Loving Danny (18 page)

If I let myself ignore the situation with my parents, and the fact that this set-up could only be temporary, I could pretend that this was what it was like to be grown up and living with
someone. Even mundane things, like going to the supermarket with Danny, made me feel closer to him. We’d walk down the aisles, hand in hand, and when other shoppers looked at us I felt proud
because we were ‘a couple’ and everyone knew it.

But for Danny, at least, the novelty of having me around soon wore off. By Wednesday he had already started to lapse into his old routines and I found myself having to fit into them. Danny liked
to spend a lot of time alone, strumming his guitar or reading in silence. I hadn’t realised before how lazy he was; he rarely got up before twelve and he didn’t go out until nightfall
unless he had to. If I tried to wake him early he’d be grumpy and tetchy, so I learned to amuse myself until I knew it was safe to talk to him. I watched hours of morning television, painted
my nails and practised guitar chords on an old acoustic that he had lent me. By the end of the first week, however, the lessons had all but dried up; it appeared that Danny had run out of patience
for teaching me.

I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I was starting to feel bored and, strangely, lonely. I couldn’t help wondering if Danny might be growing tired of me, and each time that
thought crossed my mind I felt sick and panicky. I tried to come up with ways of making him fall in love with me again, dressing up in the clothes he liked best and taking time to do my hair and
make-up. I even wrote myself lists of amusing anecdotes that I knew might make him laugh, so that I could reel them off at a moment’s notice and he’d remember how much fun we had
together.

But for every moment that I feared Danny might have cooled towards me, there was another when his words and actions suggested that he loved me as much as ever. Sometimes, he would gaze into my
eyes and tell me how special I was, how much he needed me. He would start writing a song and tell me that I had inspired it, that having me around was making him more creative than ever. Or
he’d present me with a gift or make me a fabulous meal for no reason at all. His behaviour was so erratic that I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Was I doing or saying
something wrong sometimes to make him cross with me? Could it be something of which I wasn’t even conscious?

If only I had been honest with myself I would have realised that I was not the problem – Danny was. And it wasn’t only me – he no longer seemed to be absorbed by anything for
long. The new demos he had talked about The Wonderfulls making never materialised and very few gigs were lined up. Band rehearsals still took place in his flat, but lately they were more shambolic
than ever. Only half the band would turn up at any one time, so they couldn’t ever get any real playing done. Instead, whoever had made it on that particular night would jam with Danny for a
while, and then they’d get a takeaway and some six-packs of beer and sit around getting stoned until they crashed out.

I felt even more of a spare part than before. I’ve never been the sort of girl who’s ‘one of the lads’ and Danny’s mates made it perfectly clear that I was in the
way. One evening, when I was in the kitchen getting myself a drink, I overheard Andy referring to me as ‘her indoors’ and then laughing. Danny didn’t really defend me, he just
laughed and told Andy I was ‘no trouble’. I was hurt, but I couldn’t show it. Was that what Danny really thought of me? Or was he just being blokey in front of his mates? Too
upset to put on a front, I excused myself and went to bed. And by the next day, it was forgotten. Danny was in such a sweet, affectionate mood that I chose not to say anything.

On an icy Monday afternoon, a week after I’d arrived, I asked Danny if I could borrow his laptop to work on the band’s website. It hadn’t been updated for a while and I was
worried that the fans would begin to lose interest if there wasn’t some new hype for them to talk about. He seemed reluctant to get it for me.

‘Don’t bother, Omi,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing new to put up.’

‘Yeah, but it’s good to change it a bit anyway. I’ve got some pictures I haven’t used.’

‘If you can be arsed.’

‘Danny . . .’ I began, gently, worried about his reaction to the question I was about to ask. ‘Is everything all right with The Wonderfulls? It’s just since the gig,
since you didn’t get signed, you’ve seemed like you don’t really care any more.’

‘Of course I care,’ he replied, turning away from me. I realised that he looked tired, older even, his eyes hollow and his skin blotchy.

‘Yes, but you’re not really playing or rehearsing. You were going to record some demos, get some more interest . . . You haven’t even finished any new songs.’

‘Musician’s block,’ he muttered. ‘It happens.’

‘Maybe I could help?’

He laughed at me. ‘What, with your two chords?’

‘That’s cruel.’ My mouth fell into an involuntary pout. I emphasised it comically so he wouldn’t know how much his comment had hurt me. It was his fault that I
hadn’t progressed with the guitar; he was a poor teacher. Playing came instinctively to Danny – he couldn’t explain things clearly had little patience when I complained that my
fingertips were hurting and he had simply stopped bothering to teach me. I could have said, ‘You’re the one who gives up if things don’t come easy not me.’ But I
didn’t want to fight.

‘Yes, it is cruel,’ he said, smiling apologetically. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Maybe not,’ I continued, feeling the frustrations of the past few days welling up inside me. ‘But I do know that sitting around drinking and getting stoned with your
waste-of-space mates isn’t going to help.’ The instant the words were out, I knew I’d sounded just like my mother.

Danny sneered. ‘Get off your high horse, Naomi. Sometimes you can be so prissy. If you don’t like it, you can get back to your boring friends and oh-so-middle-class parents and your
law firm.’

I flinched. The flip side of knowing someone intimately is that they recognise exactly which buttons to press to hurt you, and Danny had gone too far now. I was no longer prepared to pussyfoot
around him. If he wanted a fight, he could have one. You know what?’ I spat. ‘Maybe I will.’

‘Go on, then. If you don’t want to be here with me, then go.’

He looked me dead in the eye, daring me to get up and walk out. I knew he didn’t think I would actually do it. He expected me to crumble, to apologise and to ask him to hold me and kiss me
until our disagreement was forgotten. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I was angry, and, more to the point, I was in the right. Wasn’t I?

Realising that I’d talked myself into a corner, there was nothing for it but to act on my words. I may not be someone who relishes confrontation, but I’m no walkover. I stood up,
marched to the door, and, without turning back to look at Danny, I opened it and slammed it behind me. Then I grabbed my coat and my gloves and left the flat as quickly as I could. I was panicking
slightly – I didn’t have any idea where I would go; I didn’t have my phone with me, so I couldn’t call anyone, and home certainly wasn’t an option.
My parents would
love it
, I thought,
if I’d turned up, my tail between my legs, with nowhere else to go.
There was no way I wanted to give them that satisfaction.

For about ten minutes or so, I just walked, letting my feet take me wherever they wanted to go. The streets around Danny’s house were unfamiliar and I worried that I might become lost. But
I soon came upon a landmark that I recognised: the gates of the park where Danny and I had spent our second date. It seemed apt that I had found my way to this park, with its happy memories; it was
as though I had been meant to find it.

There were very few people about, just a couple of dog-walkers and some young boys playing football. Walking alone in a wide-open space just a couple of hours before nightfall probably
wasn’t the most sensible idea, but that didn’t occur to me. I felt safe in that park, protected by the same trees and the same grass that had hosted my lovely picnic with Danny only
four months earlier. If I listened carefully I could almost hear our laughter still echoing in the breeze. Everything had been so simple then, before other people – and real life – had
intervened.

I headed for the playground and, ignoring the sign that read
Under-12s Only
, sat down on one of the swings. My eighteen-year-old bottom was too wide for it and the metal joints dug into
my flesh, making me wince. It didn’t seem fair to me that only children were supposed to go on the swings. I had never grown out of it. I still loved the sensation of freedom – flying
through the air, reaching higher and higher with each kick of my legs, my hair flowing behind me and the wind on my face, until I was in danger of going over the top. As soon as I had my own place
with a garden, I decided, I would install a swing – just for me.

As I swung, my anger dissipated. I wondered if Danny would come looking for me. Surely he must have realised that I wouldn’t have gone home and maybe he, too, would be drawn here. I
imagined him coming up behind me and pushing me on the swing, refusing to stop until we were both laughing so much that we had forgotten what we had argued about.

But he didn’t come. After an hour, I decided to return to his flat. In my mind, I knew exactly how the conversation would go: I planned to tell him that I was sorry and that I knew it
wasn’t my place to interfere in The Wonderfulls. Then he would apologise too, tell me he wanted me to stay and we’d kiss and make up. In my eagerness to create a perfect end to a
horrible day, I’d forgotten that conversations never seem to pan out quite the way you’ve planned them.

D
anny’s flat was unexpectedly dark and oddly quiet when I let myself back in. It made me wonder if he had gone out looking for me, but his
car was still in the drive and his favourite leather jacket was hanging from a hook in the hall. I had never known the flat to be silent; Danny always had some sort of music playing – there
was a stereo system or radio in every room bar the toilet. He also had a habit of leaving the light on in each room he entered, so the place was always well lit. I couldn’t put my finger on
it, but there was a peculiar atmosphere in the flat, the darkness as eerie as the silence.

Something – an instinct, a sixth sense perhaps – stopped me from calling out Danny’s name or switching on the lights myself. With my coat still buttoned up, I made my way first
into the kitchen and then into the living room. There was no trace of Danny in either room, no coffee cups, plates or papers providing any evidence of recent activity. He must be in his bedroom, I
thought. But the door was shut tight and I could hear no movement behind it. Had Danny gone to bed? He couldn’t have. It was only a few hours since he had got up. Was he ill? What could he be
doing in there?

I grasped the handle and pushed the door, letting it open a fraction. ‘Danny?’ I said softly. ‘Are you in there?’ There was no response. I peered through the crack,
tentatively pushing the door a little further. In the faint light I could just make out a shape, a human form in front of me on the floor. ‘Danny?’ Again, no answer. With my heart
hammering against my chest, I inched my way closer. Now I could see that the figure was hunched over, its head between its legs, rocking gently back and forth. ‘Danny, are you OK?’ The
figure began to whimper, its breathing laboured and wheezy. ‘Danny, what’s happened?’ Still there was no reply.

‘I’m going to turn the light on, OK?’

‘OK,’ he croaked.

I paused before I pressed the light switch, nervous at the thought of what I might see. But nothing I had imagined could have prepared me for the sight that met my eyes. Danny was crouched on
the carpet, his arms folded around his lowered head, his knees pulled into his chest. He was shaking like a young bird that has fallen from its mother’s nest. It made no sense to me, but his
jeans were splattered with what appeared to be red paint, and there was a small pool of paint by his feet.

Then I saw the kitchen knife, lying just a metre away from Danny, and I knew that it wasn’t paint; it was blood.

Danny’s blood.

I thought I was going to be sick. My first instinct was to flee from the room, to run outside and pretend that this had never happened, but I couldn’t move. I was cemented to the carpet,
my legs numb and heavy, as if they were encased in a plaster cast. Seconds passed. I began to count: one . . . two . . . three . . .

‘Oh my God, Danny, what have you done?’ It was my voice, but it didn’t belong to me – the words seemed to come from someone else’s lips. The need to be practical
had taken me over, it was driving me to action. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my body, bringing my legs back to life and making my brain work in double time. Before I knew it I was
at Danny’s side, my arms around his back. ‘Where are you hurt? Show me, Danny, show me.’

He looked up at me, his eyes watery and vacant. He opened his mouth, as if he were about to speak, and then closed it again. Then he sat up and unfolded his arms, and I could see that his left
arm was wrapped in a makeshift bandage. He pointed to it. ‘Here,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘Here.’