Chapter Nine #2
After giving my name and phone number, and checking they have my number correct three times, I hang up.
Suddenly, the magazine has lost its shine as all I can now think about is how I’m going to miss out on meeting AJ Ripley and potentially asking them – because nobody yet knows what gender they are, which I sort of find fascinating and wonderful and inspiring – about what Kate had said about Lady Phantom and the Director falling in love.
It’s embarrassing how much time and energy that theory has occupied in my brain since she planted it there.
It’s pathetic how I’ve re-read all my editions so far – including the precious most recent one that Kate lent me and that I do feel guilty that I wasn’t able to return because Danny was discharged the following day – in a whole new light and I am starting to see it.
No more than that, I’m starting to feel it.
Just my damn luck I’m going to miss this opportunity to get clarification.
I toss the magazine to one side, pick up my tea and search for the books I got from the library last week under a Time Out magazine and Danny’s Men’s Health which he claims he reads for the fitness tips even though he avoids cardiovascular activity as vehemently as I do.
If it doesn’t involve taking your clothes off or a dance floor, that is.
Just as I’m finding one of the books, the floorboards creak behind me and I turn to see Danny standing there in his dressing gown, face puffy with sleep and the heel of his hand rubbing his eyes.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I say tentatively, noticing how tightly the towelling dressing gown is done up. Maybe he’s forgotten yesterday even happened. “How’s your head?”
“The one on my shoulders?” He gives me a wink. “Murderous.”
“Sit down. I’ll make tea,” I tell him.
“No, I’ll do it.” He gestures for me to sit back down. “I know what conversation is coming so I need a moment to collect myself, by which I mean stare sullenly at the kettle while it boils.”
So he does remember.
“I’ll make you some toast for your breakfast,” I say.
We go about making tea and toast in silence, moving around each other with an ease that comes from living together for a few years.
We’ve often said how we lucked out when we moved in together on a whim and found that we enjoyed sharing a run-down flat in Hammersmith three years ago.
Not because the flat itself was anything special – with its mould-ridden walls and cracked windows, it certainly wasn’t – but we discovered an ease and enjoyment being around each other.
I had been worried it would ruin our friendship but in reality, it only made it better.
Part of me had feared our dynamic would change when I bought this place eighteen months ago and offered Danny my spare room for a very reasonable price, but it didn’t.
His illness, however, that threatens to change everything. But what’s my other option? To just ignore what is happening like he seems to be hellbent on doing?
“So,” he says with a sigh when he sits next to me and reaches out to take the plate of toast and marmalade from the coffee table in front of him.
“So,” I echo.
He turns to me. “Are you going to bollock me?”
I blink. “For what?”
“For staying out all day and night. For running away.”
“What were you running away from?”
He puts the toast back down, untouched. “You know what.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, no longer interested in making this hard for Danny.
“It’s not that bad,” he says. “The lesions, I mean.”
“Kaposi’s sarcoma,” I say in a low voice. “Let’s call it what it is.”
He waves a hand around his face. “You can give it a fancy name if you want, but the point is, I don’t actually feel sick.”
“You don’t? No stomach-ache? Diarrhoea? No lesions in your mouth?”
“No, to all the above. Well, sure my tummy hurts now but that’s because I drank a bucket of vodka tonic and lime last night.”
I sigh before I can stop myself.
“Oh, don’t give me that disapproving look. At least one of us is having fun these days.”
“Do you remember what you said to me last night?”
Danny’s easy smile slips. “No,” he says carefully. “What did I say?”
I stare at him and in doing so I realise he has a small lesion on his neck, just below his hairline.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “But I’d like you to go to the doctor about your lesions.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
“You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s a waste of time. We all know what’s happening here. But right now, I don’t feel sick. I feel okay. I want to make the most of that, not end up back in a hospital bed where I’m poked and prodded and surrounded by the grunts and groans of the dying.”
“There could be something they could do for you, to help—” I begin but Danny lifts a hand and his fingers are so straight and tense, it stops me.
“And when I think I need help, I’ll go. I promise you.” His shoulders sink and he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I look down at our joined fingers and sigh again.
“You really don’t feel unwell?”
“I really don’t. Hangover aside.”
“And you promise you’ll go if you do start to feel bad?”
He holds up his palm, his thumb holding his little finger down. “Scout’s honour.”
“You were a Scout?”
“Oh yes. How else did you think I figured out I was a little bit gay? Okay, a lot gay. Scout camps were very… enlightening experiences. Were you not a Girl Guide?”
I give him a look. “What do you think?”
“I think you would have made a great Girl Guide. Always prepared. And blue would really make your eyes shine.” He brings his hand to my face and cups my cheek so delicately it takes me by surprise. I haven’t been touched by another human being like that in a long, long time. Possibly ever.
“Well…” I clear my throat and lean out of his touch. “Do you want some good news?”
“You’ve booked flights to Lesbos so you can finally live out your lesbian Shirley Valentine fantasy?”
“Don’t insult me. She’s like a forty-something-year-old housewife.”
Danny leans back against the sofa’s cushion and flutters his eyelids at me. “You are basically my housewife and don’t deny it. Now, what’s the good news?”
“I made shepherd’s pie. It’s in the fridge.”
He doesn’t react the way I hope he would. His face doesn’t light up. He doesn’t lick his lips.
“Yum!” he says but it sounds very lacklustre. “But I think I’m going to take a shower now. Wash away some of last night. Although…” he pauses as he stands. “I do have a date this week.”
“A date? With who?”
“A woman I met last night.”
“A woman?” It’s been a long time since Danny’s mentioned a woman.
“Yeah, she was this man’s beard. I got talking to her at the bar, because I wasn’t there to pull anyone, because you know,” he points at himself, “death sentence. We got talking and she was just… a lot of fun. Eventually I told her I was bisexual and she didn’t even blink.
She just shrugged and said okay. So I asked for her number. ”
“And she gave it to you?”
“Yeah. I just found it in my jeans pocket because I had this vague recollection of it but then I thought it was a dream because that’s never happened. I’ve never had a woman be okay with the fact I’ve slept with men before.”
“Did you… did you tell her you have…” When I can’t finish that sentence I feel like a failure.
“No,” he says. “I didn’t want to drop two bombshells on her.”
“But she should—”
“Jesus, Sharon, can’t you just be happy for me?” he barks, standing above me, his whole body changing from loose to tense and rigid.
“I am happy for you, but Danny—”
“I can’t talk to you about this,” he waves his hand at me, and I can almost feel the air that it moves aggressively hitting me. I’m frozen in place as he storms out of the room and a few seconds later I hear his bedroom door slam shut.