Thinking about Mum loving anyone other than Dad made me feel uncomfortable too, as though I was being unfaithful to him. How horrible for Dad, I thought, that much as Mum loved him, she could describe somebody else as ‘the one’, that he was, unwittingly, second best. It made me realise, however, that what I had with Danny was unique to us. Mum had made herself get over Dominic, but her feelings for him hadn’t vanished, they were and always would be tucked away at the back of her mind. Soulmates don’t come along very often – once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. And only one person can ever be your ‘first love’. If, as my parents wanted, I left Danny, I might never find love like this again. Mum hadn’t – she’d admitted as much.
Mum had told me about her past because she wanted me to finish with Danny. I’m sure she hadn’t anticipated that her revelations might backfire on her. Yet, backfire they did. By the time I reached Danny’s front door I had convinced myself that, whatever his problems, I wanted to be with him, to help him. Our love was strong enough to overcome anything, I told myself. This was a once-in-a-lifetime relationship and I had to give it my all. I was only eighteen, there was no way I was ready to give up on him – on love – and settle for second best.
Whenever I pictured Danny in my mind’s eye I saw him as he was on stage, at my first Wonderfulls gig: tall and powerful and unfeasibly handsome. As I made my way back to his flat, I imagined that this was the Danny who would be waiting for me there. I would let myself in and then run straight into his arms, so I could tell him how much I loved him, how lucky I was to have him. Everything would be perfect again – of that I had no doubt.
But when I went into the living room and saw him – for real – all my hope and excitement drained away. He was lying on the sofa watching a kid’s cartoon. He hadn’t shaved or got dressed and his breakfast plate was still on the floor, where he’d left it. There was no sign that he’d done any songwriting; his guitar was in its case, leaning against the wall, just as it had been when I’d gone out. My pleasant fantasy melted into a pool of disappointment and, for a brief moment, I actually hated him.
‘What have you been doing?’ I asked, irritated.
‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ he said. He stretched out on the sofa. ‘How was your mum?’
‘She was good,’ I snapped. I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Are you going to get dressed today?’
He looked daggers at me. ‘Where did that come from? Did your mum tell you to say that?’
I ignored him. ‘It’s after three, Danny. We could do something if you got dressed.’
‘I don’t feel like doing anything.’
‘Maybe that’s why you’re so miserable. How can I help you if you won’t let me?’
‘I’m not miserable,’ he barked. ‘I’m perfectly happy sitting here. You’re the one with the problem.’
‘I’m going to lie down,’ I said. I didn’t want another argument. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I can honestly say that I have never been so confused in my life. My brain literally ached with it all. I absolutely, totally and utterly loved Danny. I loved his intelligence and his talent and his wit. I loved the way he looked. I loved talking to him, hearing him play and sing. I loved being in his arms, the way he made me feel. But maybe I wasn’t in love with the real Danny. Maybe this was the real Danny: this lazy, depressive, aimless person, who hurt himself. Could I love this Danny? And if I couldn’t, did that mean I didn’t really love him after all? Did that make me selfish or shallow? Or was this just a phase, something that he would get over – something that I could help him through?
I needed somebody to talk to, somebody who could help and advise me. But who? Danny’s mum plainly wasn’t interested in her son and my parents had made their feelings clear. My friends weren’t around (this wasn’t something I wanted to talk about in a snatched phone conversation or by e-mail) and, anyway, I wasn’t sure that Debbie, or anyone else, would understand. Emily wouldn’t get it – she’d just think Danny was weird. As for Danny’s friends, I didn’t know any of them well enough to confide in. But even if there had been someone I could talk to, I had promised Danny that I wouldn’t betray his confidence.
So there it was: I was utterly alone. There was only one person whom I felt was there for me completely, and that was Danny. But he was the problem. My brain whirred round and round and round, tangling my thoughts and feelings like a ball of wire wool, slicing deep into every nerve and every axon. Thinking was agonising, tortuous. Was this, I wondered, how Danny felt when he cut himself? I was beginning to see how physical pain might be preferable to mental torment. Perhaps it would work for me too. Perhaps if I experienced what he experienced everything would become clear.
I opened my overnight bag and took out my nail scissors, pulling them apart so that I could find the sharpest side. Then, clenching my teeth, I held out my hand and ran the cold metal along my knuckles. I felt nothing but a sharp scratch; the scissors were too blunt to break the skin.
What are you doing, Naomi?
It was the first clear thought I’d had all day. I realised that my forehead was clammy and my limbs shaky – my body had begun to shut down, preparing itself for pain, for injury. I never had been able to deal with the sight of my own blood; if the scissors had done their nasty job I would have passed out. I took a deep breath. Stupid, stupid girl. Hurting myself wasn’t going to help Danny and it certainly wouldn’t help me. What I needed was space – time and space to think things through properly.
I went back downstairs. Danny was still sitting where I’d left him. He looked up at me, hopefully. ‘Have you calmed down now?’ he asked. ‘Look, I’ll get myself together and then we can go out somewhere, OK?’
‘I don’t think so, Danny,’ I said. I swallowed hard, summoning my courage. I was aware that what I was about to say defied almost every instinct I possessed. ‘I think I should go home, just for a week or so, to get my head sorted.’
He looked as if I’d kicked him in the stomach. ‘What? You’re leaving me?’
‘No, just moving home for a bit. I still love you, Danny. But I’m so confused.’
‘Love?’ He pronounced it like the lash of a whip. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
If he had intended to inspire guilt, it worked. He couldn’t possibly have known how much that comment hurt me. The only thing I did know, clearly and unquestionably, was that I loved him. ‘Please understand. I just need some time.’
I walked over to him and put my arms around his neck. I thought he was going to cry, but then his face hardened.
‘Just go, Naomi,’ he said, pushing me away. ‘Go now.’
Chapter 17
I had no contact with Danny for three long weeks. Which was, I calculated, a total of twenty one days; five hundred and four hours; thirty thousand, two hundred and forty minutes; or one million, eight hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred seconds. I was painfully aware that each moment that passed was another moment without him. And yet, conversely, time also stood still. I barely noticed that the days slipped into weeks because I was at a standstill, living the same empty day again and again, endlessly thinking the same thoughts and feeling the same contradictory emotions.
Three weeks of thinking left me no less muddled, no closer to finding the answers I needed. And three weeks alone did nothing to dull my feelings for Danny or to dispel the sense that, without him, I was lost, incomplete. I didn’t want to experience anything new if he couldn’t share it with me. Hearing a funny joke or reading an interesting story no longer gave me pleasure, because Danny wasn’t there to enjoy it too. I’d often catch myself thinking, I must show Danny that, or, Danny would love this, and then I’d feel bereft because I couldn’t tell him about it. Being apart from Danny was like having an itch beneath my skin that couldn’t be scratched.
He didn’t ring me; I’d asked him not to. That didn’t stop me checking my mobile several times a day, hoping at the very least for a missed call. Sometimes I wondered if he
was not calling because he was trying to punish me or because he didn’t want to talk to me. I’d told him I would call when I was ready, but when would that be? Many times I had to force myself not to pick up the phone and tell him what a huge mistake I’d made. But until I was sure what I wanted, what was the point?
I wondered how long he would wait for me and worried that while I tried to decide what I wanted, he might make a decision for me. Images of his letter on my doormat after our first argument haunted me. Would he send another – a more cruelly worded one that couldn’t be disregarded? Every morning, when I went downstairs, I had to steel myself in case a white envelope had appeared unnoticed while I slept. I knew that, this time, telling him I loved him wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t believe it, because he thought I had left him.
I couldn’t bear to think of the relationship being over – and even worse, if it were over, it would be my fault. Fear gnawed constantly at my ribs. Surely our last kiss hadn’t been our final kiss? It hadn’t seemed special or significant at the time – I wished it had been. I tried to recall its every detail, how it had felt, how Danny had tasted. But as the days went by, my memory dulled and it was harder and harder to relive it. Soon it was only a shadow of a kiss, no more real to me than looking at an old photograph of two lovers embracing.
Guilt kept me awake at night. Had I been selfish and cruel? Did Danny think I had abandoned him? Was he now hurting himself because of me? That was the thought that most scared me: Danny bleeding, in pain, perhaps cutting too deep this time, and nobody knowing. Would he call me if that happened?
In practical terms, my life resumed as before. Mr Stevens allowed me to return to the law firm, on the condition that I applied myself and took no more days off. Pleased to have something to fill my time, I did my job on autopilot, performing every task that was demanded of me with a forced smile, so that nobody could complain about my attitude or my mood. I varnished my new conscientious image by staying late on several occasions. The truth was, I wanted to delay going home to nothing, and to avoid the small chance of bumping into Danny on the high street.
Evenings and weekends were interminable. I read I don’t know how many novels to try to take my mind off Danny, but I couldn’t absorb myself in the characters’ lives. Every mention of love, every disagreement, made my mind jump to thoughts of my own situation. It didn’t matter whether the hero was named John or Cal or even Siegfried; to me, they were all called Danny, and the title of every book, Loving Danny.
My parents had initially been delighted when I came home. But seeing how miserable I was did not make them happy. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – talk to them about my feelings, so they gave up and left me alone, whispering about me when they thought I was out of earshot. Concerned that I wasn’t eating properly, Mum went out of her way to make my favourite dinners. That only made me feel guilty too.
I don’t think I could have survived those weeks without Emily. She did everything she could to take my mind off Danny, offering to take me shopping and inviting me out with her friends. Knowing what bad company I would be, I rarely accepted. It was nice to be asked, though. In return, I helped her with her coursework and lent her my clothes. She was welcome to them; I didn’t feel like dressing up any more.
But sympathetic as she was, Emily didn’t really understand what I was going through. To her mind, you were either happy or sad; you either loved someone or you didn’t. Day after day, she begged me for an explanation, wearing me down with her anxious stares and generous hugs. And so, a week after I’d returned home, having sworn her to secrecy, I finally told her that Danny cut himself.
‘Really?’ she exclaimed, her eyes growing wide with surprise. ‘There’s a girl in my class who does that. She burns herself with cigarettes too. It’s weird.’
‘I know,’ I said. After keeping the information to myself for so long, just saying it out loud was a tremendous relief. I was surprised at how little guilt I felt.
‘God, Nay, I can’t even wax my own legs or pull off a plaster myself, because I’m scared it will hurt.’
‘Me neither,’ I said, ashamed at the memory of my failed attempt to cut myself with scissors.
‘How long has he been doing it for?’
‘I don’t know.’ I felt foolish. Should I have realised what Danny’s scars meant the very first time I saw them? Would anyone else have know right away?
‘Wow,’ exclaimed Emily, for want of something better to say. But I could tell that a little part of her was impressed. Cutting himself gave Danny some sort of cachet – she thought it was a cool, dangerous rock-star thing to do.
I rolled my eyes at her to make it clear she was way off track.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
She hugged me. She didn’t have any answers – I hadn’t expected that she would. ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘You’ll work it out.’
I wasn’t sure whether ‘it’ referred to Danny’s problem or to our relationship and, whatever she meant, I wasn’t convinced that I believed her. But it was good to hear.
One evening, when my mood was at its lowest, Debbie rang. I was surprised at how pleased I was to hear from her. Since her visit we had continued to speak once a week or so – out of habit, I suppose – but our conversations had been awkward and unsatisfying. I had self-edited any information about Danny because I felt she would judge him, so we’d stuck to safe subjects: our families, films and TV programmes and general small talk. Now that Danny and I were apart, I was aware just how much I missed the closeness we’d shared before she went away.
‘Hi, Naomi,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘How are you?’
‘You don’t sound fine,’ she said tentatively. ‘Your voice is weird. I know it sounds silly, but I’ve been thinking about you all day and worrying, and I just felt I had to ring you.’
We’d had this kind of ‘telepathic’ connection in the past – it’s not uncommon between best friends. Often, I would pick up the phone to dial her number and she would already be on the line, having dialled me simultaneously. Was it possible that we still had it, despite everything?
‘That’s nice of you,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Danny. ‘I’ve been better.’
‘Has something happened with Danny?’ she asked.
I hesitated. ‘We’re going through a bit of a rough patch. We’re having a sort of break.’
‘Oh, Naomi,’ she said, with genuine concern. ‘I know how much you love him. It must be horrible.’
That was the cue I needed to let it all come flooding out: the self-harm, my parents, my confusion. It was the second time I had betrayed Danny’s confidence, but yet again I felt no guilt, only release. Debbie listened patiently, saying nothing until I had finished.
‘Oh, Naomi,’ she said again. ‘Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to come down?’
‘Thanks but no, Deb. There’s no point. I’ve got to get my head straight.’
‘It’s a lot for you to deal with,’ she said. ‘I wish I had some useful advice, but I haven’t got a clue what to suggest. All I can say is that Danny doesn’t know how lucky he is to have you. You’re so strong and kind and patient – anyone else would have fallen apart completely. What’s happened isn’t your fault, you know? Give yourself time and then do whatever you think is best. But remember to look after yourself too.’
There was no criticism, no ‘I told you so’ or ‘you’d be better off out of it’. It occurred to me how foolish I had been to keep my distance from Debbie. She wasn’t the enemy after all.
‘Thanks, Debs,’ I said, my voice beginning to crack with emotion. ‘That means a lot.’
‘Promise you’ll call if you need me,’ she said. ‘If you want to talk about this more, any time, I’ll be here for you. Really.’
I wasn’t sure if I would call her, but now, at least, I felt that I could.
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br /> ‘I promise.’
On a dreary Sunday afternoon, three weeks after I’d come home, I decided to give in to temptation and log on to The Wonderfulls’ website. I had avoided it for as long as I could, aware that the sight of my pictures would bring back troublesome memories. But I was sick of treading water and getting no closer to an answer; I felt I needed a tangible reminder of Danny.
I typed in the address – www.thewonderfulls.co.uk – and took a deep breath as I waited for the home page to load. I wondered if anybody had updated the site since I’d last worked on it, whether there was any band news, or if new gig dates had been posted. I hoped not; that was my job – I wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
But there was no home page. All the pictures, all the text, all the links had vanished. Instead, there were just three enormous words, filling the screen:
I MISS YOU
I blinked hard. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Had I typed in the wrong address?
But there was no mistake. Danny had sent me a message. I had told him not to contact me, so he had used the only forum open to him – a public one – to let me know how he felt. He missed me and he didn’t care who knew it.
My brain went into overdrive. How long had the words been up there? How many other people had seen them before me and wondered what they meant? Did Danny think I had ignored them? Had he taken my silence as my response? He didn’t know that I hadn’t looked at the site until that day. What must he now be thinking – that I didn’t love him, that I didn’t care?
But I did care. The absolute knowledge of this hit me like a sledgehammer. I cared about him more than anything – I was a fool not to have realised it. Being away from him hadn’t made me happy and it had solved nothing. So what if he was difficult? So what if he had problems? So what if my parents thought he was a bad influence? So what! If he needed help, I would help him. I wanted to be with him regardless. I could actually feel my love for him flooding back into my body, surging through my veins, hammering on my heart and making my lungs expand. After weeks of vacillation, Danny’s message had made my decision for me. It wasn’t rational – something inside me had just clicked into place.
Loving Danny Page 15