Loving Danny (2 page)

While we’d been talking I’d stopped looking at the road. Usually, I pressed the bell as soon as I saw the second-hand furniture shop at the end of my street. But on that fateful
evening, by the time I noticed I was at my stop the bus doors were already open.

I leapt out of my seat, grabbing my bag and pushing past the other commuters who blocked the aisle, creating an obstacle course made up of bodies, umbrellas, briefcases and rucksacks. I reached
the doors just as they slammed shut. Somebody pressed the bell urgently on my behalf and the doors flew open again, giving me just enough time to step on to the pavement before they closed
emphatically behind me. Then, without pausing for breath, I turned into my street and broke into a half-walk, half-jog.

‘Excuse me!’

The male voice came from behind me. I quickened my pace. It was now completely dark and the lighting on my street was notoriously poor – my dad had even written to the council about it.
Whoever owned the voice could only be a beggar asking for change, or worse, a mugger or a rapist.

‘Excuse me!
Hello!
’

Something about the voice sounded familiar.

‘SLOW DOWN!’ he shouted. ‘I’VE GOT YOUR PHONE!’

Still walking, I swung round, at the same time feeling for my phone inside my bag. It wasn’t there. In my hurry, I hadn’t picked it up off the seat. Panic turned to relief then to
embarrassment as I was struck by a second realisation: the voice belonged to HIM.

If I’d been a cartoon character, like the ones I grew up watching every Saturday morning when my parents were still in bed, I would have screeched to a halt, leaving track-lines in the
pavement behind me. Instead, I clumsily stumbled, tripping over my feet as I came to an unplanned stop.

‘God, you don’t half walk fast,’ he said, finally catching up with me. ‘Who did you think I was, some mad axe-man?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said, with little conviction. The truth was, he was a stranger on a bus. We’d had a thirty-second conversation. He
could
have been a mad axe
murderer for all I knew, albeit a very cute one.

He handed me my phone. ‘It must have been on your seat all along,’ he said, smiling so broadly and cheekily that I knew he had caught me out. I felt myself reddening. ‘I saw it
when you rushed off. Lucky, that.’

There was a pause. It was, in retrospect, a very important pause, the ideal chance for him to say goodbye and walk away and never see me again. If he had taken advantage of the opportunity that
pause afforded him, he’d have been forever just ‘the guy on the bus who kindly gave me back my lost phone’ – a bit-part player instead of the lead actor.

But he didn’t. Still sporting that mischievous, dazzling grin, he said, ‘My name’s Danny, by the way. And you are?’

‘I’m, er, Naomi.’ Until I actually said it, I hadn’t been sure if I’d give him my real name or a made-up one.

‘So where are you off to in such a hurry, Naomi?’

I really liked the way he pronounced my name, emphasising the ‘o’ and not the ‘a’, like most people do. When your name has as many vowel sounds as mine, there’s a
big margin for error.

‘I’m just going home,’ I said, remembering again that he was a stranger. I didn’t want him to know where I lived. I rearranged my bag on my shoulder, to indicate that I
was about to start walking again.

He understood. ‘Sure,’ he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. It was a piece of paper. ‘I’m playing a gig at The Bunker, next Thursday
– why don’t you come along? Bring a friend, if you like. I’ll put your name down on the door.’

He pressed the paper into my hand. His fingers were long and the tips rough – a guitarist’s fingers.

‘See you, Naomi,’ he said, with the self-assurance of someone who knew that he would. ‘I’d better get going – you made me get off the bus about four stops
early.’

He smiled, playfully, then turned and walked away. I opened my mouth to shout ‘goodbye’ or ‘thank you’ after him, but he was too quick for me. Soon he had vanished into
the darkness.

I unfolded the piece of paper. It was a flyer.

He hasn’t told me the name of his band
, I thought, unzipping my bag and placing the flyer inside.

It would probably have remained there for weeks, nestling amongst the receipts, crumbs and grubby, loose mints, if it hadn’t been for one thing: from that moment on, I couldn’t stop
thinking about Danny.

W
hen I reached the house I noticed that Mum’s car was parked in the drive. I didn’t feel like recounting my boring day at work –
just living it was tedious enough – so I let myself in as quietly as I could, hung up my coat, unzipped my boots and crept straight upstairs to my bedroom.

I had slept in that room since I was six months old, but it didn’t feel like mine any more. It belonged to someone younger, someone who liked pink, fluffy cushions and curled-up posters of
faded pop stars whose names I had all but forgotten. That naïve and unsophisticated girl enjoyed skipping and Scrabble and playing with dolls. She had become an embarrassment; I didn’t
want to share my space with her. Now I wanted a room with freshly painted white walls, neat blinds and a sofa. But there was no point redecorating – my bedroom had no place in my plans for
the future. Why waste my energy? I’d be leaving home for university in under a year.

I peeled off my tights (or what was left of them) and dropped them into the bin under my desk, watching as the lid swung back and forth in rhythmic applause. I couldn’t wait to get out of
my work clothes and into my jeans. Only four months into my placement and I was already beginning to wonder whether I really wanted a future career in law. Still, Dad had used his contacts to get
me a gap-year job with a reputable firm and I knew I should be grateful. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he had said, in his most headmaster-like voice. ‘You’ll be streets
ahead of the other students and it will help you get a job after university.’ But I didn’t feel grateful. I felt trapped, as though my life’s path had been laid out in front of me
and I would have to walk along it, without any say in its direction.

‘Naomi? Is that you?’ Mum was coming up the stairs, the sensible heels of her court shoes clip-clopping on the wooden slats.

‘I’m just getting changed,’ I shouted back, willing her not to come in. I could sense her loitering outside the door, her hand poised above the door handle.

‘All right, then.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘But make sure you come down for dinner. Dad will be home soon.’

‘Sure.’

I couldn’t hide my lack of enthusiasm. Over the past few years family dinners had become an ordeal – and it had nothing to do with Mum’s cooking. My parents didn’t
believe in eating in front of the TV. We had to sit around the table all together, making polite small talk about our school or work days and offering ‘intelligent’ comments on the
day’s news. I think Mum and Dad saw it as some sort of family-bonding exercise, a way of ensuring my younger sister Emily, who was sixteen, and I confided in them. Of course, we never, ever
told them anything interesting or important about our lives.

And that night, I had absolutely no intention of telling Mum and Dad that I’d met a guy named Danny on the number 29.

But I did want to tell someone. I was already beginning to forget what Danny looked like and what he’d said. Talking about him would make him real again. I felt for his flyer in my bag and
unfolded it, brushing off the crumbs. It was just a meaningless list of band names. Reading it three times didn’t help either.

‘What’s that?’

I jumped. Emily had come into my room. She never knocked. Usually, I’d have been irritated, but this time I was glad of the opportunity to talk.

‘It’s a flyer. For a gig.’

‘Cool. Who’s playing?’

I handed her the piece of paper and she studied it for a second, chewing her lip and then frowning dismissively.

‘Never heard of any of them. Where did you get it?’

‘A guy gave it to me. He’s in one of the bands. I met him on the bus.’

Now she was interested. She sat down on my bed, crossing her legs. ‘Really? What was he like?’

‘He was cute.’ I felt myself reddening. ‘I didn’t speak to him for long. Er, he was nice,’ I said and smiled, unintentionally. ‘He had something about him.
I’m not sure if he’d have been your type. Scruffy – you know, an indie boy. He was looking at me and I was embarrassed. So I sort of lost my phone – even though I really did
know where it was – and he found it and gave it back to me.’

‘God Naomi, anyone would think you’d never met a guy before. You gonna go to the gig, then?’

I shrugged, trying to regain my composure. Why do I always ramble like that when I’m nervous? ‘Maybe.’

‘You’ve got to go. You never go out any more.’

It was true. Since my best mate Debbie had gone to university in Manchester and Natasha, Holly and my other friends had gone travelling, my social life had all but disappeared. Even my parents
were beginning to take pity on me, offering me tickets to theatre performances and saying I could join them for bridge games (which, I must point out, I declined, and not always politely). Taking a
gap year had seemed like such a good idea when all I’d thought about was the money I’d earn and the work experience I’d gain. I hadn’t anticipated the loneliness, the sense
that I was the one missing out. How could I have let my parents persuade me to turn down a round-the-world airline ticket for a bus pass and a day job? Still, I didn’t want my suddenly
sophisticated little sister, with her diary full of parties and youth clubs and sleepovers, reminding me of how boring I’d become.

‘OK, I’ll go. Do you want to come?’

‘I suppose,’ she said, trying not to sound too keen. She flicked her perfectly straight, blond hair. Why hadn’t she inherited the ‘frizz gene’ like me? ‘Yeah,
all right. If I’m not busy.’

I didn’t like her superior tone. ‘It’s on a school night, Emily,’ I said, bitchily I wanted to make it clear that I was still her big sister, still more worldly and
mature. ‘You’ll have to ask Mum and Dad for permission. What was it you came in for, anyway?’

She looked hurt. Awkwardly, she climbed off my bed, unsure where to put herself. Now she was sheepish. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘No, really. Did you want something?’ I tried to make my voice as warm as possible. I hadn’t meant to sound so mean. I really wanted to go to Danny’s gig and I knew I
couldn’t – or wouldn’t – go alone. I needed her to come with me. It might even be fun. Emily may have been a poor replacement for Debbie or Natasha or any of my other
friends, but the fact was my friends weren’t around. Given my circumstances, she was my only choice. And she knew it.

‘You know that black halter-neck top you’ve got, the vintage one?’

I stiffened, certain of what was coming next.

‘Can I borrow it for Andy’s party on Saturday? I reckon it will look cool with my new trousers.’

She was, if you’ll pardon the pun, trying it on. That top was my favourite – the most unique and flattering item in my wardrobe. I’d found it at an antiques market a year
earlier and had bargained the stallholder down until I could just about afford it (it had cleaned out my Saturday job savings). It was made from the softest silk, with jet beading on the halter
part and, because of the way it was cut – I think they call it ‘on the bias’ – it made my waist look tiny.

Emily could have asked to borrow any other piece of clothing and I would have been more than happy to oblige. But not that top. And not for a sixteenth birthday party. It would inevitably come
back covered in beer (and maybe vomit) and reeking of cigarette smoke. What’s more, the top wouldn’t even suit Emily. It was designed to be worn by a woman with boobs and curves like
me, not one as angular and flat chested as my sister.

‘Of course you can borrow it,’ I said, smiling through gritted teeth. If it meant that much to her, I could give in, just this once. ‘But please be careful with it. And get it
cleaned afterwards.’

‘Thanks, Nay!’ Emily beamed at me, enjoying her little victory. She was well aware that I don’t like being called ‘Nay’, but all her friends shortened each
other’s names and now doing the same to mine had become an unbreakable habit. She walked back over to the bed and made herself comfortable again. ‘So, what are you going to wear to this
gig, then?’

‘God knows. I haven’t given it any thought. Maybe my black halter neck, if,’ I hammered home my point, ‘if it’s still in one piece!’

‘Let’s face it, Nay. If he liked you in your work gear he’s gonna be pleasantly surprised whatever you wear next time.’