His aggression in business won him consistent headlines and cringe-worthy nicknames like ‘Dirty Danny’ and ‘Danny the Destroyer’. My favourite circling social media is ‘Wanker Walker’.
Social gatherings with Danny Walker fill me with dread. It stems back to when I was 20, and drunk out of my head at one of Tristan’s house parties. Tristan had naively allowed Cat and me to attend, so we started drinking cider on the train there to get us in the mood.
That night I made a critical judgment in error. I misread Danny Walker’s attempt at conversation as flirting.
As he was chatting to me about my plans after uni, my natural next step was to climb onto his knee, wrap my legs around his waist and attempt to dry hump the hell out of him.
My recollection of the events of that night is sketchy, but I do remember that he outright rejected me. That part has been imprinted in my brain ever since.
The next morning I woke up, hanging off the sofa in Tristan’s apartment with Tristan yelling at me. Danny was nowhere in sight.
Why I ever thought that Danny Walker would be interested in me was the most naive mistake I’ve ever made.
I can’t even keep up with what he is saying; as he discusses IPOs and other acronyms and jargon with Tristan, I have to pretend I’m not looking it up online. It means Initial Public Offering for reference.
My contribution to the conversation is nodding repeatedly like a pigeon.
I remember him snapping at me to get off him like he thought I was a stupid, irrelevant college student. He wasn’t far off the mark.
I can only blame the booze and it was my first time tasting oysters. I was ramming those suckers into me, not realising they were making me as horny as a bonobo in the jungle.
It’s Tristan’s fault, really, for providing oysters.
The guy has barely mustered a smile at me since, which is fine because 8 years later, I still can’t look at him without going scarlet.
“So, where is it?” Cat peers over my shoulder. “Kensington? This is definitely a free bar, right?”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “Tristan always puts his hands in his pockets.”
“Let’s have one for the road. So I have the guts to mingle with all these city suits.”
“OK, just one,” I warn. “You know you are a lightweight. I’m not propping you up all night.” One wine each, transitions into finishing the bottle.
I become more sophisticated after a bottle of wine, slimmer too, I think as I pass the mirror on the way out.
Ten minutes later, we are in the taxi, and I realise that polishing a bottle of wine off was a big mistake. Big. Huge.
Cat was a bad passenger sober, never mind after guzzling a litre of cheap corner shop wine.
The taxi driver had met people like Cat before. An intimidating ‘spew and I’ll sue’ sign glares at us from the back of his seat.
In a matter of minutes, she turns to me, her eyes bulging. I see quick swallow movements in her throat. Then a silent spray of vomit splatters on my feet.
I stare dismayed between my feet and the sign. She had already got some over the seat, so we couldn’t ask for the driver to stop now, or he would see it and potentially sue us. I would be guilty by association. Luckily he hadn’t noticed yet.
“Do it quietly,” I whisper.
To her credit, she was a quiet vomiter despite the violent heaving of the shoulders. A pool of yellow liquid builds up on the floor around our shoes, and I pray the driver doesn’t turn around.
I babble on, having a monologue with myself that won’t require answers from Cat to distract him from the retching sounds.
As we drive around Hyde Park, the vomiting thankfully subsides.
We come to a halt outside a very lavish bar. I spot some of Tristan’s friends mingling outside.
“Are you done?” I grit out, facing her.
Her lips wriggle, but she doesn’t respond. She swings the taxi door open aggressively, narrowly missing a passing car.
“Fuck’s sake, Cat!” I hiss, clambering out of the taxi.
She runs round to meet me on the pavement, then opens her mouth and expels the dirtiest, loudest, most offensive burp I’ve ever heard.
I put my hands to my mouth in shock. Tristan’s friends abruptly stop talking and whip their heads around.
“Jesus, Cat,” I snarl at her. “Talk about making an entrance”. “I’m sorry,” she wails, eyes wide. “It wouldn’t stay in.” “Are you done now?” I bark.
She nods her head meekly. “That was the last of it”.
“Never again,” I mutter, regretting my date selection.
She looks up at the bar, ignoring Tristan’s friends still eyeballing us, and lets out a slow whistle. “Champagne it is then.”
The bar is as prestigious as they come. Two beautiful hostesses stand at the door with clipboards, their sole purpose in life to make me feel inadequate and unworthy of entry.
They are surrounded by four burly bouncers who are eyeing us suspiciously.
It looked like one of Tristan’s private member clubs. He must have rented out the entire bar for the evening.
The largest bouncer puts his hand out to block us as we ascend the steps.
“Sorry, we have a certain type of clientele here. Ones that do not belch at the door.”
“This is my brother’s party,” I retort, trying to look dignified. “My name’s Charlie, and my brother has paid a small fortune for this venue, so let us in.”
One of the clipboard chicks flicks through the list then looks up at us in disappointment. “Fine,” she snaps, “but keep her under control.” She wiggles a finger in disgust at Cat.
Cat pouts. “I’m actually a teacher in a very prestigious school in Highgate.”