Heavy Heart

She hardly slept a wink that night, curled in Harry’s arms in their shared bed at the Hotel de Crillon. All she could think about were three things: how much the sheets she was sleeping on cost, what other ludicrously rich people had slept on them before her, and that all of her boyfriend’s adoring fans wanted her dead.

By the time the sound of those harsh words against her faded from her mind and were replaced by dreams, Harry was kissing her awake with prodding lips. Her lids fluttered open to find him smiling, his hair completely disheveled and sleep still clouding his eyes.

“Good morning,” he murmured, pressing another persistent kiss to her lips. “I just spoke with Lou and El. How do you feel about going to breakfast with them?”

Daria rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands, trying to get them to adjust to the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off every luxurious surface of the room. “Breakfast sounds good, sure,” she replied through a yawn, pressing a quick kiss back on the very corner of his mouth.

“El’s favorite place is here,” he answered, tracing little circles on Daria’s bare shoulder. “We always have to go whenever we’re in town; she’s absolutely crazy about the croissants.”

“A croissant sounds good,” Daria mumbled, sitting up in bed. She tried to calculate the amount of hour’s rest she got the night before in her head, but she couldn’t come up with the time she finally fell asleep. Three o’clock blended together with four o’clock, which ultimately blended together with the rest. The clock now read nine. She sighed.

“And afterwards we’re going to meet up with Zayn and Niall, if that’s alright,” he continued, the million dollar smile in full force. “We were thinking we could go to the Louvre, or Notre Dame or something. Since it’s your first time in Paris and all.”

“What’s Liam up to?”

“He has plans with Estée,” he answered with a shrug, running a hand through her hair and pushing it back from her face. She gave him a smile, truly happy for Liam and whatever was going on with this girl. He must have really liked her to give up a day in Paris with his best friends to be with her. But her happiness for him couldn’t outweigh the awful feelings from the night before.

Harry looked at her with a puzzled expression, like he was trying to read her and didn’t quite know how. His fingertips grazed the edges of her chin, ginger and sweet.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his lips just inches from hers. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

“Yeah,” she lied. “I’m fine. Just still so sleepy.”

“Well, up an’ at ‘em love,” he murmured, kissing her softly once more before leaping from the bed. “You have a city to see.”

Daria sighed as she rolled out of bed, pressing her head in between her knees in an attempt to get her wits about her. Harry’s humming as he brushed his teeth made her heart feel a little lighter, the events from the day before fading a little bit in her memory. In the end, the fans could hate her all they wanted. She was the one who got to wake up to his sanguine kisses, who got to listen to his off-key humming, who got to lie in his arms all night – regardless of whether or not she got any sleep. At the end of the day, she was his and he was hers, and that was all she could ask for.

Eleanor and Louis were already at the restaurant, holding their spot in the long line that snaked out the door. Thankfully they’d made it inside, protecting them from the sneaking cold of the early morning. Eleanor’s face lit up at the sight of Daria, immediately enveloping her in a hug. She was wearing the most sweetly delicate perfume Daria had ever smelled, perfectly encapsulating exactly what she had come to know of Eleanor in the less-than-24-hours since they met.

“I’m starving,” she breathed as she pulled away, tugging on Louis’s hand expectantly. “What if they run out of croissants?”

“They’re not gonna run out of croissants, El, that’s what they’re known for,” he insisted, inching forward as the line moved. “And even if so, you won’t die if you try one of the other ridiculously delicious items on the menu.”

They were quickly interrupted by a group of fans that wanted pictures with the boys, which left Daria and Eleanor to stare longingly at the case of pastries at the front of the line. It was filled to the brim with every breakfast pastry imaginable – croissants, petit fours, tarts, and macaroons in every color of the rainbow. Daria longed to go into the kitchen and see how they all were made, her heart aching for her kitchen back home at the Yellow Spoon.

After Eleanor got her croissant and Daria ordered an assortment of just about everything in the case to share with Harry, they took a seat at a table by the window as to watch the morning go by. But Daria wasn’t so much as one bite into her puff pastry when a flash blinded her through the glass.

The paparazzi had found them already, and they’d only been out for not even a half hour. “You just have to ignore them,” Harry comforted her, squeezing her hand. “They’re going to be everywhere. French paparazzi are notorious for being assholes.”

Daria remembered that Princess Diana’s death was at the hands of the French paparazzi and she took a deep breath. She was no Princess Diana, but she’d dealt with her fair share of media fanfare. Couldn’t she ever just get a day’s break? Eleanor appeared unfazed, continuing on picking apart the flaky crust of her croissant. She’d grown used to the attention, and Daria willfully decided that if Eleanor could do it, so could she.

They fought through the paparazzi on the way to the car, Daria keeping her head down while her arm wrapped tight around Harry’s. The cameramen shouted questions to them as they marched through their barricade, cameras flashing all the while.

“What are you all doing in France today? Harry, look over here! Louis, is it true that you and Eleanor are engaged?”

Finally they reached the car, Daria climbing in the back seat with Harry. She found herself feeling a little shell shocked, as she always did after an encounter with the paparazzi – this one more scathing than ones in the past. Harry immediately gripped her shoulders with both hands, an unusually serious expression gracing his normally relaxed face.

“Daria, I need you to listen to me, okay?” he insisted sternly, and she nodded fervently in response. “I need you to not talk to them, under any circumstances, without me. They know you don’t have any media training and will go after you like sharks. Okay? Actually, it may be better if you just don’t talk to them at all.”

“Okay,” Daria assured him softly, Harry’s sudden change in desperation catching her by surprise. “Okay, that’s fine.”

They met Niall and Zayn at Notre Dame, the boys having already planned out the day between them. Daria and Zayn snapped photos with ridiculous faces beneath the Eiffel Tower, Louis laughing at them the entire time from behind the camera. She and Niall sampled every bit of street food they came across. Eleanor dragged her into the flagship Dior to ooh-and-ah while the boys tried on suits at Hermès. Harry even suggested they have their portrait done by a street artist, the sprawling, sparkling river as a backdrop. The paparazzi trailed behind them the entire way, along with a smattering of fans, but Daria ceased to mind. She was having much too much fun in the most romantic city on Earth with her new friends.

Finally, they arrived at the Louvre, the highlight of Daria’s day. The history embedded in the walls of that beautiful building was almost too much for her to bear. But perhaps most of all, she knew her father had been there once on a business trip. He’d taken the time to see some sights, bringing back a book on art history for her to begin to study. He always wanted her to be well rounded.

She paused at the top of the steps, almost feeling his presence with her. Taking a deep breath of the crisp, November air, she could swear that if she closed her eyes he would be with her.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. She gave him a small smile before glancing out across the courtyard in front of them.

“Yeah,” Daria hummed delicately. “It’s silly, but I feel like my dad stood here once. I feel like I can feel him right here.”

Harry gave her a slightly puzzled look before closing his eyes and pausing for a moment. When he opened them, he smiled back, his bright emerald irises glowing. “You know, I think I can feel him, too.”

Daria’s smile grew at Harry’s words, pressing her head to his chest as he kissed the peak of her forehead. She pulled back once more and pressed a long, passionate kiss to his lips, earning a little laugh from Harry at the sudden nature. Though she doubted that Harry actually knew what it would feel like to be in her father’s presence, she appreciated him trying. The thought of her father being there, smiling at them with his approval was a precious thought. She could feel it in her bones and she carried that feeling with her as the left the spot and entered the museum.

She snuck a picture of “The Raft of Medusa” when she hoped no one was looking and sent it to Olivia. She felt guilty viewing all this art that her best friend would have loved to see, especially with Daria along to listen as the explained everything. Daria couldn’t help but muse to herself that the tour would have been better if Olivia was leading it rather than the bland, overworked tour guide.

“That was amazing!” Daria ruminated excitedly as she exited the building. “I wasn’t expecting the Mona Lisa to be quite that small – I mean I knew it was small but not that small. And that statue at the end! I can’t believe someone actually carved that from marble!”

Though she was greeted with the brisk chill of the early evening air, not a single one of her friends’ voices returned to her. She glanced around her feverishly, only to realize that she was completely alone. Alone in the sense that she knew no one around her, that is; it was amazingly busy at the museum that Sunday afternoon. As she decided to head back into the gift shop to look for her friends, the busyness seemed to multiply around her, this time magnified with the bright flashes of camera bulbs.

Daria shaded her eyes, the panic bubbling inside her. Voices she didn’t recognize were calling, shouting questions at her that she didn’t have answers to. Rumors about the band, rumors about Eleanor, rumors about her. Even rumors about Birmingham itself, things about the polo team and some supposed scandal. She kept her lips pressed closed, her eyes attempting to search past all the lights for her boyfriend’s shock of curly hair.

“Who are you wearing today, Daria?”

That particular question struck a chord in her, from its innocent nature and the fact that whoever asked called her by name. It was as though for a moment, the paparazzi saw her as a real person, not just as a set of dollar signs in their eyes.

“My coat is Ted Baker,” she answered quietly. “I know that much. And I think this bag is Salvatore Ferragamo, is that how you say it?”

“Yes,” came a stunned voice from the front, surprised that Daria had answered.

“And my shoes are from H&M,” she continued gingerly, her voice shaking a little bit. “I’ve had them for ages.”

There was a pause of silence, as though they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. Daria felt internally proud of herself for successfully interacting with the dreaded photographers. That pride quickly faded, however. One simple answer opened a floodgate of questions and Daria wished she’d never opened her mouth in the first place. All the attention was making her mouth grow dry, making actually forming responses difficult in the first place.

“Are you enjoying your time in Paris?”

“Yes, very much so,” she responded graciously.

“How do you afford you clothes?”

“I mostly don’t,” she answered. “Litzy Thompson has lent me a lot of the stuff that’s gotten me noticed. She’s my stylist, in a way.”

“What is the secret to your signature top-knot?”

Daria could only laugh at that one.

Most of the questions seemed good natured from that point, and Daria began to question why Harry had any problem with the paparazzi at all. They joked with Daria, their camera flashes a little less abrasive, recording her voice to play back for magazines. While the attention was overwhelming, it seemed to be all fun and games. They didn’t mean to be malicious with her; they just were doing their job. Until one question came, louder than the others, from the back of the group.

“How do you feel about Harry’s player status?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, a little taken aback. She wasn’t aware of any status that Harry maintained as a ‘player.’

“You mean you don’t know about his dating past?” She shook her head in response. “He’s been linked to all sorts of women before you, Daria. Older women, at that. All kinds of women. They call him the flirt, you know.”

All she could do was stand there and listen to the man talking to her, soaking it all in. The first thing that came to her mind was Eleanor’s words the day before, asking her if she had finally ‘tamed’ Harry. Finally, she understood what they meant. Finally, she understood that she could very well be the flavor of the month, something to keep on the side while he recorded and London, something to discard as soon as she returned to the States.

“Don’t you ever worry about him hurting you? Leaving you for someone more famous?”

Just at that moment, Harry chose to barrel through the thick rows of paparazzi encircling his girlfriend, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her out. “What is your problem?” he shouted accusingly, pulling Daria close to him as he began to walk her briskly away from the group. “Preying on a girl like her. You’re all fucking sick, you know that?”

“You’re going to get in trouble for that, Haz,” Louis warned lowly as they marched away from the museum.

“Well then fuck whoever tries to get me in trouble for defending my girlfriend,” he growled, his voice icy. “Are you alright, Daria?”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, her wavering voice a new whisper.

Those two words formed the biggest lie Daria Holmes had ever told. She was very much so far from fine. As a matter of fact, she was anything but.