by Robyn Elliot
I’m not going down that road, Danny insisted, as Katharine blathered on at him about getting upstairs and showering. I’m not going down the road that’s already cut my feet to ribbons; from my heart down to my toes I feel so numb from loss that I kind of feel I’m holding on with a thread, and these and the rest of Danny’s thoughts oscillated between a curious sense of elation and the cold dowsing of terror. He’d had enough of wanting to be rescued, or seen as some basket case desperate for love. Danny’s internal argument, however, kept falling down on one crucial point.
He loved Stef.
He’d loved Stef from the first moment, and all the romantic claptrap of losing himself in someone, claptrap to Danny, had come startlingly true. Danny knew what he was facing. He knew what he was facing because he didn’t want anyone else but Stef.
Stef hadn’t been the right time, right place guy, he’d been the love of a lifetime guy.
Danny was facing the possibility of a lonely life, constantly searching in any other guy he met for the essence of Stef, the way Stef had looked at him, comforted him, teased him, adored him, desired him, loved him…
And then, whilst still dealing with that realization, he had the most urgent feeling that, of all things, Stef needed him…it struck Danny like a blow, near taking his breath away with its intensity. Wishful thinking, Danny reasoned, got to be. Stef thought he was invincible, didn’t he? But the feeling grew stronger of a sudden, immediate, pervading.
Stef needs me. And I am fucking terrified of the pain.
But if I have to go through it a hundred times, to make sure he’s okay…?
So Danny picked up the envelope and opened it. Katharine came behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing him softly on his flushed cheek.
“Go and get your man, babe.”
Chapter Ten
Danny was learning quickly that if he didn’t get out of the way – vite – Parisians would just walk right through him. The first time had particularly hurt because the guy that nearly knocked Danny’s slender frame sideways was built like the Bastille’s outhouse. Danny had been standing, dithering to be precise, holding the map that Guillaume had provided, with helpful X marks the spot annotations, directing from the airport to the Parisian suburb, which was about one mile from the main drag.
It had started well, Danny’s venturing forth to his destiny. The flight had been no messing, then straight into a taxi which was driven by a friendly, if slightly vague guy. Trust me, Danny thought, to get into a taxi where the driver has just started driving in Paris! Jesus! Buoyantly, after conversing in pigeon French, Danny had handed Gilou the piece of paper with Stef’s address. Gilou had frowned, thought for a few moments, then nodded, handing it back to Danny. What then followed was, quite frankly, a white knuckle drive into the heart of Paris, leaving Danny so nauseous with terror that by the time he emerged from the taxi, he felt he’d lost at least two kilos from sweating.
Gilou gave Danny brief directions, in rapid French of course, leaving Danny watching the taxi roar off at a frenetic speed, and desperately trying to memorize the key words Gilou had said. At that moment, however, his gratitude at still being alive was sufficient. He’d fished out the phrase book, helpfully provided by Elisabeth, with useful French for guys like him, who couldn’t barely speak a word of it.
And Danny soon realized that he was lost. Gilou had dropped him off virtually in the heart of Paris, in the 18th arrondissement. Swish. It could have been worse, he’d comforted himself amidst the mounting panic; he’d been reading a book on the flight, quickly, a brief guide to the arrondissements of Paris, and thanked his lucky stars Gilou hadn’t abandoned him somewhere less salubrious. Now that would have seen Danny entirely submerged in merde.
The sounds of Paris hurt Danny’s ears; rapid French seemed like an assault on his senses, and he felt like he was being drowned by incomprehension. And for God’s sake, Danny, he berated himself, don’t, repeat don’t, have a fucking panic attack. Not here! Likely he’d be stepped on as he hyperventilated himself to the nearest l'hospital. Everywhere Danny turned, people seemed to be walking at high speed, Gilous without wheels. He kept apologizing, Pardon, Pardon, as he kept getting in the way.
Danny stepped back finally, away from the nefarious pavement, and a young couple, spying his evident Englishness, stopped and took pity on him. They both spoke excellent English, and Stef was reminded of Stef’s mellifluous accent, and how English came as naturally as breathing to him.
The couple looked at the by now crumpled note-paper with Stef’s wrinkled address on it.
“Ah…” the guy shrugged at his girlfriend, who looked at Danny with a blend of pity and interest. Danny saw her look, the way her eyes scanned him, and she smiled at him in approval. In fact, if Danny hadn’t been beset by nerves and anxiety, he’d have noticed he was attracting a fair amount of attention from the city that values beauty above all else. He was dressed in a heavy, gray three quarter coat, a black scarf worn in the fashion of the Italians; his hair had grown longer, curling and soft, covering his ears, and rolling onto his collar. The crisp, chill light of the Parisian late autumnal afternoon caught the shimmering blondness of his hair perfectly, the cool temperature of the day flushing his cheekbones. As Danny had blundered on, map in one hand, phrase book and note paper in the other, he hadn’t seen the looks from both sexes, admiring not only his style, but his ethereal beauty.
“You are a fair way from where you need to be,” the guy intoned, his accent heavy but smooth.
Tell me about it, Danny groaned inwardly.
“How far?” he asked instead.
He looked directly at the guy, aware that the girl was now staring full on at him, smiling, evidently enjoying looking at the view. In front of her boyfriend too, Danny thought hopelessly, as he tried to concentrate on the directions being given to him. Welcome to Paris, a familiar voice whispered in his head. Welcome to the city where looking is a national pastime. After all, isn’t there enough ugliness in the world every time a news bulletin spits out its guff? Welcome to Paris, Danny, you’re in for a treat. At the worst, that voice again, if you don’t find me, well, you might as well get laid seeing as you came all this way!
Exactly how far proved a fifteen-minute walk, with Paul’s clear directions ringing in Danny’s ears (they’d exchanged names, and Danny had shaken their hands in thanks). Stephanie had held onto his hand that little bit longer, too. Yes, no kidding. Stephanie. At first, Danny had spluttered, saying his full name in a rush of self-conscious angst, struck by the suspicion that somehow, fate was playing a nasty little joke on him. Daniel Peter Hastings! Get a grip, Danny, get a grip, I’m not in Tunbridge Wells now; visiting aunts with florid cheeks, and bone china refreshments and toilets you could eat your supper off. Nor am I at Harrow any more, Danny reminded himself, I am free, I am in Paris for God’s sake, and I’ve got a cashmere scarf around my neck. So things can’t be that bad. Can they?
For a while, Danny regretted the fleeting optimism. A fine rain had started to fall, and he flattened his hair, which was starting to spring into tight curls from the precipitation. He counted the numerous left turns he had had to make, following Paul’s directions to the letter, so no wonder he was feeling a tad gauche; every street appeared to be the same, with smart apartments abutted by wrought iron verandas. There were plants on the verandas, splashes of reds and purples, contrasting with the soft, hazy sandstone of the buildings.
La rue de Montpelier seemed a long way away. The rain was still that fine film of moisture, more a kiss upon the skin than droplets. Someone barged past him, muttering doubtless an expletive of impatience in French. Danny suddenly was overwhelmed by the most horrid feeling of sadness; the pain of heartache had been temporarily subsumed in this muted adventure, courtesy of the plotters back home, but now, standing in the alien street, jumping out of the way of purposeful Parisians, Danny longed to be in a warm room, a fire crackling, with arms around him, holding him, soothing him.
&n
bsp; Stef.
Even in this darkening, rain swept street, for Danny he was everywhere. Like a dream that could never be forgotten, or a beautiful song that tinged the memory with longing. The buildings began to sway, the street signs waver, under the sting behind Danny’s eyes. I’ve got this far, he determined, so no turning back now. The ache, the sensation of being without Stef was as strong as that incessant nagging at the back of Danny’s brain; that somehow, Stef needed him.
Was calling to him.
Is that possible, Danny wondered, as he came to a juddering halt, his mouth dropping open, the note paper hanging loosely between his fingers.
La rue de Montpelier, its smart signage glistening against the wet, held Danny spellbound. Shit, I’ve done it, he thought, a slightly hysterical smile tugging at the corners of his mouth; whatever happens, I did it!
I found him.
Back up the voiture, for a second. I’ve found the street, Danny said under his breath, not the love of my life. But somehow, as his eyes skimmed over the elegant buildings, the bohemian atmosphere, the casually stylish Parisians walking by, the silent, restless gleam of the rain on the pavements, Danny knew that if Stef was anywhere, he’d be in a place like this.
Lights glittered from the windows, and Danny gazed at them, seeing a constellation of hope and the rediscovery of himself in their shining reflections. He’d found his courage, right here in this elegant street, and it had been a hell of a long journey from cafe latte to this.
He’d imagined he’d feel myriad terrors, facing Stef. But instead, Danny felt the most incredible calmness, a mission accomplished kind of feeling, and even the idea of being so close to Stef, mad as that sounded, made Danny experience a rush of joy, like an adrenaline shot in his heart.
He was standing on the pavement opposite the building where Stef’s apartment was. Or whoever apartment he was staying in, to be accurate. The rain made Danny’s eyelashes feel heavy, and he blinked rapidly to free them of their dampness. A car went past, lights now on, casting vaulted shadows onto the sandstone. Danny stood there, not wanting to break the spell, having no desire to crash headlong into reality.
Because very soon, any minute now, he’d have to draw on another bucket load of courage, cross the road, press the intercom and say “It’s Danny.”
He needn’t have worried. Not in that sense, anyway. Because Danny instinctively stepped back into the refuge of the gathering shadows, the street-lamps spluttering into life by now; yet it wasn’t light enough to expose Danny in the pool of their unforgiving floodlights.
The main door of the apartments opened. Danny held his breath. He’d seen this a dozen times in films, where the door opened to let someone out, and the guy rushed across the street and nipped inside with the smoothness of a snake’s replete belly. The breath that Danny was manfully holding clogged in his throat. His heart almost arrested there and then, as Stef emerged, looking beautiful and as poised as ever. Danny watched him, knowing this was meant, to see him like this, and all Danny had to do was cross the road, and reach out his hand. Whilst Danny’s heart was trying not to arrest, it was also lurching with renewed love; Danny rubbed at his wet eyes, an annoyed little gesture, unable to fathom how his body, his senses, his emotions instinctively reacted to even a glimpse of Stef.
Stef, Stef, I’ve missed you desperately, Danny murmured silently, baby…
Baby.
Baby?
He went on looking, even as every fiber of him wanted to tear his gaze away. Danny’s eyes strained to comprehend what his heart was registering in quick time.
Betrayal. Laid bare, visceral, blood metallic to the taste, and all bets off for a happy ending.
Danny watched, entranced, a witness to the destruction of hope. His hope.
The rain was making the strangest sound, as if it was bouncing off the pavement so hard, the flags were cracking under the pressure.
Only that sound wasn’t rain. It was the sound of Danny’s heart, breaking into so many pieces, he felt his chest was imploding.
He went on watching, the car crash and ensuing wreckage of his dreams too unbearable to miss.
Stef held onto the little girl. Danny could tell by the way she was dressed, so pretty, beautiful actually…like Stef. The woman emerged, and she took the baby girl from Stef's arms. Stef stroked the baby’s cheek, smiling, talking to her, his head lowered so he could kiss her. The woman was laughing, relaxed, very French, with her hair piled on her head in a chic way, the effortlessness of her elegant appearance mocking Danny’s pain. Then, she twisted the knife; the same one Stef had used, before he’d left London. And she kissed Stef.
Danny emerged from shadow sanctuary, and stood under the streetlamp, by now burning a little brighter. Unlike Danny’s world, which had just flicked to permanent nocturne.
Stef kissed her back. To Danny, it was the exchange of deep intimacy in that kiss that really finished him; if they’d stood there, making out like teen stricken lovers, it wouldn’t have hurt as much as that kiss of sheer bonding did. Because they shared something in that bonding.
The baby girl.
Danny knew without a shadow of doubt that she was Stef’s. Danny was no baby expert, but the little girl, bouncy as a rosy apple, seemed at least six months old, and Stef was looking at her with unmasked adoration. Six months. So that left a lot of time for casual betrayal upon casual betrayal. Danny’s eyes moved from Stef to the woman. She was small, elfin almost, pretty in the extreme, but Danny thought her the stupidest soft touch that had ever taken a breath.
Apart from him, of course.
He wondered if she had any idea what her loving partner had been up to. And who with. Then, Danny imagined, as his febrile brain clutched at explanations, perhaps she does know, and that’s cool, because she is-so-fucking-cool…
The mystery seemed utterly banal in its revelation. Guy fucks guy, but is actually straight, or bi, or whatever sexuality denotes cheating, dissembling, two faced lying. Guy gets bored with fucking guy, goes back to girlfriend and baby, adventure over. Girlfriend accepts it as part of boyfriend’s life, the occasional man fuck, because he always-always-comes back to her.
The rain seemed to sympathize with Danny’s plight. The small, feather-light quality to it transformed to a harsher, drumming rhythm on the pavement. Cars whooshed past him, the rain quivering in the headlamps, the road bubbling with flowing water. It sure as hell never rained but what it was pouring down now. Pouring down Danny’s face, soaking his hair so that it appeared plastered to his brow and cheeks, his coat, distinctly un-waterproof, absorbing every particle of misery that he was feeling. Raindrops becoming the witnesses to a pain he’d been afraid of but was prepared to endure for Stef’s sake. And the rain, relentless, dispassionate in its flow, grew heavier, as the pain grew soul deep at Danny’s realization that Stef didn’t care about any of that.
Stef stood on the porch, talking animatedly to the woman. She was beckoning him to come back inside, but he shook his head, and kissed the little girl on her brow. The woman nodded at something Stef said to her, as he pulled up the collar on his coat; she smiled, then raised her eyes, glancing casually across the street, and at first she looked puzzled, curious perhaps.
Danny discovered that he couldn’t move. It was as if nothing would compel him to move, to walk away from everything he’d ever wanted. For it was hard to do such a thing, when one’s heart pulled like a magnet to the very source of its love.
And then, Danny saw the change.
The woman inclined her head, over Stef’s shoulder, to get a better look at the pale, rain soaked young man standing across the road, staring, staring as if he was in some desperate limbo, trance like. Danny saw the change, seeming in slow motion but the realization came in mere seconds; for Danny saw a strange recognition in her expression, the turn of her head, the intensity of her look.
She knows about me. She bloody knows about me…
Danny blinked rapidly. The rain was leadening his eyelashes, and little riv
ulets ran down his cheeks, sadness pooling into tiny droplets on his chilled skin. He shifted one foot then another, and forced himself to start walking away. As he did, Danny looked again and immobility seized him once more.
Because, locked in that gaze, there was nothing Danny could do. It held him, tethered by unseen bonds, and his body reacted with a rush of furious adrenaline. They looked at each other across the street, the rain pouring down, an unwitting participant within the circle of near unbearable heartbreak.
Danny felt pinned down, as if he were withering away, and his limbs grew numb; maybe from the cold settling into his bones, maybe from the way Stef was looking at him right now, eyes blazing, even in the drear dusk so clear to Danny.
And Stef just went on looking at him, as if unable to fathom that this was happening. That Danny was here, tangible, real, and no figment of those restless dreams that had haunted him most nights since he had returned to France. Always the same; searching a big old house, peering into every deserted, cold room, and never finding Danny. No psychologist required to work it out, thanks, Stef had told Madeleine, because the truth was so very prosaic.
Now, it was Danny who broke the spell.
He dragged his eyes away from Stef's gaze, and started walking. Quickly. One foot in front of another, back the way he’d came, Paul’s directions in reverse taking him to a dubious freedom. He paused momentarily, to take one last look. He swallowed hard. The woman had gone back inside, and Stef was trying to negotiate crossing the road; it was busier now, the time of day releasing folk from their offices to start the journey home. The cars streamed past, one after the other, and Danny looked on, hypnotized, seeing Stef’s frustration in the way he kept glancing over at Danny, then looking back at the traffic, evidently letting his feelings be known to the drivers. He stepped off the pavement, and started to weave between the traffic. As he did, Stef kept looking over to Danny, as if reassuring himself that yes, he was real, and holding onto Danny’s presence as a marker for his crossing the road in one, living piece.
