Loving Danny

by Hilary Freeman

  We looked around us. The shelter was like a bus stop – a small metal hut with no front and a bench inside – except no buses would ever stop there.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, as a realisation struck me. ‘I’ve got a towel! See?’ I pulled the towel from my bag and handed it to Danny. He took it gratefully, rubbing it over the top of his head and then across his face. He looked so cute wet, with his hair sticking out in all directions.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he said. He delicately pressed the towel to my face, wiping the droplets of water from my nose and my chin. The feel of his fingers on my face, even through the roughness of the towel, was thrilling and I stifled a sigh. Then he gathered my hair together at the back and wrapped the towel around it like a headdress.

  He chuckled. ‘Now you look like a nun,’ he said. ‘Which wasn’t really my intention. Anyway, Naomi Waterman – an apt name if ever there was one, today at least – what sort of girl brings a towel on a date?’

  ‘I used to be in the Brownies,’ I said. ‘You know, always be prepared.’

  ‘I always am,’ he said with a cheeky smile, as he moved closer.

  What do two people on a second date do, alone in a shelter, while they wait for the rain to stop? They pick up where they left off at the end of the first date, of course. And so, at last, while the rain clattered on the roof, we kissed – for far longer and more ardently than the first time. It didn’t seem possible, but it felt even better than I remembered. Our kiss on Friday had been a goodbye kiss to end our date. But this was a kiss that didn’t have to end, a kiss full of expectation, of the promise of things to come. There was no awkwardness, no first-time nerves or fear of clashing teeth. We just fitted together, mouth on mouth. While we kissed, Danny stroked my neck and the small of my back, sending tingles down my spine. I had my hands up the sleeves of his jacket, caressing his strong arms and shoulders through his T-shirt.

  Nothing mattered when I kissed Danny – not the fact that I was still damp and cold, or that the hard, wooden bench was bruising my bottom, or even that, from time to time, other people walked past us and stared. (In fact, I rather liked that. I felt proud to be seen with such a gorgeous guy.) When I closed my eyes and kissed him I was as warm and as comfortable as I could ever hope to be. We were alone together in our own little bubble.

  Occasionally, we would break off to hold each other silently and gaze into each other’s eyes, as if we were trying to see far beyond the iris and the pupil to somewhere deeper, to a place that was secret and hidden. Once, Danny said, ‘You have the most beautiful eyes, Naomi. I’ve never seen eyes that green before.’ And I, never very good at accepting a compliment, had to ruin the moment by looking away.

  By the time it started to grow dark, shortly after five, the rain had virtually stopped. With his arms still wrapped around me, Danny said, ‘Why don’t you come back to my house? It’s a lot warmer and drier there and I make a mean hot chocolate.’

  ‘That sounds divine,’ I said, looking up at him. I was still damp and my mouth was dry and sore from kissing. ‘Is it far? You’ve never actually told me where you live.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just the other side of the park, and then a bit. And I’ve brought the car.’

  I was expecting Danny to drive a beaten-up old Ford or, perhaps, a Mini. But the only car in the car park was a red two-door, convertible sports car. I know barely anything about cars, but even I could tell it was expensive and very flash.

  ‘I apologise for the car,’ said Danny, in advance of any comment. ‘My dad got me this when I passed my driving test. I think it was some sort of tax dodge for him. I loathe it – it’s pretentious and brash and totally not me. I’d rather take the bus than drive this. I only brought it today because that picnic basket – which I will go back for later – is so bloody heavy.’

  First Yellow, then the swanky restaurant, and now this car? And yet Danny said it was pretentious and brash. But he still drove it? I was confused. Was he worried that his wealth would put me off him? But then why had he taken me to those places? He was nothing if not contradictory. But, then again, I liked his air of mystery, the challenge of putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

  He held open the car door for me and I climbed in. I’d never been in a fast, expensive car before and just sitting there made me feel special, older and more sophisticated. I imagined myself arriving at a film premiere, flash bulbs popping from every angle. But, after what he’d just said, it didn’t seem prudent to share my fantasy with Danny. Instead, I said, ‘Yes, it’s a bit over the top. I can see why you don’t like it.’

  If the car had surprised me, Danny’s house was an even bigger shock. I knew his dad was a successful businessman and therefore, by implication, wealthy, but I had still imagined that his house would look like mine: a three-bedroom, semi-detached, with a front and back garden and a small garage. Pretty much everyone I knew lived in houses like that – suburban town houses built for mums and dads and their two-point-four kids. The hedges, doors and windows may have differed slightly, but the homes of all my family and friends were variations on a theme.

  Danny’s house was built to a different tune altogether. It was on one of the most exclusive streets in the area, where the residents hired private security guards and put up electric fences and surveillance cameras. It was set back from the street, at the end of a drive with electronic gates, which opened when Danny’s car approached. I tried not to gasp when his house came into view. It was huge – at least four times the size of mine – and three storeys high, with a garden almost as big as the park. There were at least four cars parked outside, one of them just like Danny’s, but in electric blue.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ said Danny sharply. ‘I know what you must be thinking – that I’m some spoiled little rich kid who doesn’t know he was born. I don’t like living here; I’d rather be in a bedsit any day. It’s just convenient, till I make The Wonderfulls a success. I don’t want anything else to do with my parents or their filthy money!’

  It was the first time I’d seen Danny so defensive. ‘It’s OK,’ I said nervously. ‘I’m not going to judge you. I like you for you. I don’t care about where you live or what car you drive. Honestly.’

  That seemed to reassure him. He squeezed my hand and smiled. ‘All right, Naomi,’ he said, in a calmer, gentler voice. ‘Come in and get warm and I’ll make you a hot chocolate.’

  Danny had his own kitchen, in his own ‘granny flat’ at the side of his parents’ house. It was entirely separate from the rest of the house, except it didn’t have its own front door – you had to go through the main hall to get to it.

  While he made the chocolate, he sent me off to look around his flat. He also had his own living room, bathroom, study (which he used as a storage room for his guitars) and a very messy bedroom (he must have forgotten he’d neglected to tidy it). His studio, which I didn’t see that day, was in the basement, accessed by a flight of stairs from the kitchen. I gave each room a cursory glance; I didn’t enjoy looking around on my own because it felt intrusive.

  ‘How long have you lived in here?’ I asked, coming back into the kitchen.

  ‘Since I was sixteen,’ he said, without looking up. He was stirring vigorously. ‘My parents got sick of my noise and having my friends traipsing through their house and getting mud on their cream carpets. So they set me up in here and left me to my own devices.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any privacy.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  We sat close together on Danny’s leather sofa and sipped our hot chocolate in blissful silence. It was delicious – nothing like the powdered stuff I had at home, but thick and creamy like warm, liquid chocolate mousse. I dreaded to think how many calories it contained. When Danny had cleared our cups away he asked if I minded if he played his guitar. ‘I want to play you a few songs,’ he said. I told him I’d love to hear them.

  For the next couple of hours, he serenaded me, playing a mixture
of his own compositions and some covers – Bowie, Nirvana, Oasis and Coldplay. It was good to hear stark, acoustic versions of The Wonderfulls’ songs, without the frenzied guitars and heavy drums. Some of them were actually quite beautiful and tugged at my emotions with their aching melodies in minor keys. Where I could, I joined in, singing the harmony parts. Danny said he was impressed, that I had a sweet voice.

  ‘We should get you in the band, doing backing vocals,’ he said. I wasn’t sure how seriously to take him, so I just blushed and smiled. The idea of standing up on stage and singing horrified me. The last time I’d tried – in a school concert five years before – I’d had such terrible stage fright that I’d dried up entirely, standing fixed to the stage in silent terror until one of the teachers rescued me.

  When Danny’s fingers grew tired of playing, he put down his guitar and went into the kitchen to make us toasted cheese sandwiches. After we’d eaten and wiped the globules of melted cheese from our chins, he dimmed the lights, lit some candles and put on a chill-out CD. Then he spread himself out on the sofa and motioned that I should join him. I snuggled into his body, resting my head on his chest and hooking my legs around his so that I didn’t fall off the edge. He stroked my hair and my face, placing his other arm around my waist. Self-consciously, I held in my tummy for as long as I could. For a while we just lay there, listening to each other’s breathing, our eyes closed. From time to time he would pull me up towards him, so that I was almost lying on top of him, and we would kiss.

  It’s almost impossible to describe how good I felt. ‘Nice’ or ‘warm’ or ‘lovely’ or ‘wonderful’ or ‘content’ just don’t sum it up. When you’re a child and you have a tummy-ache and someone asks you what type of pain it is, you can’t say, because you don’t have the words to explain it – so you just say ‘it hurts’. It was the same with the pleasure I felt while I was with Danny. I simply don’t have the words in my vocabulary to explain it. All I knew was that I really couldn’t be happier, physically or emotionally.

  We must both have fallen asleep because when I next opened my eyes the candles had burned themselves out and the CD had finished playing. Trying not to wake Danny, I sat up and looked at my watch. It was eleven o’clock. I tiptoed into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. My hair was dishevelled, my lips slightly swollen, and the skin around them red from kissing.

  I heard Danny coming into the bathroom behind me. ‘Hello, Omi,’ he said, smiling. He yawned and stretched, rubbing his eyes with his hand. The side of his face was imprinted with creases and lines from the sofa. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Apart from a bit of stubble rash.’

  He grinned. ‘Occupational hazard.’

  ‘Have you seen the time?’ I asked. ‘My parents will be worrying about me.’

  He looked down at his watch. ‘It’s too late to go home now,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you stay on the sofa? Call home while I go and get you a duvet and pillow.’

  I hesitated before pulling my mobile phone out of my bag. Was ‘sleep on the sofa’ a euphemism for something I wasn’t ready for? No, Danny deserved the benefit of the doubt. He had given me no reason not to trust him; he was so gentle and thoughtful.

  I decided against calling my parents – I knew they would already be in bed. So, I texted Emily instead. HI EM. IT’S L8 SO STAYING WITH D’S PARENTS. TL M+D NT 2 WORRY. C U 2MORROW. NX

  I knew she’d received it because a few moments later my mobile beeped and there was a message in return. It read: OK B GOOD X

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Danny. I hadn’t noticed him come back in. I nodded, a little shyly. He was carrying a double duvet and two pillows, which he must have taken from his own bed. He also had with him a huge, white T-shirt. ‘For you to sleep in,’ he said, handing it to me.

  I went into the bathroom to change and squeezed out some of Danny’s toothpaste, which I swished around my mouth with my finger. Once again, I conceded that I wouldn’t be able to remove my make-up. Danny really isn’t good for my skin, I thought. But who cares? I would gladly have endured a faceful of zits if it meant that I could spend the whole night just a few feet from Danny. Just a few feet . . . The realisation made me feel uneasy and excited at the same time. Did he intend to stay in his room all night, or would he tiptoe in to join me in the early hours? No, I decided again, from all the evidence I’ve seen today I’m certain that Danny really is the perfect gentleman.

  When I came back into the living room I saw that he had already made up the sofa. He pulled the duvet aside and waited for me to climb in, before smoothing the cover over me. Nobody had tucked me in like that since I was a little girl.

  ‘Goodnight, Omi,’ he said, leaning over to give me one last, lingering kiss. He paused, as if he couldn’t make up his mind about something, and then stroked my cheek. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he whispered. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Good night,’ I said, smiling up at him. I felt happy and warm and protected. Looking back, I think it was at exactly that moment that I started truly loving Danny.

  Chapter 7

  I came round to the sound of a distant vacuum cleaner. Danny was standing over me, holding a cup of tea. He was wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts and I couldn’t help noticing how unexpectedly good his legs were – strong and toned, like a footballer’s.

  ‘Good morning,’ he whispered. ‘That’s just the cleaning lady in the main house. Don’t worry, she doesn’t come in here on Mondays.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I croaked.

  ‘About ten,’ said Danny. ‘Pretty early for me, actually.’

  ‘Ten? Oh my God!’ I sat up, forgetting for an instant how dreadful I must look and then wishing I could hide back under the duvet. ‘It’s Monday. I was supposed to be at work an hour ago!’

  ‘Oh.’ Danny sounded disappointed. ‘I suppose I could drive you there if you want.’

  ‘But I haven’t got my work clothes with me.’ Now I was panicking.

  ‘Calm down, Omi. It’s not the end of the world. Look, why don’t you call in sick and we can spend the day together.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I mean I shouldn’t. Oh, I don’t know!’

  ‘What are they going to do to you? Arrest you?’ he gently mocked. ‘Hang you? I don’t think so. Go on, live dangerously.’

  I thought about it for a second and then realised Danny was right. Calling in sick was simpler than going home, getting changed and then being two hours late. How would I explain that? And what could they do to me, anyway? I hadn’t taken any time off sick before, not even when I genuinely didn’t feel well. Surely one day was acceptable. They probably wouldn’t even miss me.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ I said, before I could change my mind again. ‘Danny Evans, you are a bad influence.’

  I insisted that Danny leave the room and sent him off to get dressed while I made the call. I was worried I’d burst out laughing if I saw his face. I’d previously told him that my boss, Mr Stevens, was a stickler for discipline and Danny had done a wicked impression, marching around the room like a sergeant major, shouting ‘Attention!’.

  As I’d anticipated, the phone was answered by Kathy, the office receptionist.

  ‘Hello, Kathy,’ I said, in the huskiest voice I could muster. ‘I’m really sorry, but,’ (cough) ‘I’m not very well today.’

  ‘Oh, you poor love,’ said Kathy, with so much sympathy that I felt guilty. ‘You sound terrible. Don’t you worry, I’ll tell Mr Stevens. Now go back to bed and we’ll see you when you’re better.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I whispered, adding another cough for effect. ‘I’m sure I’ll be much better tomorrow.’

  I hung up, sighing deeply. Danny had been waiting just outside the door and he now came back in, grinning broadly. ‘See, it wasn’t so bad,’ he said. ‘Now drink your tea and then we’ll decide what to do with the day.’

  Content, he sat down next to me, leaning back against the cushions and crossing his legs. It was the first time
I had seen him close up and jacketless, in sunlight. He was wearing a clean grey T-shirt and faded black jeans, which still smelled of washing powder. His forearms were lean and muscular, with a light covering of dark hair, and I could see his veins protruding. And then, when he stretched out his left arm towards me – I think he was intending to take my hand – I saw something else: a long, spidery pinkish mark, like an old scar. Next to it, there were other marks, some redder, some whiter, etching up and down his arm like doodles in a sketchbook.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, surprised, snatching back his arm as if from a fire.

  ‘That,’ I said, pointing to the big scar. ‘Did you hurt yourself? Was there an accident?’

  He furrowed his brow. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right, I had an accident, at school, a long time ago. It was nothing.’ He appeared to shrink back from me, pulling himself up straight and staring into the distance. The action told me: I don’t want to talk about this now.

  ‘Poor Danny,’ I said. My instincts told me there was more to it, but I didn’t want to spoil what promised to be a perfect day. ‘Poor Danny.’ I didn’t know what else to say, so I left it at that.

  We spent a wonderful day together. I said I’d prefer not to go out anywhere, in case I bumped into someone from work, so we stayed in, listening to music and chatting about our pasts and our friends. We were filling each other in on the background to our lives, swapping anecdotes and memories. That’s the funny thing about new relationships – you feel closer to your lover than to anyone else and yet you know virtually nothing about them, or they you. I didn’t know what Danny’s favourite colour was (he said green, like my eyes, but I think he was trying to flatter me), or whether he could dance or swim (he claimed he could do both, and well). He didn’t know that I had broken my leg on a school trip to France five years earlier, or that I had a pet rabbit that had died, leaving me heartbroken when I was seven. I found out that Danny had appeared in a TV advert for a breakfast cereal when he was four; he was too embarrassed to show me the video clip and made me promise never to mention it again.