip it.’

The first few photos and videos aren’t so bad, just lots of general silly, drunken antics in a variety of different bars. To be honest, I’m yet to spot myself or Danny in any of them, which relaxes me a little. Then I spot us, a photo of Danny and me, Dowdy stood between us with an arm wrapped around us both, and a huge grin on his face. We’re standing outside a place called The North West Pole, which I easily deduce from the neon pink lit sign behind us. Then, as we watch more pieces of the puzzle, I realise that we’re in a strip club. Danny sniggers to himself quietly as we watch, but I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Were the videos not playing out in front of my eyes, I never would’ve believed it.

‘Oh my God, look at you,’ I squeak when a video of Danny starts playing. I laugh at him, up on the stage dancing to Nelly Furtado’s ‘Maneater’ with one of the dancers. He’s wearing a white suit shirt and a black tie that I don’t remember him starting the night in, while his lady friend keeps it simple in nothing but her bra, a skirt and a short blue wig. It’s safe to say that Danny has no rhythm, but neither does the dancer who clearly made poor choices at some point in her life, and who is clumsily grinding against him.

After suffering so much already today, I allow myself a moment to enjoy Danny’s shame – not that he seems at all ashamed by his antics, he’s actually amused, but that won’t stop me rubbing it in.

‘I thought you weren’t allowed to touch the girls, you dirty old man,’ I tease him. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t throw you out.’

But then, as we see more video footage of the same moment from a different angle, I realise that the blue-wig-wearing girl in the video – the one who clearly made poor life choices at some point – is
me
. Danny notices this too and erupts with laughter like I have never heard before.

‘I broke you,’ he laughs. ‘I did it. I got you absolutely fucking mortal and I broke your good-girl act. And on the first night. Yes!’

I am speechless. Motionless. I want to tell him to go fuck himself; I want to punch him for leading me astray like this. Instead, I just watch. I just gaze in amazement at the sight of this person who looks just like me slut-dropping, alternating dancing on the pole with dancing all over Danny –
twerking
!

‘We look like a budget version of Miley Cyrus and Robin Thicke,’ I say softly. ‘Only equally as embarrassing.’

Danny’s laughter slowly calms down. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he chuckles. ‘I look awesome.’

I take a break from piecing together the puzzle that is last night.

‘More, more,’ Danny insists.

‘Just give me a minute,’ I insist, moving to get comfortable, my arse killing me. My body is still aching from head to toe, but the burning feeling Mr Wright left me with is by far the worst. I massage my temples as Danny stares at me expectantly, excited to learn more.

I resume watching the stories. There isn’t a video, but there’s a photograph that makes it look like we were subsequently removed from the club, possibly due to mine and Danny’s commandeering of the stage.

Suddenly, a small group of us are in the tattoo parlour. With several people having things done, I realise why so many of the Manx employees have so many tattoos, because they have wild nights like this. It’s like they don’t realise that tattoos are for ever! Then again, I can’t say anything, not with my new butt ink. As I judge these human colouring books for their tattoos, the harsh reality of what I have done is hit home when I see a photo of me, bending over, showing off my ‘Mr Wright’ ink before turning to face the camera with tears in my eyes to announce that I ‘love it’.

‘Look at you crying.’ Danny laughs. ‘You big baby.’

Then we cut to a video of Danny getting inked on his finger, the buzzing of the needle completely drowned out by his howls of pain.

‘Says you, tough guy.’

Danny examines his hand in front of his face, removing the cling film from his right index finger to reveal a moustache tattoo.

‘Wow, you basic bitch.’ I laugh at him. Well, there’s no sense in reserving my swearing for my inner monologue now. This little mortifying archive of information has almost turned into a competition now, Danny and I getting off on watching the other doing increasingly stupid things.

‘OK, bro, I’d say we’re pretty even with the stupid shit.’ He laughs.

‘I guess we are,’ I reply. ‘And you say these self-destruct?’

‘They most certainly do,’ he tells me. ‘Twenty-four hours after they are posted, they will be gone for ever, so rest assured.’

‘Just one more to go,’ I tell him. It’s interesting, to watch different people’s stories from the same night. It’s like solving a murder mystery. Sometimes you just get the same version of events, but from a different angle – an angle that can often be far more revealing. Other times you see an entirely different version of events from a different part of the room. I have to admit, this is a pretty genius idea for remembering the events of a night out, although not something I would practice. It’s a good way to fill in a few blanks, but I could’ve lived a much happier life without the knowledge that I twerked on a lubricated pole while wearing a blue wig.

‘That’s my username,’ Danny says excitedly, noting the last name on the list.

We watch as the night evolves, playing out pretty much the same as it did in all the other stories, except thankfully this one doesn’t include our little performance because Danny was too busy dancing to try and capture any Kodak moments. Then we get to the part of the night where we visit the tattoo parlour. Danny has caught the moment Caz dragged me up to the front desk, to explain to the man what I ‘want’ done.

‘She’s been through a lot,’ I hear Caz explain. ‘She wants something strong and powerful.’

That’s how we landed on ‘Mr Wright’? – that doesn’t make any sense.

‘Rihanna has this huge goddess across her ribcage. She wants that,’ Caz says, showing the tattooist her phone.

I nod, like a drunken fool, before backtracking a little. Good girl, Candice. Be smart. ‘Maybe just the name,’ I chirp. ‘And not on my ribs, like, on my wrist.’

Suddenly, the story is towards the end of the night. It’s daylight, and Danny and I are in the back of his car, singing ‘Love Shack’ together.

‘I didn’t realise I knew all the words to “Love Shack”,’ I say, puzzled.

‘You clearly don’t.’ Danny laughs.

The last thing the video shows is Danny presenting me with an ugly, chunky, gold bangle, telling me that he found it, and that I’d need it. Then the video ends.

‘Well, it could’ve been worse,’ Danny muses. ‘Much, much worse.’

Danny flips the driver’s seat and climbs out of the car. I follow him. As I grab the side of the car to steady my achy body, I notice the disgusting second-hand bangle still on my wrist. Finally out of the car, it is only as I go to remove it that I spy the telling cling film underneath it. Danny notices me notice it.

‘That’ll be your Rihanna goddess tattoo,’ he tells me as he stretches his arms in the air, stiff from a night of dancing and a morning of sleeping in the car. ‘Which goddess was it, anyway?’

‘I’m not a huge Rihanna fan, surprisingly,’ I snap. ‘And I can’t remember a fucking thing.’

That’s not strictly true; little bits are coming back to me. Especially since watching the video, just seeing the occasional trigger causes memories – that I would rather suppress – to come flooding back. That said, I don’t remember the tattoo, but I’m glad that I went for the name in a small size on my wrist, rather than the goddess herself emblazoned across my body.

I remove the bangle before slowly peeling off the cling film, and that’s when the true horror of my poor choices hits me like a ton of bricks.

‘You OK?’ Danny asks, clearly having seen the look on my face.

‘I…I have an Isis tattoo,’ I tell him.

Danny’s eyes light up, and he looks like he might burst with joy. If this is a competition, and the winner is the person who finishes the night significantly less mortified than the other, then I am certainly the loser.

‘I have an Isis tattoo!’

‘Isis is the goddess of fertility and motherhood,’ he says as he chuckles, to try and make me feel better.

‘It’s also the name of a militant group who aren’t exactly getting the best press right now,’ I tell him, as though there is a chance he might not know. ‘Not everyone has heard of the goddess, Isis.
Everyone
has heard of the other Isis.’

Unable to hold back a second longer, Danny erupts with laugher, throwing his head back. He calms, but only a little, his laughter steadily continuing. He literally slaps his thigh as he chuckles, his eyes red and so bloodshot they look like they might burst.

It’s amazing how different Danny and I are. What I see as a series of terrible mistakes during a difficult time of my life that have left me absolutely mortified, Danny sees as a great night out. A victory. Both a good time and the successful demolition of my good reputation. Everything he could’ve hoped for.

As I watch him laugh, relishing in my misery, I feel an anger growing inside me. This is all his doing. He goaded me into this night out, into drinking too much, into doing all of this stupid stuff.

‘This is all your fault,’ I say angrily.

‘I told you to get an Isis tattoo?’ He chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes.

‘No, the bigger picture. This was supposed to be a business trip and you’ve turned it into a fucking stag do.’

OK, so it wasn’t supposed to be a business trip, it was supposed to be a romantic getaway. I can’t say as much to Danny, but it’s all the same. He’s turned this into
The Hangover-fucking-4
, creating the perfect storm scenario to ensure my downfall, and all for his amusement.

‘It was fun,’ he insists. ‘
You
had fun. The videos prove it – watch them again.’

‘I never want to see them again,’ I insist, deleting the app. Interacting with my phone only serves as a reminder that Will hasn’t texted me back, which only angers me further.

‘It’s done, don’t worry about it,’ he says, talking to me like the hysterical woman I most likely am being. ‘Chill out.’

‘You’re so cluelessly aloof,’ I tell him as I pace back and forth in front of his car.

‘No, you’re too much of a stress head.’ He laughs. ‘Just calm down.’

‘Stop telling me to calm down,’ I say through gritted teeth. I am absolutely distraught about everything that has happened and my behaviour last night has only made me feel worse. The fact he’s enjoying my suffering is really starting to get to me, but I can’t let it. ‘You know what, I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the trip,’ I tell him childishly. ‘You’re nothing but trouble.’

‘It’s going to be a boring trip if you carry on like that,’ he warns me.

‘Good,’ I reply. ‘I’d rather have a boring trip than endure the “fun” of speaking to you.’

‘Fine,’ he replies. ‘I don’t want to speak to you either.’

He’s putting on this stupid, childish tone – at least I think he’s putting it on.

‘Fine,’ I repeat, determined to have the last word. Danny is happy to leave it at that, climbing back into his car and shutting the door.

I walk towards the hotel. I just need to grab my stuff and then we can go for the ferry – which I’m dreading, but with a hangover like this, I’m not sure I could feel any worse.

Chapter 17

Liverpool is in our sights. Pretty soon I will be back on dry land, safe in the knowledge I never need set foot on a boat again. I haven’t spoken a word to Danny since our argument and, like he threatened, he hasn’t said a thing to me either.

I’ve had a lot of time to sit and think, and while I was tempted to call the whole trip off and have Danny take me home, I don’t want to give Will the satisfaction. He still hasn’t texted me back – I just checked again – but he’s bound to be thinking about me and about what I’m getting up to with Danny. If I go home now, I’ll just prove to him what a sad cow I am. At least while I’m away, he can think I’m having fun without him – even if that isn’t true.

Thankfully my seasickness isn’t as bad this time. I’m not sure if this is because my current hangover is so much worse than anything I was feeling on the way over here, or whether it’s because I’ve been following the advice Danny gave me before. Either way, I’m just grateful to not be feeling so dreadful.

I stroll along the deck of the boat towards Danny. I have no intention of speaking to him, but we’re about to dock so I can at least follow him to his car in silence. I can see that he’s surrounded by a gang of teenage boys with skateboards, but as I get closer I realise they don’t appear to be getting along.

‘Your mum is so fat, her belly button has an echo,’ a kid with long greasy hair poking out from under a beanie hat says to Danny. The kid has a skateboard in one hand, his other is met with a high five from one of his friends, for that zinger he just delivered.

‘I can’t believe you’re making mum jokes.’ Danny laughs. ‘I like you, kid. You remind me of me when I was a teen – an absolute twat.’

The skater frowns. ‘Fuck, I hope I don’t grow into you,’ he replies, looking Danny up and down. ‘You sad bastard, look at your hair. You look like a fucking joystick.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been called that before,’ Danny says. ‘By your mum!
That’s
how you do a mum joke.’