Loving Danny (20 page)

A few years later, she met David Waterman, the man who turned out to be her real white knight. He wasn’t as passionate or exciting, but he was kind, hard-working and stable and all he
wanted was to make Martha happy. Slowly, she let go of her feelings for Dominic and fell in love with David. Eventually, she married him, bore him two children and now, as everyone knows, they are
living happily ever after.

When Mum had finished telling me her story she looked at the photograph again, smiled sadly, and then put it away in the box.

‘Do you see, Naomi? Do you see?’ she asked. ‘I thought Dominic was the only man for me, but in the end he didn’t make me happy. If I hadn’t met him I could have
achieved so much more . . .’ She paused, sighing deeply. ‘And, even if things with Dominic had worked out, then I wouldn’t have met your dad and I’d never have had you and
Emily.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened to you, but what has this got to do with me and Danny?’ I asked. I wasn’t stupid; I knew exactly why she had told me her cautionary tale,
and that she wanted me to understand that she had once been young and idealistic, just like me – but I wasn’t ready to accept it. So I played dumb.

‘Oh, Naomi, can’t you see? I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.’

‘I’m me,’ I said. ‘And Danny’s Danny. He’s not Dominic. Just because you had a bad experience doesn’t mean I will. I love Danny and I know he loves
me.’

I may have sounded confident, but it was just an act. Underneath, I was a quivering wreck, desperate to tell her how worried I was about Danny, that he hurt himself and that I didn’t know
how to help him. I wanted to admit that being with him was no picnic, and that she might even be right about him. But I couldn’t. I’d promised to keep Danny’s secret. How could I
betray him now? How could I let him down when he needed me most? I needed to be strong, for both of us.

‘I know what I’m doing, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m old enough to live my own life.’ I almost added, ‘and make my own mistakes,’ but I didn’t want to
contemplate that possibility.

‘You’re right,’ said Mum. ‘You’re old enough to make your own decisions. But please think about what I’ve said. Take your time, but think about it.’

‘All right,’ I agreed. I owed her that, at least. ‘I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.’

I
thought about what Mum had told me all the way back to Danny’s. Her account really did seem like a fable or a fairy tale to me – a
story with a moral, about someone I had never known. It was ironic, really. I had gone home to see Mum because I needed security and familiarity, and instead, I had found out that there was so much
about her that I didn’t know, that I only knew a little bit of her. She had lived a whole, other life in which Dad, Emily and I had played no part. Mum looked the same, spoke in the same
voice, smelled of the same rose-tinged perfume, yet she had somehow changed. It unnerved me to realise that even the people you are closest to have secrets – memories, thoughts and dreams
that they keep locked away from the world. It made me wonder if it was ever possible to know anyone completely. Even Danny. Could there be more secrets to uncover? The idea made me shudder.

Thinking about Mum loving anyone other than Dad made me feel uncomfortable too, as though I was being unfaithful to him. How horrible for Dad, I thought, that much as Mum loved him, she could
describe somebody else as ‘the one’, that he was, unwittingly, second best. It made me realise, however, that what I had with Danny was unique to us. Mum had made herself get over
Dominic, but her feelings for him hadn’t vanished, they were and always would be tucked away at the back of her mind. Soulmates don’t come along very often – once in a lifetime,
if you’re lucky. And only one person can ever be your ‘first love’. If, as my parents wanted, I left Danny, I might never find love like this again. Mum hadn’t –
she’d admitted as much.

Mum had told me about her past because she wanted me to finish with Danny. I’m sure she hadn’t anticipated that her revelations might backfire on her. Yet, backfire they did. By the
time I reached Danny’s front door I had convinced myself that, whatever his problems, I wanted to be with him, to help him. Our love was strong enough to overcome anything, I told myself.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime relationship and I had to give it my all. I was only eighteen, there was no way I was ready to give up on him – on love – and settle for second best.

Whenever I pictured Danny in my mind’s eye I saw him as he was on stage, at my first Wonderfulls gig: tall and powerful and unfeasibly handsome. As I made my way back to
his flat, I imagined that this was the Danny who would be waiting for me there. I would let myself in and then run straight into his arms, so I could tell him how much I loved him, how lucky I was
to have him. Everything would be perfect again – of that I had no doubt.

But when I went into the living room and saw him – for real – all my hope and excitement drained away. He was lying on the sofa watching a kid’s cartoon. He hadn’t shaved
or got dressed and his breakfast plate was still on the floor, where he’d left it. There was no sign that he’d done any songwriting; his guitar was in its case, leaning against the
wall, just as it had been when I’d gone out. My pleasant fantasy melted into a pool of disappointment and, for a brief moment, I actually hated him.

‘What have you been doing?’ I asked, irritated.

‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ he said. He stretched out on the sofa. ‘How was your mum?’

‘She was good,’ I snapped. I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Are you going to get dressed today?’

He looked daggers at me. ‘Where did that come from? Did your mum tell you to say that?’

I ignored him. ‘It’s after three, Danny. We could do something if you got dressed.’

‘I don’t feel like doing anything.’

‘Maybe that’s why you’re so miserable. How can I help you if you won’t let me?’

‘I’m not miserable,’ he barked. ‘I’m perfectly happy sitting here. You’re the one with the problem.’

‘I’m going to lie down,’ I said. I didn’t want another argument. ‘I’ll see you later.’

I can honestly say that I have never been so confused in my life. My brain literally ached with it all. I absolutely, totally and utterly loved Danny. I loved his intelligence and his talent and
his wit. I loved the way he looked. I loved talking to him, hearing him play and sing. I loved being in his arms, the way he made me feel. But maybe I wasn’t in love with the real Danny.
Maybe
this
was the real Danny: this lazy, depressive, aimless person, who hurt himself. Could I love this Danny? And if I couldn’t, did that mean I didn’t
really
love him
after all? Did that make me selfish or shallow? Or was this just a phase, something that he would get over – something that I could help him through?

I needed somebody to talk to, somebody who could help and advise me. But who? Danny’s mum plainly wasn’t interested in her son and my parents had made their feelings clear. My
friends weren’t around (this wasn’t something I wanted to talk about in a snatched phone conversation or by e-mail) and, anyway, I wasn’t sure that Debbie, or anyone else, would
understand. Emily wouldn’t get it – she’d just think Danny was weird. As for Danny’s friends, I didn’t know any of them well enough to confide in. But even if there
had been someone I could talk to, I had promised Danny that I wouldn’t betray his confidence.

So there it was: I was utterly alone. There was only one person whom I felt was there for me completely, and that was Danny. But
he
was the problem. My brain whirred round and round and
round, tangling my thoughts and feelings like a ball of wire wool, slicing deep into every nerve and every axon. Thinking was agonising, tortuous. Was this, I wondered, how Danny felt when he cut
himself? I was beginning to see how physical pain might be preferable to mental torment. Perhaps it would work for me too. Perhaps if I experienced what he experienced everything would become
clear.

I opened my overnight bag and took out my nail scissors, pulling them apart so that I could find the sharpest side. Then, clenching my teeth, I held out my hand and ran the cold metal along my
knuckles. I felt nothing but a sharp scratch; the scissors were too blunt to break the skin.

What are you doing, Naomi?

It was the first clear thought I’d had all day. I realised that my forehead was clammy and my limbs shaky – my body had begun to shut down, preparing itself for pain, for injury. I
never had been able to deal with the sight of my own blood; if the scissors had done their nasty job I would have passed out. I took a deep breath.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Hurting myself
wasn’t going to help Danny and it certainly wouldn’t help me. What I needed was space – time and space to think things through properly.

I went back downstairs. Danny was still sitting where I’d left him. He looked up at me, hopefully. ‘Have you calmed down now?’ he asked. ‘Look, I’ll get myself
together and then we can go out somewhere, OK?’

‘I don’t think so, Danny,’ I said. I swallowed hard, summoning my courage. I was aware that what I was about to say defied almost every instinct I possessed. ‘I think I
should go home, just for a week or so, to get my head sorted.’

He looked as if I’d kicked him in the stomach. ‘What? You’re leaving me?’

‘No, just moving home for a bit. I still love you, Danny. But I’m so confused.’

‘Love?’ He pronounced it like the lash of a whip. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

If he had intended to inspire guilt, it worked. He couldn’t possibly have known how much that comment hurt me. The only thing I did know, clearly and unquestionably, was that I loved him.
‘Please understand. I just need some time.’

I walked over to him and put my arms around his neck. I thought he was going to cry, but then his face hardened.

‘Just go, Naomi,’ he said, pushing me away. ‘Go now.’

I
had no contact with Danny for three long weeks. Which was, I calculated, a total of twenty one days; five hundred and four hours; thirty
thousand, two hundred and forty minutes; or one million, eight hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred seconds. I was painfully aware that each moment that passed was another moment without
him. And yet, conversely, time also stood still. I barely noticed that the days slipped into weeks because I was at a standstill, living the same empty day again and again, endlessly thinking the
same thoughts and feeling the same contradictory emotions.

Three weeks of thinking left me no less muddled, no closer to finding the answers I needed. And three weeks alone did nothing to dull my feelings for Danny or to dispel the sense that, without
him, I was lost, incomplete. I didn’t want to experience anything new if he couldn’t share it with me. Hearing a funny joke or reading an interesting story no longer gave me pleasure,
because Danny wasn’t there to enjoy it too. I’d often catch myself thinking,
I must show Danny that
, or,
Danny would love this
, and then I’d feel bereft because I
couldn’t tell him about it. Being apart from Danny was like having an itch beneath my skin that couldn’t be scratched.

He didn’t ring me; I’d asked him not to. That didn’t stop me checking my mobile several times a day, hoping at the very least for a missed call. Sometimes I wondered if he was
not calling because he was trying to punish me or because he didn’t want to talk to me. I’d told him I would call when I was ready, but when would that be? Many times I had to force
myself not to pick up the phone and tell him what a huge mistake I’d made. But until I was sure what I wanted, what was the point?

I wondered how long he would wait for me and worried that while I tried to decide what I wanted, he might make a decision for me. Images of his letter on my doormat after our first argument
haunted me. Would he send another – a more cruelly worded one that couldn’t be disregarded? Every morning, when I went downstairs, I had to steel myself in case a white envelope had
appeared unnoticed while I slept. I knew that, this time, telling him I loved him wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t believe it, because he thought I had left him.