Loving Danny
Authors: Hilary Freeman
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.
T
he 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 look 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.