In Trouble, Deep

The warehouse is lit like a nightclub: neon tubes, dry ice, chrome scaffolding. Dancers stretch in sequined bodysuits. Assistants run cables. A wind machine hums in the corner, waiting for its cue.

Danny stands in the middle of it all, wearing a mint-green designer suit with padded shoulders and a silk shirt buttoned to the throat. His hair is bouffant, lacquered, almost architectural. He moves vaguely in time with the playback while the dancers orbit him, dazzling enough to distract from the fact he can’t dance.

He’s famous now. Glossy. Remote. A brand. And beneath the gloss, a quiet humiliation.

Spud —once the chaotic liability— has become a respected indie producer. Every week the music press raves about some new band he’s shaped, all jagged guitars and authenticity. Danny listens to their demos in secret, feeling something sharp twist inside him. He’s jealous of the noise, the mess, the credibility.

His girlfriend —six feet of angles and cheekbones— poses on a mirrored platform, her limbs arranged by the director like she’s a sculpture. She’s in the video as much as he is. Maybe more.

Danny doesn’t see Julie at first. She’s carrying a clipboard and a roll of gaffer tape, wearing jeans, trainers, a production hoodie. Glasses. Hair tied back. She’s trying to slip past him to hand off a prop to the art department.

He turns at the wrong moment and nearly collides with her.

“Oh...sorry,” he says, stepping back.

She freezes. “It’s fine.”

He squints. “Julie?”

She nods once, like she wishes she could deny it.

He looks genuinely startled. “I didn’t know you were working on this.”

“I’m just helping out. Intern stuff.” She tries to move past him.

He steps aside but doesn’t let her leave. “How long has it been?”

“Years,” she says. “You’re… busy. I should...”

He notices the photograph in the little window on her shoulder bag before she can hide it. A toddler in a knitted jumper, grinning at the camera.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

She hesitates. “My son.”

He waits. She sighs, pulls the photo free and hands it to him like it’s something incriminating. “His name is Daniel.”

Danny blinks. “After...?”

“No,” she says quickly. “Mark chose it. He was… a fan, remember?.”

There’s a silence that feels like a bruise being ignored.

Danny studies the picture. The boy has wide eyes. A serious little mouth. Something familiar in the shape of his face.

And then, out of nowhere, he thinks: Would Julie have danced to this? The music he makes now —glossy, rhythmic and empty— he’d always told himself it was for the charts, for the clubs, for the brand. But maybe it was for her. Or for who she used to be. That teenage girl in a paisley blouse, spinning in a student disco, laughing at his cheap synth.

He looks at her now: tired, guarded, practical. A woman who probably doesn’t dance any more.

Julie reaches for the photo. “I need to get back.”

“Julie... about Mark...”

Her whole body stiffens. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t...”

“I know you didn’t do anything,” she says, too fast. “But you know people. And people know what you want without you saying it.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. He doesn’t know what he wanted. He doesn’t know what he wants now.

“You look tired,” he repeats softly.

She gives a small, humourless laugh. “I’m a single mum living with my mother. Tired is the baseline.”

He wants to say something kind. Or clever. Or meaningful. But the words don’t come.

A shadow falls over them. Danny’s girlfriend appears, all limbs and perfume and impatience. “Baby, they need you for the next setup.” She looks at Julie like she’s a smudge on the lens.

Julie steps back automatically. “I should go.”

Danny tries to hold her gaze, but the girlfriend loops an arm through his, pulling him toward the lights. “Come on,” she says. “We’re losing daylight.”

Julie turns away first. Danny lets himself be led. He doesn’t look back because he doesn’t trust what he might do.