Loving Danny (7 page)

‘Goodnight, Omi,’ he said, softly. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’ Gently dropping my hands, he leaned towards me, placing his arms around me and drawing me into his
body. He was so much taller than me that he had to stoop, and I instinctively cradled his face in my palms. And then he kissed me, tenderly at first, then more passionately. His lips were soft and
full, his tongue warm and strong. I felt feather-light, as if my feet were hovering above the ground. It was the perfect kiss.

If only things could have remained that perfect. If only time could have stopped and Danny and I could still be standing outside my front door in the darkness, holding each other. If I could
climb into a time machine right now, I’d go back to that moment. And stay there, forever.

W
hen Danny had disappeared up my street (he looked back twice – I counted, naturally), and the sensation of his kiss had faded from my lips,
I realised there was nothing for it but to resume normality and go into my house. Assuming everybody was asleep, I turned my key in the lock as quietly as I could and closed the front door behind
me with a gentle push.

I didn’t want to go straight to bed, so I went into the living room and curled up on the sofa, arranging the cushions around my body like a cocoon. I wasn’t really sure what I was
doing there, or how long I’d stay, but it didn’t seem right to end
this
day like any other, and I wasn’t tired. In fact, I was wide awake with excitement. I went over and
over the date in my mind, replaying every word of every conversation, every look and every touch. I felt the urge to write it all down, but thought better of it. It seemed too contrived. I
didn’t keep a diary; I’d tried several times when I was younger, always finding it too much effort to maintain for more than a few weeks.

I must have fallen asleep where I sat because when I next looked at my watch it was three a.m., I was cold and could feel a pull in my neck. ‘Time for bed, Naomi,’ I said, aloud, as
I dragged my unwilling body up from the soft cushions. I stumbled on the stairs, going over on my ankle and banging my hand on the wooden banister as I tried to steady myself. I decided against
going into the bathroom to take off my make-up and clean my teeth. It was too much effort and the sensation of water on my face would only wake me up.
One night won’t hurt
, I told
myself. A wise and sensible voice in my head said,
You’ll only have yourself to blame if you wake up tomorrow with an enormous zit.
I chose to ignore it.

I opened my bedroom door, pulled off my clothes and left them where they fell. I intended to climb straight into bed, but then something – the half-conscious awareness of a presence in the
room – made me jump. More alert now, with my eyes adjusting to the darkness, I could make out a silhouette, a figure, on my bed. For a brief moment I thought-or was it wished? – it
might be Danny. Perhaps, not wanting our date to end, he had climbed in through my window and waited for me. But just as quickly, I knew the thought was ridiculous, the type of thing that only
happens in books and films, and something which, in truth, would have terrified me. Of course, it could only be Emily.

She looked so peaceful, all curled up, with her fine hair fanned out on my pillow, that I didn’t want to wake her. I thought about going to sleep in her room instead. But then she stirred
and became aware that I was leaning over her. ‘Nay?’ she croaked, making an effort to sit up. Sleep still had a hold of her body and her coordination, and so she crumpled back down
again.

‘It’s all right, Em,’ I said softly. ‘I’m home now. What are you doing here, on my bed? You silly thing – you’re lucky I didn’t squash
you.’

My words jolted her awake. ‘God, Nay,’ she said, this time managing to prop herself up. ‘Where have you been? I was so worried about you when you didn’t call me, and I
rang you so many times and you didn’t pick up!’

Oh hell, now it was coming back to me. I’d promised Emily I’d go to the loo and ring her halfway through the date, to let her know I was OK and that Danny hadn’t turned out to
be some sort of weirdo. I was also supposed to tell her if I was bored and wanted her to call me and give me a random reason to leave – an escape plan. We’d even agreed on a code word,
in case I couldn’t find anywhere private. All I’d needed to say was, ‘Is Simon over the chickenpox yet?’ and she’d call back a few minutes later with a fictional
emergency so pressing that I would have no option but to leave. How could I have forgotten? Because I was having such a great time with Danny, that’s how.

‘Oh Em, I’m so sorry. I just didn’t think. I didn’t need to call you and I didn’t know you were trying to get hold of me.’

‘It’s all right. It’s just that you’re normally so reliable that I thought something must be up. So it was good, then? The date?’

I found myself smiling. ‘Yes, it was amazing.’

‘Really?’ she gushed. ‘Tell me all about it, right now. Every detail.’

Pleased to have an enthusiastic audience, I told Emily everything about the date, from the garlicky olives to the goodnight kiss. She ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ in all the right
places, interrupting me to ask what I thought were trivial questions about which celebrities were in Yellow (none that I’d noticed), and whether I’d told Danny much about her (I lied
and said he had asked when he could meet her properly). She also asked for rather more detail about the kiss than was strictly necessary. ‘Pur-lease, Em,’ I said when she began to get
far too technical. ‘If you want kissing tips, go and read a magazine.’

‘Don’t get all high and mighty with me,’ she retorted, obviously embarrassed. ‘I’ve kissed more boys than you.’

‘Maybe so,’ I conceded. ‘But quality is more important than quantity, isn’t it?’

‘Charming!’ she huffed, pouting at me. She yawned and stretched, then brought her arm round to her face and tried to make out the time from the dim fluorescent display on her watch.
‘Blimey, Nay, it’s four in the morning. I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘Sorry, Emily,’ I said. ‘Go to bed now. And thanks again.’ I gave her a little hug, just like I’d done when she was little and had fallen over in the playground at
our primary school, or one of the older girls had tried to bully her. We hadn’t hugged for years – not since she was ten or eleven. After that, she’d seemed so disdainful of any
physical contact with me. Now, she didn’t seem to mind at all.

I slept fitfully, waking every hour or so. Consciousness brought with it the memory of the kiss. I’d lie in the dark, imagining Danny was kissing me again, giving myself butterflies and
smiling until I could no longer keep my eyes open. When I finally awoke fully, it was midday. I could hear my parents moving about downstairs, murmuring to each other. They were probably discussing
me, wondering when it would be late enough to come upstairs and drag me out of bed so they could grill me about my date. My ally, Emily, had long since gone out to her Saturday job. I would have to
deal with them alone.

My clothes were scattered all over the bedroom floor. I stepped over them and went into the bathroom. When I peered into the mirror, the person who looked back was barely recognisable. She had
hair the same colour as mine – chestnut brown with auburn streaks – but it was knotted and matted to her head on one side, frizzing over her shoulders on the other. Her eyes, like mine,
were green, but they were puffy and half-closed, the lashes glued together with clumps of black mascara, which had also worked its way down her cheeks. Her nose was red, blotchy and shiny and her
lips chapped and flaking. Looking at her appalled me.

After a shower, I felt more myself again. I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a full pint of water from the tap, downing it in three gulps. My throat was dry and scratchy, like it is
at the beginning of a cold.
All I need now is to get ill
, I thought to myself.
I’ve got to be on top form tomorrow. For Danny.
Just thinking his name made me smile.

Mum came into the kitchen and caught me grinning to myself. ‘Good night?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I said, unable to remove the smile.

‘It must have been. You normally say, “It was all right,” wherever you’ve been. So who is he? Emily said he was someone you met at work. Is he doing articles at the
firm?’

So my parents had been fishing for information, then. Poor Emily. I had to admire her quick thinking – the story she’d come up with would surely have pleased Dad.

‘What? Oh, no, Emily must have got confused. That’s someone else.’ There was no point perpetuating the lie. Now that I was to see Danny again – and hopefully not just the
once – it would become too confusing in the long run. ‘He’s actually a musician.’

‘Oh?’ Mum was delighted. ‘What does he play?’

‘He’s in the band I went to see the other night. He plays guitar and he sings. He’s really good.’

‘Who’s good?’ said Dad, appearing through the kitchen door. He made an exaggerated point of looking at his watch and then at me. ‘Good morning!’ he announced,
sarcastically. ‘So you’re finally awake, then. Did you have a good night?’

‘She did,’ said Mum, smiling at me. I had her on side. ‘She had a date with a musician.’

Dad looked perplexed for a moment. I could tell from the knot in his forehead that he was wondering whether the women in his house had once again conspired to keep him in the dark. ‘Oh.
And how old is he, this musician?’

‘He’s twenty,’ I said, aware that my parents would consider this an acceptable age gap, since there were two years between them too.

‘And what’s his name?’

‘He’s called Danny. Danny Evans.’ Knowing that Dad would be impressed by Danny’s background, I continued: ‘I think his dad is some sort of businessman. Plastics, or
something. He’s an MBE.’

‘Ah,’ said Dad, the tone of his voice changing from concerned to proud. ‘John Evans. I know him. Very important man, gives a lot to charity. You know, Martha – he belongs
to the Rotary club.’

Mum nodded, with disinterest. I had no doubt that she would rather hear about Danny’s music.

‘Well, well,’ said Dad. ‘So you’re going out with John Evans’s son.’

I didn’t feel I should tell him that Danny didn’t like his father – appeared to hate him even.

‘So when do we get to meet this Danny, then?’

‘Leave her alone, David,’ Mum said, in the same voice she used to tell me and Emily off. ‘She’s only been on one date. I’m sure she’ll let us meet him when
she’s ready.’

‘Sure,’ I said, already dreading that day. ‘I don’t want to scare him off. Maybe in a few weeks.’

Unlike Dad, Mum knew it was time for the cross-examination to end. ‘Naomi, your dad and I are going into town to do some shopping. You’re welcome to join us.’

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a few things to do myself.’

I had nothing to do, of course – just an afternoon to fill while I waited for Danny to text me about tomorrow’s date. When my parents had left I went back up to my bedroom and tidied
away my clothes. It took no time at all. After that, I decided to call Debbie, to tell her how the date had gone. I was a little disappointed that she hadn’t called me first. I’d rung
and told her how much I liked Danny and she knew it was my first date for many months. Wasn’t she interested? I hoped that wasn’t the case.

I couldn’t find my phone and panicked, momentarily, until I remembered I’d left it in my coat pocket. The coat – which Danny had so admired – was hanging over the
banister at the bottom of the stairs.
It is a beautiful coat
, I thought, stroking the collar, just as he had done. I was sure I could still make out the faint smell of his aftershave, or was
that just dry-cleaning fluid?

I took out my phone and saw that it was switched off, just as Emily had said. I couldn’t remember doing that. As soon as I switched it on it bleeped and shuddered violently; I had twenty
missed calls and four messages – all from Emily. It was nice that she had been so concerned and, for the second time, I felt guilty that I hadn’t called her. I played each message
through before deleting it. Emily had started off with a cool, ‘Hi, Nay, hope you’re enjoying your date,’ (giggle). ‘Let me know who’s in Yellow tonight’;
progressing to a concerned, ‘Are you all right, Nay? Please give me a call’; to ‘Naomi – call me!’. Her last message was, ‘I’m hoping you’re OK,
Naomi. I’m going to wait up for you.’

Debbie hadn’t called once.

The phone rang about six times before Debbie picked up.

‘Hi, Naomi,’ she said. ‘I was going to call you this afternoon. What are you up to?’

‘Nothing much,’ I said, annoyed that she appeared to have forgotten about my date. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ve got an essay to write. I should have done it last week, but you know what it’s like.’

‘What’s it on?’ I asked. I didn’t care a jot, but it seemed the polite question.

‘Something to do with the causes of the First World War. Pretty dull stuff. I’m hoping to get it done today because a group of us are going to head out on a trip tomorrow. Mike, the
guy I told you about who lives in my halls, is driving us.’