Loving Danny (12 page)

As Danny had promised, I became a regular at The Wonderfulls’ gigs. They played various pubs and venues around North London and always got good write-ups in the local
press. The groupies no longer worried me. As soon as Danny came off stage we’d disappear out of the back door together, leaving his gaggle of girl fans waiting, disappointed, in the bar.

Danny asked if I would help with The Wonderfulls’ website, which featured photos, lyrics, snatches of songs to download and upcoming gig dates. I enjoyed typing in reviews and adding new
pictures. I’d always liked taking photos and I became the group’s unofficial photographer, snapping away at gigs and making everyone pose for portraits and group shots backstage. I kept
the best portrait of Danny for myself, framing it and putting it on my bedside table so I could see him as soon as I woke up. Unlike the other pictures, which showed Danny in rock-star guise,
pouting and preening for the camera, I felt that this photo captured ‘my’ Danny. In it he was looking away to the side, his eyes focused on a distant point and his lips slightly parted,
as if he was about to speak. He said he didn’t like the photo, but he would never explain why.

I was also invited to rehearsals, which usually took place at Danny’s flat on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings. The other band members seemed to like me – or at least tolerate me
– and I grew fond of Mike, the keyboard player, who always took the trouble to find out how I was and what I’d been doing. I wasn’t so sure about the others. The drummer, Pete,
was withdrawn and hard to talk to; the bass guitarist, Dylan, was a pot-head who didn’t seem capable of intelligent conversation; and Andy, the lead guitarist, had been at school with Danny,
and just seemed arrogant. I didn’t like the way he tried to alter Danny’s songs, imprinting them with his own arrangements and ideas, not because it improved them, but just so that he
could make his mark.

I was always careful not to get in the way or to give my opinion when it wasn’t wanted. Often, I’d make my excuses and go and sit in Danny’s bedroom to watch TV or read. But
Danny said he liked having me there; he called me his muse. The word filled me with pride. I had always looked at paintings in galleries and wondered about the artists’ muses, their faces
captured for all eternity. I didn’t have the talent or the confidence then to create anything valuable myself, so being somebody else’s inspiration seemed to me almost as great an
accomplishment as being the artist.

From what I could see, The Wonderfulls didn’t get much playing done at rehearsals. They’d sit around smoking and drinking, talking about other bands and football. I knew it
wasn’t my place to say anything, but I couldn’t understand why I was the only person who seemed concerned. In a couple of weeks, they would be watched by an A & R guy, who had it in
his power to give them a record contract. They might not have another chance. But what did I know?

L
ate one Wednesday night, when I’d arrived home from rehearsals at Danny’s and I was getting ready to go to bed, my mobile rang. I knew
it couldn’t be Danny because it wasn’t his ring (a tinny version of a Nirvana track which I’d downloaded from the Internet), and I thought about letting it go straight to my
message box. The number didn’t look familiar and I couldn’t imagine who might be calling me so late. But although I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone, curiosity got the
better of me and I picked up.

It was Debbie. We’d spoken several times over the Christmas holidays, but she’d gone away with her family and we hadn’t managed to see each other. Since she’d returned to
university we’d fallen back into a pattern of irregular communication.

‘Hi, Naomi,’ she said. Her voice was quiet and she sounded anxious.

‘Deb?’ I said. ‘Are you OK? I didn’t recognise your number.’

‘I’m using Sam’s phone,’ she said. I could tell she was on the brink of tears. ‘I got mugged.’

‘Oh no, that’s awful! Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I guess. I was just going into a club and I saw this guy coming towards me and he grabbed my bag and shoved me really hard. It all happened so fast I couldn’t even
scream.’

‘Are you OK?’ I asked again. We’d hardly spoken in weeks and even though I felt sorry for her I was very aware of the distance between us. I wanted to hug her, but she was in a
different city so I couldn’t. I couldn’t even picture where she was or whom she was with, and I didn’t know what to say to make her feel better.

‘My bag had all my stuff in it – my mobile, keys, ID, all my cash . . .’

‘What a nightmare. Have you told the police?’

‘Yes, and I’ve cancelled my cards. I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to hear a friendly voice. You don’t mind me calling, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ I said, emphatically. I was pleased it was me she’d chosen to call.

‘I think I’m going to come home at the weekend. I’m feeling a bit homesick. It would be really nice to see you.’

‘Yes,’ I said, recalling the plans I’d made with Danny for the weekend. He didn’t have a gig and we were supposed to be driving down to Brighton to meet some friends of
his. But I couldn’t let Debbie down – and I did want to see her. Brighton would keep. ‘Yes, it would be nice to see you too.’

‘Maybe I could stay over on Saturday?’ she asked tentatively. ‘It would be like old times. We could get a DVD or something.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘That’s great,’ she said, sounding more cheerful. ‘I’m looking forward to it. I’ll give you a call when I get home on Friday.’

After we’d said our goodbyes I went to my wardrobe and took out my old photograph albums, which I stored on the top shelf behind my jumpers. I wanted to remind myself of the good times
I’d shared with Debbie – the joint birthday parties and sleepovers and holidays abroad with her parents or mine. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t known her.
We’d met on the first day of primary school and had become firm friends at once, hugging each other and declaring proudly that we were ‘best friends’, in the possessive way that
little girls do. Other friends had come and gone, groups had formed and splintered, but Debbie and I had remained solid, protecting one another from the bitching and the name-calling. She was the
first person I told when I’d started my period; she’d bought me my first lip-gloss; we’d both enjoyed our first snogs during a game of spin the bottle at her thirteenth birthday
party.

And here, in the tattered albums, was the documentary evidence of our friendship. There we were, at seven, standing in a playground somewhere, our arms wrapped around each other, grinning
broadly. And there at fourteen, in crop tops and hipster jeans (which did nothing for either of us), with badly applied make-up and terrible hair. Here I was, last year, sitting on a beach in
Greece in a bikini, my arms folded protectively over my belly, while Debbie stood next to me in a T-shirt because she’d sunburned her shoulders the day before.

Thumbing through the pages made me grin and cringe in equal measures, as I witnessed my transformation from a sweet-looking, freckle-faced child to an awkward and self-conscious teenager. It was
like viewing one of those computer programmes the police use to show what a toddler who’d disappeared ten years before might look like now. My face had visibly thinned and lengthened over the
years, while my nose and chin had become more prominent. My hair, which had been through a remarkable range of styles, had darkened and curled, and my body had filled out. Debbie had changed too.
She had always been thin and flat-chested, but in the past few years she’d become less of a tomboy, growing her hair and wearing skirts, and replacing her glasses with contact lenses. She
said I was the pretty one, but I could never see it. I envied her long legs and flat tummy, the fact that her hair didn’t frizz in the rain and that she never got zits. I wondered if
she’d look different after a few of months away at university. It made me sad to think that now she would have new photographs in which I didn’t feature, her arms around people I
didn’t recognise.

It niggled me that Debbie was only coming home because she’d been mugged. But maybe having something horrible happen to her had made her realise how much she missed me, that her real
friends were the people she’d known for years. Maybe things would be just like they used to be. I looked forward to spending time with her, to staying up into the early hours and chatting
until one of us fell asleep. Best of all, Danny would finally meet her and the three of us could hang out together, like a perfect triangle made up of the most important people in my life.

For the first time in months I went to sleep thinking not of Danny, but of Debbie. I dreamed that we were at her house, playing hide-and-seek. We’d locked ourselves into her bedroom and
were cowering together behind her bed. Somebody – a faceless man with dark hair – was banging on the door, trying to get in. As he forced his way into the room, I woke up.

The following evening Danny and I went out for a curry. I kept meaning to tell him Debbie was coming home at the weekend, but the time never seemed right. He was in a
particularly sweet and silly mood and I didn’t want to spoil it. What do you do, interrupt a funny story to say, ‘That’s hysterical, Danny, and by the way, I can’t go to
Brighton’? Of course I knew even then that it was just an excuse. The truth was, I knew he’d be angry and I didn’t want a fight. I’ve never been very good at arguing –
I end up getting upset, then crying, which usually makes the other person feel even more frustrated.

So, it wasn’t until later, when we were sitting in his car outside my house that I mentioned it.

‘You know we were going to go to Brighton on Saturday?’ I asked nervously. ‘Well, would it be OK if we did it another weekend?’

‘Why?’ he said, smirking. ‘You aren’t shy about meeting my mates, are you?’

‘No,’ I said, laughing, although there was some truth in it. ‘Actually, it’s because of one of
my
mates. You know my best friend, Debbie? Well, she’s coming
home for the weekend.’

‘I see,’ he said, clearly irritated. ‘And you want to see her instead?’

‘No, not instead. I want you to come out with us too. But I do really want to spend some time with her.’

‘But Brighton’s all arranged. Can’t you see her another weekend?’

‘No, she’s upset. She had her bag nicked. Look, I couldn’t really say no.’

‘You never can,’ he muttered.

The comment was like a knife in my belly. Was that how he really saw me – weak and pliable? Or was he just trying to goad me?

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing.’ He wasn’t looking at me. ‘Just that you’ve done nothing but bitch about her ever since you’ve known me and now you want to drop everything for her
when she snaps her fingers. I thought you were stronger than that.’

‘It’s not like that, Danny,’ I said, my voice beginning to break. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Danny and I had never before exchanged a cross word, but now I was
receiving the icy treatment I had feared. He wouldn’t even touch me. When I tried to put my hand on his arm he flinched and brushed it away. ‘I was pissed off with her because she
didn’t seem to care as much as she used to. I was scared I was losing her. Now, she wants to come home and maybe if we spend some time together things will be how they were.’

‘No, she wants to come home because she’s a silly girl who didn’t keep her eye on her bag and feels homesick.’

Hearing Danny echo my own niggling doubts made me feel defensive. ‘That’s not fair. You don’t even know her. She’s lovely. You’ll see.’

‘I’m not sure I can be arsed,’ he stated harshly.

‘What do you mean?’ It was so important to me that Danny and Debbie got on. I was trying hard to stay cool, not to let myself cry. I felt shocked and angry and self-protective at the
same time and I didn’t know what to do with all those emotions.

‘I mean I don’t see the point of hanging round with you and your so-called best mate when I could be in Brighton having a great time.’

‘Don’t you want to meet my friends? I’ve met yours. I spend loads of time with the band.’

‘That’s different,’ he snapped. ‘And you know it. I do want to meet your friends, some time, but not when it means I have to cancel something we were both looking forward
to.’

At last, he turned to look at me. Noticing that a fat tear was beginning to roll down my cheek, he softened. ‘I’m sorry, Omi,’ he said, wiping it away with his hand. ‘I
didn’t mean to upset you.’

It wasn’t enough. The worry that he wasn’t really interested in my friends had troubled me for many weeks. I made a point of turning my head away from him.

‘But you have upset me,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about Saturday, but Brighton’s not about to fall into the sea – we can go another time. I just feel that you
don’t care about my friends. I know nobody’s around at the moment and I must seem like Billy No-mates, but my friends are important to me and when they’re here I want to see them.
They’re part of me. If you don’t meet my friends, how can you really know me?’

Now
he
was upset. ‘How can you say that? I know you better than anyone. I know everything about you and you know everything about me. I don’t need to meet Debbie to know
that.’