Loving Danny (16 page)

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied, looking back into the crowd, which was now dispersing. It was eleven o’clock and the pub staff were hurrying people to finish their drinks and
leave the premises. There was no sign of mullet-man or the guy with pressed jeans. ‘I thought I saw him earlier – or someone who might have been him,’ I volunteered. ‘I
didn’t notice him leave. Maybe he’s in the loo or something?’

‘Stay here,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll just be a sec.’

He clambered back on stage and said something to a couple of the other band members. There was lots of head shaking and shoulder shrugging. Then he was off again, weaving his way through the
crowd to find someone who might know the whereabouts of Jed Wilson. I saw him speaking to a guy I recognised from the website as one of The Wonderfulls’ fans. I think he was called Simon. He
was short and broad and his belly spilled over his jeans like milk boiling over from a pan. I watched as he gave Danny a bear hug, patting him on the back and whispering something into his ear.
Danny gave him a quizzical look, then made his way back to me, deliberately dodging other fans, who had hung around to congratulate him on the gig. His body language had changed completely; he
looked tired and dejected.

‘He was here,’ said Danny. ‘But the bastard left halfway through the set, apparently.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything, does it?’

‘Don’t be naïve, Naomi. He obviously didn’t dig us.’

‘But you were great tonight. Really great.’

‘Not great enough, it seems.’

‘Maybe he’ll give you a call tomorrow. Maybe he needed to talk to someone else first?’

‘Maybe,’ sighed Danny. ‘But don’t hold your breath. If he’d liked us, if he’d wanted to sign us, we’d know about it.’

I tried to hold his hand, but he brushed me away. When Danny was upset he found it hard to be affectionate. Seeing my hurt expression, he squeezed my shoulder and told me he’d meet me at
the front of the pub once he’d helped the others to load up the equipment.

He drove in silence. He was deep in thought and I could tell he was torturing himself, wondering if he could have sung better or whether it was Dylan’s fault, or if The Wonderfulls should
have rehearsed more.

‘There’ll be other chances, Danny,’ I said softly. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Maybe.’

I didn’t want to leave him yet but he insisted on dropping me off at home. ‘It’s not you,’ he promised. ‘I won’t be good company tonight. I want to be on my
own. Come round tomorrow afternoon?’

‘You were supposed to be coming for lunch, with my parents,’ I reminded him.

‘Oh shit. Look, can you tell them I’m really sorry. Make something up – I just don’t feel like it, OK?’

‘OK,’ I said, disappointed. ‘I’ll come round after lunch, then.’

‘That would be nice.’ He smiled, sadly. I kissed him and for a moment he forgot himself and started to respond. But then he pulled away from me and leaned over to open the car
door.

‘I love you, Danny,’ I said, hoping it might make him feel better.

‘I love you too, Omi.’ His voice was monotone.

Danny seemed in better spirits the next afternoon. He greeted me with a long, tender kiss, as if to make up for his lack of affection the previous night. ‘I’m
OK,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve had a chat with the others and we’re going to record some more demos and send them out. We won’t let the bastards get us down.’

I had told my parents that he’d missed lunch because he didn’t feel very well and that I was going over later to look after him. They’d accepted my explanation without too much
fuss and didn’t question me further. Mum had even let me off dessert and asked, with genuine concern, if Danny needed anything. I’d almost quipped, ‘A record deal,’ but
thought better of it.

We lounged around on Danny’s sofa for a couple of hours, listening to music and watching rubbish television. I was always amazed how much trivia Danny kept in his head. He knew all the
characters’ names in the soaps, what the actors had been in before and what was going on in their private lives. But he was also well up on current affairs, able to fill me in on the latest
developments in the Middle East and why a particular economic policy was bad news for the country. As for his knowledge of music, it was encyclopaedic. Whenever I said I liked a particular song,
he’d say, ‘You might like this, then,’ and he’d go to his CD collection – which covered the wall of his living room – and pick out something by an obscure artist
I’d never heard of. He was the same with books. His brain was like a sponge – if he was interested in something he had to know it all, to possess it.

‘Do you fancy doing something – going somewhere, maybe?’ I asked when the central heating began to make me feel drowsy.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘We could go into town, do a museum or gallery or something.’

I nodded. ‘That would be nice.’

‘I’d better get changed,’ he said. He was wearing last night’s long-sleeved, grey T-shirt, which now smelled of stale smoke and sweat. I watched as he peeled it over his
head, admiring his slim torso and muscular shoulders. But as he pulled off the sleeves, I noticed a large, flesh-coloured plaster on his forearm. It hadn’t been there yesterday.

‘What happened to your arm, Danny?’ I was curious and a little concerned.

‘Hey?’ His head was still caught on the top. He wriggled out of it.

‘The plaster. Did you hurt yourself?’

He became suddenly modest, draping the T-shirt over himself and avoiding eye contact. ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. I caught myself on a guitar string last night. Don’t worry about
it.’

But I was worried. I knew Danny well enough by now to know when he was lying. It seemed odd – more than coincidence, certainly – that a guitar string should have cut him on almost
the same part of his arm as his old, schoolboy injury. Or, maybe that hadn’t been an accident either. Could he have done it to himself? Were both wounds self-inflicted? Were they
drug-related? Was Danny doing more than just smoking the odd spliff? Or had he been in a fight?

Before I could say anything else, Danny had scurried into the bedroom. When he returned, his top changed, he was smiling. ‘Let’s go, then.’

‘All right,’ I said, forcing myself to smile back.

I brushed my worries to the back of my mind – I was getting good at that. I hated myself for feeling suspicious of Danny and anyway, it didn’t make sense. People only hurt themselves
or picked fights when they were really troubled or depressed, didn’t they? Last night hadn’t gone well, but Danny didn’t generally seem down, did he? If Danny was doing something
destructive, it could only mean that there was something he wasn’t telling me . . . that I wasn’t making him happy. Didn’t he feel close enough to me to confide in me?
Wasn’t I enough for him? Might it even be my fault? I couldn’t face that possibility; it was far better for me to ignore my concerns and play dumb. I wasn’t yet ready to open
Pandora’s box.

We caught the bus into town and walked around for a while, looking in the shop windows. Then we went to see a photographic exhibition, which I’d mentioned I fancied catching. I’d
never had anyone to go to this type of exhibition with before – my friends thought them boring. But Danny encouraged my love of photography; he said I was talented and should dump law and
make a career out of it. I was starting to think that it was a good idea. Danny had a lot of good ideas. They took me down avenues I’d never have visited on my own and made me aware that, if
I wanted, I could skirt around the paths that I felt had been laid out for me.

D
anny dropped me home late that night. I walked through the front door, smiling to myself, feeling that I was wrapped in the warm glow of
happiness. I’d had a lovely time with Danny at the exhibition and we had followed it with a meal out and a hot chocolate back at his place.

But as I entered the hall I noticed that the kitchen light was on. I peered around the door to find Mum and Dad sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Dad in a nagging voice, which I knew meant trouble.

‘You know where I’ve been – I’ve been at Danny’s.’ I was still smiling. ‘We went to an exhibition – I’ve got some postcards –
look.’ I rummaged around in my bag. I’d bought some great images, portraits that had been taken using this cool technique called solarisation, which made them look like paintings. I was
really excited by it.

‘I thought he was ill,’ said Mum, obviously hurt that I had lied.

I cursed myself silently for forgetting. Mum had seemed genuinely concerned about Danny and now I’d disappointed her and dropped him in it too. ‘He was feeling better,’ I said.
I quickly changed the subject. ‘Anyway, why are you up so late – isn’t it past your bedtime?’ I grinned, checking my watch. It was almost one in the morning.

‘This is not the time to be cheeky,’ said Dad flatly. ‘We’ve been at a charity supper quiz. I’m sure that doesn’t interest you. But what you might like to
know is that Martin Stevens was there.’

‘Oh.’ Martin Stevens was, of course, my boss and an acquaintance of Dad’s. ‘How was he?’

‘He was absolutely fine and so was his wife. However, he’s under the impression that
you
haven’t been too well of late.’

‘Really?’ I asked.

I hadn’t expected the attack, wasn’t prepared for it.

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about, Naomi, don’t deny it. Martin said you’ve had a few days off here and there, without notice, and that you’ve been coming in
late rather too often. He’s also noticed that you’re not performing very well, that your mind doesn’t seem to be on the job. Have you got anything to say to that?’

‘No, not really,’ I muttered.

‘Well, is it true?’

‘I guess, a bit.’

‘Why, Naomi? You worked so hard to get that placement and it took no small amount of effort on my part, either. Why are you letting yourself down?’

‘It’s boring,’ I said. ‘It’s not what I expected at all. They leave me alone half the day, doing stuff like filing and photocopying. I hate it.’

‘What did you expect? You’re hardly likely to be asked to represent people in court now, are you? For heaven’s sake, Naomi, this is an opportunity to learn about how things
work, to get some experience for your CV. It’s invaluable for your degree and it could potentially lead to future work as a lawyer in that practice.’

‘I’m not sure I want to be a lawyer,’ I said quietly.

‘Pardon?’

‘I don’t think I want to work in law after all.’

Dad got up from the table. ‘What? You are joking, aren’t you? You’ve got a place at one of the best universities in the country to read law next year and now you say
you’ve changed your mind?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to pack in law and do photography instead. Danny thinks I’m a natural.’ As I said it I thought,
Yes,
that’s what I want to do. I’ll become a photographer.
Saying the words helped shaped the idea in my mind, made it a real option.

Dad exploded. ‘You nincompoop!’ It was such a funny word that I had to try hard not to laugh. Dad was always so worried about not swearing that he kept a collection of the most
old-fashioned expressions in his head. He was the only person I knew who still said ‘crikey’ and ‘good grief and ‘gosh’. ‘Nincompoop’ was his favourite
when he thought someone was acting like an idiot. ‘You fool!’ he continued. ‘After all your years of hard work you’re now planning on throwing it all away. I’m very
disappointed, Naomi. Very disappointed. You’re just being . . . stupid!’ His round face was red and puffy with anger, his cheeks swelling like a cooked tomato that was about to
explode.

‘I’m not being stupid!’ I shouted. ‘I’m just doing what I want for a change.’

‘Are you?’ interrupted Mum, in a calm, soft voice. She had kept quiet until now. She got up from the table and walked over to my side.

‘Of course. What do you mean?’

‘Are you doing what you really want or what Danny wants you to do?’

‘They’re the same thing,’ I said. ‘Danny knows me. He understands me.’

‘But you never said you wanted to do photography before. You always had your heart set on becoming a lawyer.’

‘I’ve always enjoyed photography, you know I have.’

‘Yes, as a hobby, not a career. It just strikes me that it’s Danny who’s encouraged this. He’s a nice, intelligent boy and we like him very much, but he has some crazy
ideas.’

‘What’s crazy about photography?’

‘That’s not what I mean. We’re not wealthy like Danny’s family. We can’t support you forever. We want you to have a career that will give you a happy, comfortable
life. I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Naomi. Have you?’

She was right. I hadn’t. But I wasn’t going to let her know that.

‘Yes, I have. It’s what I want to do and if you won’t support me, that’s fine. Danny will be there for me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Dad spluttered. ‘You’re eighteen years old, he’s – what – twenty? You might both feel differently in a few years. Do you
really think life is that easy?’

That hurt. I’d believed that Mum and Dad knew how serious I was about Danny. Now it transpired that they thought it was just a silly, teenage fling.