Loving Danny (4 page)

I hadn’t got much work done that day. I’d daydreamed my way through the filing and the photocopying, barely saying a word to anyone. I had left the office the moment I could, running
for the bus and cursing every time it stopped at the traffic lights or stayed too long at a stop. I knew I only had half an hour to get changed, do my make-up and rush out again.

Fortunately, I had laid out my chosen outfit on my bed that morning. It had taken me the whole of the previous evening to decide what to wear. I’d modelled every garment in my wardrobe for
Emily, calling her in and out of my room until she was so frustrated that she would have endorsed an orange shellsuit. It seemed as if everything I possessed was either too tight, too baggy, too
warm or too revealing for the gig. My halter neck looked too dressy, jeans and a T-shirt too casual. We’d settled on black jeans and a green camisole top, with a black cotton cardigan to hide
my chubby arms. Of course, it still didn’t feel right, but it would have to do.

Hanging round outside the bunker, Emily was bored. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes from her bag and lit one up. She expected me to looked shocked and say, ‘I didn’t know you
smoked!’ I think that’s half the reason she did it – to provoke a reaction. Instead, I called her bluff and asked if I could have one too.

‘I thought you had given up, Nay,’ she said, annoyed that she had failed in her attempt to impress.

‘Yes, I have, sort of. But I need something to do to try and calm my nerves,’ I replied. ‘And it’s bloody freezing out here. I smiled, patting her arm. ‘Don’t
worry, I’ll buy you some more later.’

She beamed. I wasn’t going to tell on her. We were becoming allies, friends even.

In the end, it had been surprisingly easy to persuade my parents to allow Emily to come with me. I’d cornered Mum when Dad wasn’t around, knowing that she’d approve of any
outing involving music. The conversation had gone something like this:

Me, in my sweetest tone:
‘Mum, I really fancy hearing some music and a band I like is playing on Thursday night.’

Mum, falling for it:
‘That’s a lovely idea, Naomi. What’s the band called?’

Me, worried that she might invite herself along:
‘You wouldn’t have heard of them. They’re new.’

Mum, disappointed:
‘Oh. Are you going with some friends from work?’

Me, looking mournful:
‘No, it’s not really their scene. Could Emily come with me? I’ll make sure she does her homework first and we won’t be late.’

Mum, looking pleased:
‘It’s nice that the two of you want to spend some time together. I’m sure it’ll be OK with your dad.’

See? Easy. Emily hadn’t done her homework, but we’d worry about that another day.

Three cigarettes later, at quarter to eight, somebody finally unlocked the doors to The Bunker. We loitered a little longer, so as not to appear too eager, then made our way
down the stairs. A guy with greasy blond hair was manning the front desk, a makeshift table which blocked the way to the bar. Obviously worried about the night’s takings, he looked happy to
see us.

‘We’re on the guest list,’ said Emily brightly.

‘Name?’ asked the blond guy.

‘Naomi,’ I said, pushing myself in front of Emily. I wasn’t sure if she was too young to be there and I didn’t want her drawing attention to herself. ‘Plus one.
Danny said he’d put us down.’

‘Danny Evans?’

I had no more idea what Danny’s surname was than what band he was in. ‘Um, yes,’ I muttered, hoping I’d got the right Danny.

The blond guy picked up a biro and scrolled his way down the typed list in front of him. Then he scrolled back up again. For a moment I feared humiliation. Had Danny forgotten about me? Was I
supposed to have rung him to say I was coming?

‘Ah, yes. You must be “the lovely Naomi”,’ he said, smirking, as he turned the sheet of paper around so that I could see it too. There, in black type, were the words
the lovely Naomi.
A burning wave of crimson spread upwards from my neck, to my cheeks and to my ears.

‘How cheesy,’ tutted Emily, under her breath.
Or cheeky
, I thought to myself, secretly delighted that Danny thought me ‘lovely’ and didn’t care who knew it.
There’s a fine line.

‘Um, thanks,’ I spluttered to the guy on the desk, glad it was so dark in there. I tried to push my way past the table.

‘Hang on, I need to stamp you!’ The blond guy smiled again, this time more kindly. He grabbed my hand, clumsily, and impressed it with an inked rubber stamp. Now the word
Bunker
was indelibly printed across my knuckles. I knew it would take at least three days of scrubbing to wash it off.

‘The Wonderfulls won’t be on till about ten,’ he said. ‘Go and get yourselves a drink.’

The bar was empty, so for once I didn’t have to jump up and down to attract attention. Barmen never notice me; I grow bored of waiting to be served, lose eye contact and end up
people-watching instead. I bought myself a glass of white wine and a Diet Coke for Emily. When I gave it to her she looked dismissive, but she didn’t say anything. We could both tell that the
barman had seen beneath the layers of make-up that she’d so expertly applied and clocked that she was underage.

As we sipped our drinks the bar slowly filled up. There were lots of overweight, balding, middle-aged men with ponytails and tattoos, several skinheads and a big group of indie kids with hennaed
hair and second-hand leather jackets – the sort of odd mix of people that could only ever come together in one place on a ‘new band’ night.

‘I haven’t seen this many ponytails since the
Horse of the Year show
,’ I joked.

To amuse ourselves, we played ‘spot the fan’, using my crumpled flyer to try to match the people in the bar to the band names. We decided that the ponytails followed Billy Franklin
and the Hot Press, the skinheads were there for Collateral Damage, and the indie kids either The Wonderfulls or Dandelion. As for the poor Ring Pulls, we concluded that their fans must have
deserted them.

By the time the first band came on and we were ushered next door to the room with the stage, I felt much more relaxed. It had a little to do with the wine, of course, but it was nice to be out,
and Emily was actually quite good company. Every time I started fretting about Danny, she’d wink and refer to me as ‘the lovely Naomi’, making me crack up. She was also better
than me at dissuading guys from joining us at our table. She’d just give them a withering look and they’d be off.

Once the music started, however, the evening went downhill. The Ring Pulls were dreadful – their entire set sounded as if each member of the band was playing a different song,
simultaneously. When Collateral Damage came on – a thrash metal outfit whose shaved heads matched their fans’ – we had to flee for the safety of the bar, or risk losing our
hearing for ever. We didn’t even bother to go back in for Billy Franklin and the Hot Press.

‘Maybe this was a bad idea,’ I said. I was beginning to feel anxious again. I also half feared that The Wonderfulls might be as bad as the other groups. ‘I’m ready to go,
if you are.’

‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ said Emily. ‘You’ve chewed my ear off about Danny for the past week, made me stand outside like an idiot, sit through two hours of
hell, and now, a few minutes before he comes on stage, you want to leave. No way. Even if you don’t want to stay to see Danny, I most certainly do.’

‘Wow, that told me,’ I conceded. ‘OK, we’ll stay. But don’t blame me if The Wonderfulls are, er, terrible.’

Part of me – the cowardly part – actually wanted Danny’s band to be an embarrassment. That way, Emily and I could leave halfway through his set and I wouldn’t have to
face him afterwards. I could delete his name from my phone, tear up his flyer and forget I’d ever bumped into him. Life would continue as normal. Normal and uncomplicated.

In truth, I feared Danny would be disappointed. I was afraid that the reality of me would not live up to his memory of me, just as I feared that the image of Danny, which I had stored in my mind
since our meeting, had been enhanced by hope and expectation. I suppose it’s not really possible to be nostalgic about something that has not yet happened. But that’s the closest I can
get to describing how I felt.

There was a sudden exodus of indie kids from the bar. ‘Come on, then,’ Emily said, dragging me up from my seat. ‘It’s show time!’

‘Don’t make me stand near the front, please, Em,’ I begged. I needn’t have worried – we couldn’t get near the stage.
I
might never have heard of The
Wonderfulls before, but they appeared to have collected a large and loyal following. I felt a stab of jealousy when I realised that most of the fans were girls.

The lights dimmed and four male silhouettes appeared on the stage. The crowd whooped. There was a drummer, a keyboard player, a bass guitarist and a lead guitarist. For a second, I was confused:
neither of the guitarists resembled Danny. Had he cut his hair? Was he shorter than I remembered? Then, as a spotlight hit the stage, a lone figure walked out to the front, a guitar slung over his
shoulder, and took his place at the microphone. The crowd whooped again, louder this time. There could be no mistake: Danny was standing before me.

Emily nudged me. ‘Is that him?’ she mouthed above the cheering. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

My stomach was in knots, but I couldn’t help grinning. ‘Yes, that’s him.’

Emily poked me in the ribs, as if to signal her approval and, perhaps, her surprise that someone so good-looking and charismatic might be interested in her older sister. I could barely believe
it myself.

I had been carrying a single, blurry picture of Danny around in my mind ever since we’d met on the bus – a snapshot of a cute but slightly scruffy guy. Looking up at him on the stage
gave me a whole new perspective. His legs were longer than I recalled, and his jaw squarer. Perhaps it was the well-cut, striped suit jacket that he was wearing over his T-shirt, but his shoulders
looked broader too. Standing in front of me was a rock star, as unobtainable as the ones in the pictures in my old magazines. Although I fancied Danny even more than I had expected to, he had
become a total stranger again and it unnerved me.

Watching Danny perform, it was clear that he was in his element. He commanded the stage, moving from one side to the other with an effortless grace. It was his territory; the bands that had
played earlier were merely his warm-up. Each time the crowd roared his eyes lit up. He knew he had every one of us – men and women alike – eating out of the palm of his hand. And the
knowledge empowered him. He was no longer six feet tall – he was a giant, as high and wide as the room itself. I’d never really understood what stage presence meant until I watched
Danny that night.

His voice, too, was a revelation. Nothing like the low drawl of his speaking voice, it was strong and raw and rich, with a haunting lilt. He sang effortlessly, soaring between the high and low
notes, never running out of breath even when he flung his body about the stage. His voice was an untrained tenor, a rock voice – the type my mother would have loved to mould and shape –
but, to my ears, all the better for its crudeness. I couldn’t make out all the lyrics, but the songs were dark – full of allusions to love, death and loss. Most began gently, with a
melodic keyboard or guitar riff, building up into a fantastic frenzy of thrashing guitars and crashing drums.

And all the while, I felt as if Danny was singing only to me. I knew it wasn’t rational – the lights were out and I was in the middle of a packed crowd, squashed up to Emily on one
side, my face pressed into a stranger’s back – but wherever he stood on the stage he seemed to be looking directly into my eyes. No one else existed.

The Wonderfulls’ set lasted forty-five minutes. Usually when I see a band I don’t know, I start fidgeting and checking my watch, hoping every song is the last. When you don’t
recognise any of the songs, they all tend to blend into one. But I was so mesmerised by Danny that when he said, ‘This is our final song,’ and his loyal fans cheered at the opening
chords, I actually felt a tinge of disappointment.

When the last cheers had died down and The Wonderfulls had disappeared backstage, the lights came on and Emily said, ‘We’d better get to the bar, then, and talk to Danny.’ For
a few seconds I stood rooted to the spot, unable – and unwilling – to break out of my trance. She nudged me. ‘Come on, that’s what we’re here for.’ I let her
lead me through the remnants of the crowd. She was excited and star-struck, keen to meet Danny and pleased to have a reason to do so.

‘Can we go to the loos first, please, Em?’ I asked, my voice hoarse from shouting over the din. I felt sick with nerves, vulnerable and unattractive. I was sure that my makeup had
run and that my hair was lank and frizzy.

Emily sighed. She could read my mind. ‘OK, but you look great, honestly,’ she said.

As always, there was a queue outside the Ladies. By the time we came out – freshly powdered, our lip-gloss reapplied – the bar was starting to clear out for the final act. The coward
in me prayed that Danny had already left, but I saw him at once, standing in the far corner with a bottle of beer in his hand. He was surrounded by a group of girls, each one prettier than the
last. One of them was standing tight up against him and he was smiling at her, nodding his head and occasionally laughing. Another girl, dark and petite, rushed up to him and kissed him on both
cheeks. Someone else tugged playfully at his T-shirt.

I hung back, waiting for my moment, ignoring Emily’s nudges.

‘You’re going to miss your chance. What are you playing at?’ she moaned. I was irritated, as much with myself as with Emily. I knew I didn’t have the courage to walk up
to Danny and say hello, and I felt stupid standing there without a drink, exposed. But my feet were glued to the floor, my mouth so dry that my lips were sticking to my teeth.

‘I’m sorry Emily, but I just can’t do this,’ I said finally. The rest of The Wonderfulls had joined Danny’s party and he was now engrossed in conversation with the
bass player.