Drive Me Crazy (16 page)

As we try to check in, surprise surprise, there’s a problem.

‘Sorry, we don’t appear to have any reservations under that name,’ the receptionist politely tells us.

I stare at her, both in puzzlement and disbelief that this trip can possibly get worse.

‘Are you certain you’re at the right hotel?’ she asks. ‘It’s just that, just a ten-minute walk down the road, you’ll find Tyne Tower. It’s a guest house. You’d be surprised how often people confuse the two thanks to their similar names.’

She smiles sweetly.

‘I guess that’s us then,’ Danny says with a shrug. ‘Cheers.’

The lady gives us directions and it sounds close so we decide to walk, reverting back to our awkward, angry silence until we come face to face with where we are actually staying. Tyne Tower is also a detached building, except its walls are not home to beautiful leaves, they are coated in grime and blackened with dirt. The window frames are all mouldy, the glass is so filthy it looks frosted and the door looks so old, it might not open. I hope it doesn’t.

Inside the building is just as run-down, and the furnishings look older than Danny and I put together. A short, bald man in a string vest is reading a newspaper behind the desk. Upon our entry he doesn’t even look up, not until Danny catches his attention.

‘All right, mate,’ Danny says, waving his hand.

‘All right, lad, what can I do for you?’ he says, glancing up briefly before looking back at his copy of
The Sun
.

‘We’re here to check in. Reservation under the name Starr,’ Danny says.

‘Oh aye, we’ve got you in room 13. En suite, that one. You and the Mrs will love it.’

The man moves papers around on his desk until he finds a key, which he tosses to Danny.

‘I’ll call the porter; he’ll help you with your bags.’

I don’t know why I was expecting him to use the phone, instead he calls out ‘Dragan’ at the top of his voice, his Geordie accent so much stronger than Danny’s, causing me to jump out of my skin.

Dragan promptly arrives and takes my luggage, leaving Danny to carry his own.

‘Wait, sorry, did you say one room or two?’ Danny asks.

‘One room, lad.’

‘OK, just making sure,’ Danny replies, saying nothing else. We swap a look for a second, but I don’t try and explain it. I don’t even know where to begin making a second excuse. I mean, what are the chances of it happening twice?

We step into the rickety old lift with Dragan.

‘Are you here for the festival?’ he asks us in what I think is an eastern European accent.

Danny and I swap another glance, neither of us having the faintest idea what festival he is referring to.

‘No, we’re on a business trip,’ Danny tells him.

‘All work and no play,’ Dragan muses. ‘If you change your mind about the festival, you let me know, OK?’

We both nod, reluctant to show too much interest in this mysterious festival.

We step out of the lift and Dragan shows us to our room.

‘You will settle yourselves in, OK? Call reception if you need anything.’

Again, we both nod.

As Danny opens the door, I’d be lying if I said I had high hopes for the room, if the dirty lobby, the old lift and the creepy corridors are anything to go by. I’m not sure it’s possible, but the room is even worse than the other areas of the hotel. We both step inside – leaving our bags outside, like there’s an unspoken agreement that we will
not
be staying here.

‘I’ve never seen anything so rank in my life,’ Danny says as he slowly spins around in the centre of the room.

I pull my sleeve down over my hand and open the bathroom door with as little force as possible before flicking on the light. It’s not a particularly bright light, which makes the tiny, windowless room seem seriously creepy. The bath is brown (although I don’t imagine it was when it was installed) and no matter how much I need to pee, there’s no way I’m lifting the toilet lid up.

Danny stands behind me and peers inside.

‘You gonna have that bath?’ he asks jokily – knowing the answer, of course.

‘Yeah, if I want to get hepatitis,’ I reply. ‘Is that blood?’

Danny pulls a disgusted face.

‘This place…’ I start. ‘It’s like a haunted Disneyland attraction. I mean…it looks like bodies have been chopped up in that bath. Everything is filthy…’

My voice trails off. I don’t need to tell Danny this because he has eyes that can see it and a nose that can smell it.

I feel a tear escape my eye, which I quickly wipe away, but Danny doesn’t miss a thing.

‘Oi, come here,’ he demands, wrapping an arm around me. ‘Look, I know it’s awkward and we’re not exactly best buddies right now, but we could always stay with my family for the night. It’s actually my dad’s birthday, so he’d love to see me. They’re always inviting me back. They keep my bedroom ready for me – you can have that; I’ll kip on the sofa. What do you think?’

I consider it for a moment. Do I really want to go and meet a whole family full of Dannys? I mean, I’m struggling to put up with just one Danny. I also know that I’ll struggle to wash, sleep and just generally make it through the night in this shithole. All I can think about is how I am exhausted, hung-over and in desperate need of a wash.

‘It’ll be fun,’ he says to entice me, as if that might convince me. ‘We always do something fun on birthdays. We can have something to eat, chill out, get a good night’s sleep and hit the road tomorrow. My car will be fixed by morning.’

‘OK, sure. Thank you,’ I reply. As much as I’m dreading meeting Danny’s family, anything has to be better than
this
.

Chapter 20

The taxi drops us outside a semi-detached house, right in the centre of a housing estate. There are kids playing outside, kicking a football around, and a couple of dogs are running around without leashes. It looks like a fairly typical street, not too dissimilar to the one I grew up on. So far, so normal.

‘Both cars are here, so they’re both home,’ Danny says. ‘They’re going to be so surprised!’

I follow him up the driveway and through the front door. He gestures at me with some kind of military hand signal to follow him through the door into the living room. When he said he wanted to surprise them he didn’t just mean by showing up unannounced, it seems.

As we enter the room as quietly as possible, we find ourselves staring down at Danny’s parents, who are having sex on the living room floor. The worst thing of all is that they haven’t realised we’re here and they’re really going at it. Danny is rendered dumbstruck, but only for a second.

‘Oh shit!’ Danny yells as he recoils in horror, actually sounding like he’s in physical pain.

I glance down at my feet, the temptation to look up near non-existent.

‘Shit, lad,’ Danny’s dad says as he grabs a cushion from the sofa, placing it on top of his wife in a way that attempts to protect whatever modesty they have left.

‘Daniel!’ his mother beams, before being reminded of their predicament.

‘Candy, don’t look,’ Danny instructs me.

‘Already not looking,’ I say softly, still staring at my shoes.

‘Shit, lad,’ his dad says again, clearly struggling to finds the right words to make this OK. ‘If we’d known you were coming we’d have baked a cake. Or, you know, we’d not been having sex on the living room floor.’

‘Candy, is it?’ I hear his mum ask.

Without moving my head, I look at her with my peripheral vision.

‘Yes, nice to meet you,’ I reply, praying she won’t want to shake my hand right now. I don’t bat an eyelid at her calling me Candy. Well, now hardly seems like the time or the place to get technical over what I like to be called. ‘Both of you.’

‘It’s my birthday,’ Danny’s dad tells me, by way of an explanation.

‘Happy birthday,’ I add, with a half smile, half wince.

Despite her warm, mumsy tone, Danny’s mum is young and slim – I imagine she was quite young when she had him. His dad looks older, having lost his hair (something I can’t imagine going down well with Danny should he go the same route), but he’s a handsome man. I could imagine Bruce Willis playing him in a film of his life, should anyone ever think his story needed telling.

‘Oh my God, this is so weird,’ Danny practically cries, his usually manly voice the highest I have ever heard it. ‘We’re staying the night. I’m going to show Candy to my room while you guys put some clothes on.’

‘If that’s OK,’ I add politely, as Danny drags me from the living room and up the stairs. He drags me at such a speed, I don’t even have time to take in my surroundings. Next thing, we’re in Danny’s old bedroom. He closes the door behind himself before leaning back on it and exhaling deeply. His distressed look quickly melts into an amused one – thank God. Things were starting to feel even more awkward.

‘I could have done without seeing that.’ He laughs.

‘Me too,’ I reply with a giggle, but then we fall silent, like we’ve just remembered that we don’t like each other very much.

‘Well, I’ll go make sure my grandparents aren’t screwing in the bathroom before you go for your bath,’ he jokes. ‘Might grab a quick shower. Make yourself at home.’

As Danny leaves, closing the door behind him, I take a seat on his bed and take in my surroundings. As far as I can tell, Danny hasn’t lived here since he was a teenager, so it makes sense that I am currently sitting in a teenage boy’s bedroom. Like Danny’s bizarre personality, his room is neither nerdy nor sporty, it’s that healthy mixture of the two he seems to have going on that’s rare to find – like, he’s the kind of man who could explain the offside rule to you, and reformat your hard drive while he was at it. No, I don’t know what either of those things are.

I stroll over to the large chest of drawers, skimming my fingers across the top as I take stock of my surroundings. Everything is so neat and tidy. He was right when he said his mum kept his room ready for him in case he wanted to visit, which it doesn’t sound like he does very often.

There’s a mirror hanging above his chest of drawers, which only serves to remind me what a mess I’m looking today. The edges of the mirror are covered in stickers, photographs and little mementos like gig tickets. I only run my eyes over them briefly, but a photograph of Danny with a girl sitting on his lap catches my eye. She’s a skinny brunette, wearing leather-look leggings, a bright purple halter neck top, and her face is forced into a very severe looking pout/stare combination. She is posing for the camera, but Danny is just staring at her with pure adoration. I take it down to get a closer look, just as Danny walks back into the room.

‘The bathroom is free of fornicators, so…’ His voice trails off as he notices what’s in my hand. He pauses for a second. ‘That’s Emma, my ex.’

For a moment, I am captivated by the sight of Danny in just a towel. I’m staring at his hard body as droplets of water roll down his torso. I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.

‘Looks like you really liked her,’ I say without thinking. Wait, am I jealous? Because there’s
so
much wrong with that.

‘Yeah, I fell hard for Emma. But she cheated on me, so…’

‘Ah,’ I reply awkwardly. ‘Not cool.’

‘Nope. Cheaters are despicable creatures.’

And then he gives me this look, this knowing glance, and it hits me hard and it hurts. It’s like he just knows about Will.

‘I’m going for a bath,’ I tell him, squeezing past him through his bedroom doorway, forcing myself not to look at his body because, as hot as he is, he’s annoying. I might be attracted to him physically, but his personality just puts an end to any kind of crush developing.

‘I might get my head down for ten, then,’ he tells me.

‘Fine,’ I call back, and I’m not sure who I’m more annoyed at now, Danny or myself.

Chapter 21

While tattoos have never been for me, I have never been one of those people to actively dislike them. You know the type, the ones who bang on about how bad they’ll look when you’re older, the type to pointlessly start a Facebook ‘like’ page for people who don’t ‘like’ tattoos.

I can understand why people have them done. It’s a huge commitment, and a transformation that is palpable. I understand this. The way I see it, my efforts to lose weight and get in better shape is a similar thing, just without the instant gratification. It’s taking charge of your body, changing it in a way that you want, truly making it your own. While I think that’s cool, a tattoo is too much of a commitment for me; a tattoo would be like telling me I could only wear one pair of shoes for the rest of my life, which I just could not do. I’m not brave enough to pick one thing and just go for it. That’s why I have always known I would never plump for the needle when it comes to style, even though I have always kind of wanted to. Of course, I never bargained on getting drunk with a gang of Manx truckers and a YOLOmonger like Danny, and now I have two of them. Not something beautiful or personal, nothing even remotely meaningful, just an Isis tattoo on my wrist and a stranger’s name on my arse.

I admire my naked body in the bathroom mirror, the body I spent months trying to make perfect, only to ruin over the course of one evening. I grab the bangle Danny gave me and slip it back on, successfully covering my Isis ink. Then I slip on a pair of white lace French knickers, but as I twist my hips to look at my arse in the mirror, my ‘Mr Wright’ tattoo is still clearly visible, both through the lace and peeping out below the fabric – there goes my career as an underwear model.

I hurry on my clothes because out of sight, out of mind, apply my make-up and go to pull my hair into my usual side plait, but I pause for a second. As per Danny’s request, I literally let my hair down last night, and I’ve spent today so far with my long locks loose and free – not unlike my stupid drunk personality. Maybe I’ll leave it down today. I don’t know why; I just feel like it.

I head for Danny’s room to find him thankfully dressed, but fast asleep on his previously neatly made bed. I give him a prod with a finger, as though I were a child trying to poke a slug off their slide with a stick.

‘Oi,’ I say as I prod him.