Loving Danny (13 page)

‘But you do!’ I cried. I opened the car door and put my left foot on the kerb. I didn’t want him to see me sobbing and I could feel a gush of tears waiting to escape.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he tutted, grabbing my arm in an attempt to stop me from getting out the car. ‘You know what? Let’s forget this weekend. You do whatever
you want to do with Debbie and I’ll go to Brighton.’

‘Fine,’ I barked, shaking him off me. ‘Whatever.’ I launched myself out of my seat and slammed the car door behind me. For a moment I thought he might follow me, but then
I heard the roar of the engine and the squeal of tyres as he sped away up the street. Tears streaming down my face, I let myself into my house and, exhausted, went straight to bed. I cried myself
to sleep.

So there it was: our first argument. My grandma once told me that nothing lasts, and nothing – good or bad – stays the same. I didn’t really understand what she meant until
that night. I’d genuinely believed that we would remain in our happy state forever. I saw us always laughing, always agreeing, always on the same page. It’s naïve, I know, but I
had never truly allowed myself to accept that Danny could be cruel to me – I’d hoped his feelings for me somehow granted me immunity. The argument brought me back to reality and, worse,
it made me feel alone again.

There was no text from Danny when I awoke the next morning. I made myself go into work and do what needed to be done. I tried to spend as much time as I could with the other
staff members, so I didn’t have time to think about Danny. Whenever there was silence our argument began to replay over and over in my mind, like my dad’s old vinyl records when they
got stuck. But I couldn’t ignore the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach that wouldn’t go away. Surely this wasn’t the end? It couldn’t be. The thought of losing Danny
terrified me and yet I couldn’t bring myself to contact him first. All day, I toyed with the idea of calling or texting him, but what would I say? Sorry? I hadn’t done anything wrong,
so why should I apologise? Perhaps I should send him a jokey text pretending that nothing had happened. But that would just be letting him get away with it.

At three in the afternoon, Danny put me out of my misery by texting me.
DECIDED 2 GO TO BTN 2DAY. HV GD TIME WIV D. DX.
I read and reread
the text countless times, trying to decide what it meant. There was no apology, no mention of the argument and he had stuck to his guns and gone to Brighton – and a day early too. Nothing had
been resolved. Then again, he had wished me well and finished with a kiss – surely that was a positive sign?

It took me over an hour to reply. After deleting at least ten possible messages, I settled on the concise:
OK. SPK WHEN UR BACK. NX.
Its
brevity, in contrast to my usual messages – and the fact that I’d signed my name with an ‘
N
’, not an ‘
O
’ –
showed I was still unhappy and hadn’t entirely forgiven him, but it wasn’t nasty and it left things open.

Emily agreed that I’d got the tone right. ‘You don’t want to let him think he’s got away with it,’ she said, angry on my behalf. It was lovely that she felt so
protective of me. She’d made me run through the argument several times, punctuating the end of Danny’s words with the occasional ‘bastard’ and ‘selfish git’
until she realised her vehemence was making me more upset.

‘He’ll come running back,’ she said. ‘Anyone can see how much he likes you. Just make him sweat a bit first.’

I wondered where she’d learned so much about guys. Wasn’t I the big sister here? Still, I allowed myself to be reassured.

Now, I just had to get through the next two days.

Debbie came home that evening. She was spending Friday night with her parents and we’d arranged to meet on Saturday lunchtime at a coffee shop in town, and then do a bit
of window shopping and come back to my house to watch a DVD. I was determined to have a good time with Debbie, to prove to myself that I could still have fun without Danny and, more importantly, to
reassure myself that she was still my best friend.

I spent Friday night watching TV with my parents (Emily was at a friend’s house). Anything was better than sitting alone in my bedroom, dwelling on what had happened. Mum and Dad seemed
surprised that I wanted to be with them and even more surprised that I appeared happy to watch an hour-long documentary about medieval architecture. I was very quiet and Mum kept asking if I was
all right. I told her Danny was at a family do and that I fancied an evening in because I was tired. I’m not sure she believed me, but she knew better than to pry.

I felt far less anxious in the morning, after a good night’s dreamless sleep. I went into town early and wandered round the shops on my own, testing lip-gloss and blushers. Debbie was
already drinking a cappuccino when I arrived at the café. She was dressed more scruffily than I’d seen her in years, in ripped jeans and a baggy jumper. Despite her concessions to the
‘student’ look, she still looked smart and polished, her hair a little too neat and glossy. It made me smile to myself. She hadn’t changed, really.

‘Naomi!’ she cried, when she saw me come in. She bounded out of her chair and rushed over to kiss me hello. I was happy and reassured that she seemed so genuinely pleased to see me.
I hugged her. When I put my arms around her I could feel the bones in her back.

‘You’ve lost so much weight!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t they feed you at university?’

‘I know,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘It’s terrible. That’s what a diet of Pot Noodles and toasted sandwiches does to you. My mum was horrified. After Christmas she
sent me back with a month’s supply of nutritious food.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Hey, you look good, though.’

‘Thanks.’ I blushed. I was about to say, ‘That’s what being in love does for you’, but given that Danny and I were barely on speaking terms, it didn’t seem
appropriate. Instead, I asked, ‘So, do you want to hit the shops, then?’

‘Great. I have absolutely no money and no plastic, so I won’t be able to do any damage.’

‘You can help me buy something,’ I said, laughing.

We spent the afternoon trawling the rails of all the high street stores and chatting about everything under the sun. Although I was pleased that Debbie finally seemed interested in the details
of my life, I wasn’t in the mood for serious talk; every time she asked about me I deflected the conversation back to her. I had always been a good listener, so she didn’t notice. She
had so much news to tell me that a simple question, such as ‘What’s your accommodation like?’ could elicit a ten-minute speech full of anecdotes involving copious amounts of
alcohol and guys I’d never heard of.

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.