Loving Danny (22 page)

‘Oh, stop blubbing.’ I’d had no idea I could be so cold, but I couldn’t stop, couldn’t help myself. ‘Did you flirt with him? Did you want to look cool in
front of all your friends? Did you?’

‘No, Nay, I swear. It wasn’t like that. We were just talking – about you, actually – and he looked so sad and I gave him a hug, and it just happened. I didn’t plan
it, honest.’

I’d seen the way Emily had looked at Danny, the way her friends looked at him. I thought,
She must have loved the attention – a gorgeous, older guy, wanting to talk to her, to
kiss her. She lapped it up, didn’t she?

I said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ But even as I said it, I knew I didn’t really mean it. I was thinking more clearly now. Blaming Emily was so much easier than allowing
myself to blame Danny, shouting at her far less scary than the prospect of confronting him.

‘You’ve got it all wrong. I was telling him you still loved him and that I thought you should get back together. I told him I thought he was great for you and that you’d work
it out.’

‘And so he kissed you? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. But I stopped him straight away – I promise. I told him it was wrong and that it shouldn’t have happened.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘I can’t really remember. He said not to tell you. I went to the loo with Katy and when we came back he’d just gone.’

‘How convenient.’

Then a thought struck me. ‘Were you going to tell me about this? If I hadn’t shown you the website, would you have told me?’

‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ she hiccoughed. ‘I hadn’t thought it through yet.’

‘I wish you’d never told me,’ I said, remembering how happy I had been just a few minutes earlier. Now everything was more messed up than ever.

‘Really? You’d rather I’d lied?’

‘No. No. I just wish none of it had happened. I can’t deal with this, any of it.’

She tried to hug me, but I was still too angry with her. ‘Leave me alone, Emily,’ I said. ‘I need to talk to Danny.’

‘Please don’t hate me, Nay,’ she whispered as she left the room. ‘Please.’

I don’t hate you
, I thought. But I was too pig-headed to say it.

I went straight round to Danny’s, before I could change my mind or start to rationalise what Emily had told me. I wanted to surprise him, to hear what he had to say
before he could invent an explanation. Most of all, I wanted to see him again. It’s stupid, I know, but I had the feeling that, somehow, everything could still be all right, that this could
all go away.

I let myself into his flat, leaving the door on the latch so he wouldn’t be alerted to my arrival. Hearing music playing in the living room, I went into his bedroom and sat on his bed,
knowing that he would come in eventually. I was annoyed that I hadn’t thought to redo my make-up before I left the house – I didn’t want Danny to know what a mess I was inside. It
was written all over my face in tear-streaked mascara.

I didn’t have to wait long before Danny sauntered in, humming to himself. My heart leapt – in spite of myself, I fancied him as much as ever. It took a moment before he saw me, and
then he jumped back on himself, his mouth falling open with surprise.

‘Omi! Oh my God! What are you doing here?’

‘Hello, Danny,’ I smiled. I felt strangely calm.

He looked at me, confused, unnerved. I knew he was wondering if I had come because of his message or because Emily had told me what happened. He was trying to work out why I had hidden myself in
his room, rather than call or text him to say I wanted to see him. My smile revealed nothing.

‘Omi, it’s so good to see you,’ he said, rushing over to me. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ I felt the sensation of his mouth on mine and I couldn’t help
but kiss him back. It was familiar and comfortable and yet new and exciting, all at the same time. God, I had missed his kisses.

Don’t forget why you’re here, Naomi
, I told myself.

I pulled away. ‘Missed me? Not that much,’ I said cryptically.

He knew, then, that I knew. His voice rose by an octave. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why don’t you tell me what happened at the party last night? Or should I call Emily and get her to come round here.’

‘What’s she been saying?’

‘Don’t play dumb. She told me what happened. She said you kissed her. Why did you do it, Danny?’

‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘She’s lying.’

‘She’s my sister. Why would she say it if it wasn’t true? She wouldn’t lie to me.’

‘No? Never? And I would?’

How would you prefer to die, Naomi, by hanging or the electric chair?
It’s weird how your brain summons up long-buried memories at times of crisis. It was a game
I’d played as a child, with the little boy who lived next door: decide which was the worse of two evils.

I don’t want to die at all.

But you have to, Naomi.

Who did I want to be the liar: my only sister or the love of my life?

I’ll take the forfeit.

Danny was right – Emily had lied to me before. She had lied about borrowing clothes and make-up and whether she’d stolen chocolate from the newsagent. Could she be playing some kind
of sick game to make me finish with Danny?

It didn’t make sense. Emily had nothing to gain by telling me about Danny’s kiss – and everything to lose. I’d seen how painful recounting the kiss had been for her, knew
that she had squeezed out every last, honest detail. But if Emily wasn’t lying, then Danny must be. Hard as it was to admit it, I had known it all along, hadn’t I? Why couldn’t he
simply have confessed and told me how sorry he was? Was his pride more important to him than the risk of losing me?

Danny took my silence to be my answer. He turned his back on me and began pacing the room. ‘I can’t believe you don’t trust me. After everything we’ve been through, you
still don’t trust me.’

‘It’s not as simple as that. I want to trust you, Danny, but I’m so confused.’

I caught up with him, positioning myself between his body and the wall so that he had nowhere to go, so that he had to look at me.

‘It is simple,’ he said, shoving me out of the way and turning sharply, so that he had his back to me once again. ‘Either you love me or you don’t. Either you believe me
or you don’t. Yeah?’

I said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

It was over.

T
hat should have been the end of the story. In many ways, I wish it were. But nothing was ever neat with Danny; there were never any clear
beginnings, middles or ends.

Of course, I didn’t have the benefit of hindsight then. I left Danny’s, certain that our relationship was over. I was broken and empty and exhausted and shattered, and all the other
adjectives that don’t quite express the indescribable pain of leaving someone you love. Most of all, I was terribly, terribly sad. Despite everything that had happened, I still loved Danny
and I didn’t know how I would ever stop. I knew that all I had to do was to go back and tell him that I believed him, and he would take me in his arms and everything would be all right. He
still wanted me and I still wanted him – the fact that we couldn’t be together was illogical. But how could I be with someone whom I didn’t trust, someone who had looked me in the
eye and lied?

I didn’t allow myself to think about his reasons, to wonder whether he hadn’t been able to help himself because he was hurting so much, or because he was on autopilot to
self-destruct. What was the point? It would only cause me more confusion, more pain and more guilt. If he had done it because he was ill, then I had deserted him when he needed me most – and
what sort of a person did that make me?

Somehow, I knew instinctively that the only way I could survive was if I thought of the relationship as dead. And so, when I arrived home, I found myself carrying out my own little mourning
ritual. I got out all my photos of Danny and, one by one, took a last look at each image before putting it away in my bedside drawer. I was saying goodbye to my memories, filing them away in the
past. Danny posing on stage: gone. Danny pulling a silly face: gone. Danny, his arm protectively around my shoulder: gone. Funny how the colours already seemed less vivid, our smiles ghostly. I
could barely remember how I had felt in each captured moment, couldn’t recall what had been said in the instant before the shutter clicked shut and the flash exploded. Even the photos taken
only a month before now appeared years old – a lifetime away. There would be no more gigs, no more hugs, no more kisses; the realisation struck me like a hammer to the chest.

I took my favourite photo of Danny out of its frame and studied it. It felt as if his eyes were following my gaze, his unfathomable expression begging me to reconsider, to help him. ‘Stop
torturing me, Danny,’ I said aloud, but my conscience refused to obey. I kissed his face, before putting the photo away with the others. Then I cried until there were no tears left in me.

Afterwards, I felt numb, empty inside. The fog of emotion had cleared and, at last, I was able to focus, to think logically. I decided to write a list of all the reasons I’d ended the
relationship, to help convince myself that I’d done the right thing.

I couldn’t think of any more. It was enough, wasn’t it?

Then, almost inevitably, I suppose, I found myself composing a list of what was good about Danny.

I read through my lists several times. I had to acknowledge that there were more points in the negative list than in the positive, and that, collectively, the negative points
outweighed the positive. However much I enjoyed kissing Danny, loved hearing him play, laughed at his jokes, these things couldn’t make up for his problems, his lie. It had come down to a
simple mathematical calculation: I couldn’t be with Danny because there were too many obstacles in our way. Following my heart had got me nowhere, so perhaps it was now time to follow my
head.

Finally, I decided to write Danny a goodbye letter. I can’t remember the exact words I used – I don’t have a copy – but it was four pages long and detailed all the points
in both my lists. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, or how he would react, but I had to be honest, to articulate everything I had been unable to say before. It wasn’t fair
not to tell him the truth, was it? So I told him that I loved him, and that I would always love him, but I couldn’t be with him. Maybe, one day, when I had finished university and he had
sorted out his problems, we might try again. I wanted to say, ‘Please wait for me, Danny,’ but I knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask that of him. I signed it,
Forever, Omi.

As I sealed the envelope, I imagined the look on Danny’s face when he read my letter and remembered how desperate I had felt when I’d received his. I wished that I could be there to
hold him and wipe away his tears – the possibility that he might have another – more violent – reaction was too horrible to contemplate. I prayed he wouldn’t hate me; I
couldn’t bear that.