Wanderlust

I’d never in my life label myself as a particularly quiet person. When I was younger I would parade around the house with a hair brush, belting out the last song I had heard on the radio or television, butchering the notes and skipping over lyrics just to have my voice heard. Sure, my father was rarely home enough to catch my performances and my mother only acknowledged me enough to tell me to pipe down, but nothing dampened my spirit enough to stop the noise emitting from my small lungs. I figured maybe if I sung a little louder, stretched my voice that much further, then the whole street would hear me and smile at my monstrous efforts.

Of course, tiny little Lucy Callaghan had some growing up to do, and a few years down the track it became apparent that some things were enough to dampen my spirits. Some things did deter me from singing, even at the most important times where singing was actually my job and it wasn’t just for my parents to hear.

It was safe to say I had a lot on my mind. Firstly, I had caught wind that Danielle and Liam were going through a rough patch. If that didn’t wrench at my heart, I wasn’t sure what would. Danielle had been nothing short of lovely to me for the time I had known her, and to think I hadn’t been around to help her through something so intense as a could-be break up...

Granted, I was certain the perfect pair wouldn’t actually split, I still felt absolutely terrible for not being there for her. Harry, who was the one to tell me of the spat, assured me that Liam and Danielle were only going through what the boys liked to call a ‘pre-tour blue.’ That in itself opened up a whole new flood gate, because I wasn’t aware of any tour.

“Tour?” I had squeaked in pure surprise. I wasn’t daft to the meaning of the word, and I wasn’t daft to Harry’s career. He was inevitably one fifth of the biggest boy band in the world, and touring was just a part of the package. He looked awfully scared when the word slipped out of my mouth.

We were sitting on his bed, the dark blue duvet bundled at the end and all of the curtains drawn while ‘Abducted’ played from his flat screen across the room. I had only been in Harry’s room a handful of times, but it was soon becoming one of my favourite places. The temperature was always a little warmer than the rest of the flat and it always smelt scented thanks to the candles placed on several surfaces.

“Erm, yes.” He had confirmed, eyeing me a little closer as I sat up from my previous position against his chest. “America, and such.”

I could see it in his bright green eyes that he thought I’d be upset or angry, but I couldn’t find it in me to be. For starters, I had no right. It was his job and his passion, so who was I to be bothered by that? Also, a phone call from Kara only days prior had informed me that I myself would be travelling soon. At least, that was what she had hinted. I had yet to have the meeting she had booked for me at the Lawrence State building in a week’s time, but judging by our very short conversation, I would be pleased with the result.

“Oh, that sounds fun.” Was all I had managed to say to Harry as he watched me cautiously.
He didn’t look as though he believed my calm composure, but I was trying awfully hard to fade the conversation out by returning to my place against his chest, this time securing his arm around me, and turning my eyes to the screen.

It became apparent to me only after I had returned home that evening that I had completely forgotten about Danielle and Liam, which in turn made me feel even worse about my skills in the friendship department. While they were facing the dreaded ‘pre-tour blues’, there I was feeling sorry for myself.

Harry and I had only been dating for several weeks – still surprisingly un-noticed. After it became clear that the Paris pictures weren’t going to surface any time soon, Harry and I agreed that keeping a low profile might be best. It wasn’t as though we were trying to hide anything; the press speculated enough for us to not bother with denial statements. Still, as Kara had said, sometimes publicity was best left unattended. I wasn’t too sure what that meant, but Kara’s judgement was best as far as I was concerned.

But, beyond my friends facing ‘pre-tour blues’ and my boyfriend inevitably leaving the country in a month and half’s time, my biggest problem yet was still facing me head on.

I had half a mind to call my mother and have her behead my brother herself.

William and I weren’t the perfect set of siblings, that much was obvious, but never in a million years would I imagine him to treat me so poorly. I never liked playing the victim, but I couldn’t imagine acting otherwise because, as far as I could tell, I hadn’t done anything wrong!

The insufferable twat hadn’t been home in weeks. Or, he had been home, but only when I was out. I couldn’t imagine him surviving on one pair of underwear for this long, though I’m sure that girl already had a few pairs at her house. Because I just knew that was where he was. With Lila. The girl who had started this feud, the girl who had torn me to pieces only to have him agree with her. Gone were the days where I would cry into Harry’s arms or, on particularly lonely days, my bed’s largest pillow; now, I was just angry.

If he thought for a minute that I would be the one to try and ease our pain, then he would be sorely mistaken.

With him out of the house and Harry doing more press than I thought possible for a single day, I was left quite alone. The rest of the band was of course out of the question because when Harry was busy, they were as well. Eleanor was up in Manchester visiting for her mum’s birthday and Danielle hadn’t answered her phone for some time now.

I had watched enough bad British television to last me a life time and I was one infomercial away from a cardiac arrest, so it was safe to say I needed a bit of fresh air. I hadn’t been to the studio in some time, half because I was only two tracks away from finishing and half because I was spending more time feeling sorry for myself. Michael assured me every time I rang him that there wasn’t any rush for me to come for a visit, that forcing myself would only produce bad music, and so when I left the flat that dreary Tuesday morning, my feet didn’t steer me anywhere near Collin and Collin Production Studios.

It had been a while since I had walked anywhere, usually opting for the car of a taxi cab, but something about my current state of mind thought it best to go by foot. My intended destination wasn’t too far off, ten minute foot traffic tops, but that apparently didn’t stop the media parasites to latch onto me as soon as my Oxfords hit the pavement.

I had never been one too savvy with a security team, mainly because I thought it unnecessary. When I was walking around the streets of Sydney or Melbourne or even Queensland – where press was at its toughest – the most intense a flock of cameras would get was about a couple of hours worth of hovering from afar and perhaps thirty minutes up close. And, even then, their version of up close had nothing on London. In Australia, I could handle it. I could handle seeing flashes in my peripherals while I roamed Main Street in my thongs and a beach bag. I could handle being asked things like ‘How’s your day going, Luce?’ as I made my way home with a bag of oranges. That, I could handle.

But, sometimes, I couldn’t handle a camera or seven being thrust into my face as I tried so desperately to get from point A to point B, which was exactly why my only experience with a team of large men hovering several feet away was when I was on American ground, visiting for either production or event. For some reason The United States liked me enough to follow me quite closely whenever I happened to step foot on their land. I suppose it was because my time spent there was for rather large movie shoots or award shows, and so I held some sort of high celebrity standard; but in London I did not.

It never occurred to me that while in the UK I might be bombarded so heavily by media that I may need extra protection, because I didn’t come to the country to promote anything or appear in anything. I came here on my own leisure and, sure, I may have befriended another pop star or five, but I found that no reason to await my arrival at my doorstep and begin screaming in my face as soon as I appeared.

Though I was very quick to realise that these hoard of men following me down Southern Regent Street weren’t bothering me with their usual questions like ‘Off to see Harry, are we?’ and ‘What do you think of Chris Hemsworth saying you’re his celebrity crush?’ Instead, they were befuddling me with phrases involving William’s name, which instantly caught my attention.

“What do you think of your brother dating Lila Waterford?” One man shouted, hitting me with a flash so close to my face I was sure it would be useless for print.

My brow line deepened at his words, because what sort of question was that? Lila Waterford? I had never had a conversation with Lila long enough to learn her last name, but I could only assume this was it.

“Are you close to the Waterfords? To Maggie?”

It wasn’t the first time I had been confused by a cameraman’s questions. I remember so vividly the first time I had been hit with the ‘Is it true you and Justin hooked up despite he and Selena’s relationship?’ I had been so perplexed by the rumour that TMZ caught a very nice close up of me spitting “what?” with quite a dumb look on my face. Kara had later near castrated me for even taking a second glance at the man.

I cut a glance to the balding man who had sent me the question, unaccustomed to the threatening smirk he was sending me beneath his ever flashing camera.

I wasn’t sure who this Maggie was, nor any of the other Waterfords other than the one who had my brother in a brainwash, but I was very curious as to why it was relevant enough to have be ambushed for.

“Getting any free copies of The Stargazer now?” The same man hollered, earning a string of laughs from all of the aging men on my tail.

The Stargazer? I couldn’t help but be intrigued by this question. The Stargazer was a well known tabloid of London, infamous for their ’What Went Wrong?’ segment in which they tore apart celebrity fashion statements and picked out flaws and defaults. I hadn’t the foggiest why I should be getting free copies of the magazine, but I digressed, excusing myself harshly from the hoard and cutting into the entrance of the large shopping complex to my right. Fortunately the cameras were declined entry by two burly men at the doors, firmly stood between the buildings insides and the public footpath.

The atmosphere inside of the shopping mall was far less stuffy than that of the footpath. Though I didn’t have several other bodies taking up my air supply anymore, it was still rather deserted. It was only around ten in the morning, which was opportune time to get about without worrying that a school child would spot me and bring to attention that Lucy Callaghan was out for display.

I stepped rather tentatively toward the shops lining the right side of the building. I had never been to a complex in London before and it was proving to be quite a feat. Shop after shop sat tightly packed surrounding a large walkway, potted plants sitting beside benches and small kiosks. I had only two shops in mind for this particular trip, one suddenly more urgent than the other.

My eyes scanned each display carefully, waiting for the right advertisement before finally I found the exact store I was looking for. It was quite cramped, as I found most news agencies to be. While the entire proximity was covered in stationary and news leaflets, it was also trying its hardest to promote the small aisle of food it had to offer, taking up most of the walkway and then some. I headed straight for the back of the store where I came to find a very large display of magazines. Eyeing around the sports illustrateds and the home improvement journals, I finally found it.

When my eyes finally landed on the beaming title ’Stargazer’, I wasn’t expecting my stomach to drop so quickly. There, right on the cover, was a large picture of Danielle and Liam, a large cartoonish tear imitated right through their linked hands and the word SPLITSVILLE? marked at their feet. I could already tell I didn’t like this magazine, regardless of whether I should be getting free copies of it.

I near ran up to the counter, watching the older Asian lady look at me with sceptical eyes as she rung up the tabloid along with a stick of gum I felt the need to buy. I made sure to stick the booklet into my handbag as I ventured out of the store, noticing that eyes were starting to hover while I traipsed right on through the complex until I reached the final store for my journey.

I had woken up that morning with something in the back of my mind telling me I needed a change in my life. Of course, while gaining a beautiful boy to call my own while also losing a brother was enough change for my year thus far, it wasn’t the exact personal, physical change that was nagging at my mind. As soon as the next thought occurred to me, I cast it aside. My mother, being the talented hairdresser that she was, was the only person to ever touch my hair. It took her weeks and weeks to perfect the ombré effect that flowed through my mane, but it was well worth it because we both fell in love with the result.

I told myself, as I was leaving the flat that morning, that I deserved a trim. The Vogue shoot alone could vouch for that. The amount of teasing and heating and spraying and mousing that went on in that short forty-eight hours was enough damage to last me a life time, and so as I approached the counter of the store entitled ‘Ornate Salon’ I asked the young woman if there was any possible chance for them to fit me in for a cut.

The woman, whose shirt had the name Kiana sewn into it, looked up amidst her tight brown curls and left us in what I’ll admit was a very awkward silence. I knew fairly quickly that she had recognised me, but she didn’t appear the type to faint about it. I wasn’t being arrogant by thinking that, I swear, it had actually happened before.

“I, uh, I think... I mean, yes. Yes, we can.” She looked down at the booklet sitting before her, before looking up again with a confused expression adorning her softer features.

“Just this way, Miss Callaghan.”

I told her very quietly that Lucy would do just fine. I didn't really like being referred to as Miss Callaghan when the person saying it could have very easily been my age, it just didn't feel right. But, even so, she proceeded to direct me to a chair and ask “can I get you anything, Miss Callaghan?” Once I told her I was completely fine, I listened as she promised to return with a stylist in no time.

Her curly hair bounced away quickly and reminded me instantly of Danielle’s mane of ringlets. The magazine in my bag felt heavier at the thought, urging me to remove it and crack it open to read the damage it promised by its front page. Before I could even reach for my purse, a small girl with her long, shining black hair tied back into sleek ponytail approached me, her hands fidgeting with her belt’s apron which held several scissors and many combs.

“Miss Callaghan?” She asked, her face exploding into a smile. “I’m sorry; I’m just such a big fan. I’m Amy - I’ll be cutting your hair, if you’d like.”

I never knew why people found the need to apologise before offering their admittance to being a fan, but I smiled at her anyway, absolutely grateful as ever.

“Thank you, that means a lot. It’s nice to meet you.” I could feel my cheeks growing hot, but I tried my hardest to settle them by swivelling in my chair quickly and facing the mirror, finding Amy’s gaze in the reflection. “I was only hoping for a trim.”

Amy perked up, her blue eyes tracing up and down my length of hair several times over.

“Right. Okay. Let me just get you a smock.”

She walked away very quickly, dashing behind and black door and leaving me to stare at my own face in wonder. I couldn’t handle the anticipation much longer before I felt my hands delving into my bag and returning with the magazine in my lap. The large picture lay staring at me, causing a frown to cover my face, but something smaller, in the very corner of the glossy page, caught my eye as well.

It was a picture of me, and not only me, but William as well. Judging by my outfit, it was taken on the very same day that I came across Niall Horan in that small café, a beanie perched on my head and my eyes covered by a pair of aviators. William and I’s expressions were fairly matching, mouths pulled downward and eyebrows kinked to appear hostile. All and all, it wasn’t a very flattering shot. The words accompanying out small portrait were even less flattering: ’Battle of the Callaghans – pg. 12’

I couldn’t stop myself. Even as I passed the large article concerning Danielle and Liam, my fingers raced for page twelve. Just as I found the page, Amy returned, smock in hand.
She quickly swung it around my shoulders, covering the front of me as I settled back into the seat.

“Just a trim, yeah?” she confirmed, seemingly more confident than she was two minutes ago. I smiled up at her.

“Just a trim.”

I didn’t bother to watch her work her magic as my eyes returned to the pages on my lap. A larger picture of myself was now printed out, quite an old one from back home. I was racing off somewhere, my hair was flying about and I could almost cringe at my clothing choice. Beside the picture was a smaller one of William, taken from some red carpet event where he looked rather nice in a suit and bowtie.

I didn’t waste much time with the decoration of the article, only focusing my attention to the printed words beside all the captions and pictures.

’What was once a force to be reckoned with,’ it read, is now a force against itself. The Callaghan duo, Lucy and William, 19, 21, recently graced London with their permanent presence earlier this year, confirming their stay as the ‘Fireball’ actress admitted to wanting some downtime. Insiders say the two are a tight knit pair, born and raised on the beach of Sydney, Australia. However, upon shipping themselves across a couple of ponds, tensions are high and tempers are hotter. Lucy, who is said to be working on an album, tight lipped and very excited, has recently been attached to a string of rumours involving boy band phenomenon One Direction, particularly infamously flirty member Harry Styles. The pair has been photographed numerous times together, cosy as can be, and recently underwent fire and rage due to a picture posted on Styles twitter account (see below.) The picture has since been deleted, but sources say that the photograph was only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Lucy and William’s seemingly unbreakable bond.

A close friend of the pair has confirmed that their relationship just isn’t what it used to be, supposed arguments lasting into the night and several verbal brawls over lifestyle choices being had constantly. Many of William’s tweets have hinted that a step away from the young starlet is a breath of fresh air, suggesting that perhaps the sweet, girl-next-door image might be a thing of the past for the young beauty. Could the Callaghans’ move to the big city of London be changing the impressionable Australian bombshell? Let us know what you think online at Stargazer.co.uk now!’

I was left staring at the pages longer than what was necessary. The article was only one page long, nothing double-feature spread worthy, but the damage was clearly there. Information had been leaked about William and I’s debacle; something which was very, very private and very, very quiet. Our own parents weren’t even aware of our fighting, but somehow this magazine, this Stargazer knew the ins and outs of our arguments like they had been in the room with us.

Suddenly, it occurred to me. My fingers went flying through the thin pages like they were wrapping to a heavily anticipated Christmas gift, tearing at the edges and creasing the corners until I hit the very first page. My eyes skimmed desperately for the words I knew I’d find, flying past the printing company’s information and the style team’s email addresses until there it was, at the very top, in bolded cursive:

Editor in Chief: Maggie Waterford.

I jumped in such a shock that I hardly heard the small gasp from behind me. All my mind could register was that this woman, this Maggie Waterford, was somehow related to that girl.
That girl who was hell bent on tearing my brother and I apart, with what I now knew were very vicious intentions. I could feel my cheeks growing hotter and hotter by the second, my blood boiling at the picture in my head which displayed a coy-eyed Lila dishing out in great detail the dirty laundry that were Will and I’s horrific arguments.

I probably would have growled, or snarled, or made some equally disturbing sound, had it not been for the whimpered out ‘Miss Callaghan’ from behind my chair. I ripped my gaze upward, staring straight at the dishevelled looking Amy as she held her small silver scissors up and away from my head.

“I, I can’t, I,” she stuttered mindlessly, her glassy eyes looking around desperately. “I didn’t, oh my God, I’m so sorr-“

I spun my chair around quickly, alarmed by the small girl’s composure, “What happened? Are you okay?”

She started shaking her head back and forth, stepping away from me like I would bite her.

“I’m so, so, so sorry, Miss Callaghan.”

It suddenly dawned on me that, aside from the silver utensil, she was not empty handed. In her right hand, dangling from her dainty fingers was a long blonde chunk of hair. My hair.

I stared at the strands falling through her fingers completely speechless, watching as her eyes grew larger and her face grew paler. Several girls by the counter, Kiana and another, were left staring at Amy and myself with equally shocked looks upon their faces.

“It’s okay,” I assured quickly, spinning back around to face the large vanity mirror. I looked at myself once more before I was absolutely sure of my next words.

“Cut it all off.”

Even I wasn’t prepared for the instruction I had given her but, after much assurance, I watched with still a heavily beating heart as young Amy snipped and snipped at my long hair until, finally, all traces of blonde were gone and I was left with brunette hair just skimming an inch below my collarbone. I couldn’t tell you exactly want made me do it. An irrational judgement? A scornful attitude? Maybe just the need to watch something get hacked at. Whatever it was, it felt good. And, better yet, it looked good.

I hadn’t ever had short hair in my entire life, thanks to a mother who knew good treatments and a bank account willing to allow such expenses, but short hair suited me just fine, if I were to say so myself. Not only that, but it didn’t attract any recognising glances, which was probably lucky because I wasn’t sure I wanted any as I left ‘Ornate Salon’ that dreary Tuesday morning with a face that could only be described as malevolent.

I stormed out of there with a fire in me that I could not once recall ever having felt before, a folded copy of The Stargazer tucked neatly under my arm and a very spiteful attitude toward anyone with the last name Waterford.