Like Clouds Cross Skies

I've been blaming this shit mood on a two-day hangover. Everyone's swallowing the excuse, but I know that Lianne isn't. She knows for a fact that I wasn't drunk enough to warrant this 'hangover'. She tried cheering me up all of Sunday, and I went along with it to keep her happy. But there was only so much I could take of her going on about the feature she's writing on Harry. 'My Week With Harry'. You have no idea how pleased she was with that play on 'My Week With Marilyn'.

When I stumbled from the club into the night air, Lianne wasn't too pleased. But I only had to mention Aaron's name and her expression softened. She waited with me for a cab, insisting she should come back too, but I managed to detach her limpid-like hands from my arm and convince her that returning to Harry was a better idea.

I guess it just didn't help things when I got home and looked at my phone for the first time that night. I had a text from Aaron, and even though I'd deleted his number I knew it was him. Well done for moving on so fast. Have fun with that boy band prick.

And after that I felt like shit. I'd spoken to Harry for a minute at least and already it had been thrown back in my face. My past came tearing back like a freight train.

“Jake, did you say table three?”

He fixes me with his best supercilious look, pausing in his chopping of peppers. “Are you going deaf, Kailey? Yes, table three, get a move on!”

“Okay, okay, I'm going!” I say, hurriedly taking the dishes from the hot plate.

Jake eyes my smile scornfully. When he's annoyed he's just funny.

I emerge from the humid heat of the kitchen into the restaurant proper. It's only a Monday lunchtime, but as always we're busy. I don't know when Chesters became so popular, but I can see why it did. For all Jake's tantrums as head chef, he makes the best Mexican food I know.

I navigate the tables to the right one, the heat from the plates beginning to become uncomfortable. “The Mexican chicken chimichangas? And the chilli with tortilla chips? There we are, enjoy your meal!”

Passing the doorway to the bar, I notice a group of people standing around. I suppose Jake will just have to wait. Fixing them with a smile, I greet them and ask if they have a booking.

“Yeah, 1:00 for Thompson.”

I scan the ledger and find the name. The bell dings as more people enter the restaurant. I'm going to be stuck at the bar for a while, I can tell. Yet at the perfect moment, Donnie materialises in the doorway of the bar.

“If you'd just like to follow Donnie to your table and he can get you seated,” I tell the customers.

They begin to move away, and I take a second to look at the ledger again. It's full of bookings, one for every table. This is going to be a busy day, and at the thought of it I have to stifle a groan. I want to be home, curled up on the sofa.

It's safe to say my smile is gone now, but as I become aware of the next customer standing before me I paint the smile back on and look up.

And my smile wavers ever so slightly.

“Hi again,” Harry says.

He looks a little surprised, but he's hiding it behind that smile. I wish I was back in that club where I was tipsy and it was dark so that he wouldn't be able to see the blood rush to my cheeks, and I would be too in the grip of alcohol to even care about me blushing. Embarrassment and resentment tighten around my lungs.

“Hi,” I say, as my brain struggles to dig up other words.

“You alright? You kinda left a bit abruptly on Saturday,” he says haltingly. Here he is, dressed in a simple baggy jumper and jeans, doing a good job of masking the sense of awkwardness with politeness, while I look like a rabbit in the headlights.

“I'm fine, thanks,” I reply before adding, “so have you booked a table?”

“Uh, no, I haven't,” he answers.

I glance at the ledger again but I already know the answer. “Sorry, we're fully booked.”

I smile apologetically, and a part of me feels sorry for him, the human part. Yet there's still that anger in me from Saturday, the trouble he's got me in with Aaron, and I feel a slight sense of satisfaction.

“But I'm here with-” Harry begins, yet he's interrupted by the cold voice of my boss.

“Kailey,” Ian says, and I can already hear the barbs in his tone, “everything okay?”

“We're fully booked,” I tell him, yet my voice is quieter. I can feel the reprimand coming. One wrong move and Ian cracks down on you. I already got in his bad books last Friday when I dropped a plate.

Ian moves into a position that means I have to step away from the ledger, carefully forcing me aside like I'm an object in his way. “Well, I'm sure we can make space.”

I can feel my face going hot again. My stomach twists a little with shame. But there's still that anger.

“Are you sure?” Harry says to Ian, but he glances at me. I can't read his expression, but he doesn't look angry.

“Of course,” Ian says, sucking up to people as always. His tone makes me want to gag.

The bell dings again and in waltzes Lianne, her blonde hair tousled by the wind. She stands beside Harry and grins at me.

“Are you writing the feature? Now?” I ask, and I want to slap myself. Of course she is. She's probably beginning it now. The Wildfire offices are only a few streets from here; she must have suggested her and Harry come here.

Sometimes I don't think my head is screwed on right.

“Yeah, I've booked a table for one, don't try and kick us out, Kail,” she says.

I peer past Ian at the ledger. 1:00, Door, table for 2. How did I miss that?

I sigh heavily. “Sorry,” I say, holding my hands up, “sorry, everyone. Crap day. Crap weekend.”

Lianne and Harry might accept that, but Ian won't. He fixes me with an icy glare before quickly thawing out and calling Donnie over. “Donnie will be your server for today, if you'd just like to follow him and he'll show you to your table.”

Lianne looks to me and jerks a thumb at Ian, pulling a disgusted face, and I smile at her. She thinks she's got me in the shit with Ian, but she hasn't. I did it myself, but once again Harry wasn't exactly any help. The sooner this week is over, and he stops popping up in my life at the worst times, the better.

As they leave the bar, Harry glances over his shoulder at me, but I can't understand his expression, and I don't think I want to.

* * *

I awake to lights on, cold flat, TV off. Last time I checked it was on. I check the clock on the coffee table. 4:03 in the morning, Tuesday morning, and I fell asleep on the sofa for the first time in ages. My head is pounding, throbbing like I have a second heart in there.

There's the sound of movement. Lianne must be home from her night out with Harry. I didn't hear her come in. She must be stumbling about in the bathroom.

But the footsteps suddenly sound louder, closer. I manage to pull myself into a sitting position. Yet Lianne doesn't round the corner into the living room; it's Harry instead.

He starts when he sees I'm awake. His hair is dishevelled, more than usual, and he runs a hand through it as he manages a smile. “Sorry, I didn't wake you up, did I?”

I may be tired, but I'm not delirious enough to work out where he's just come from. “What were you doing in Lianne's room?”

“She was a bit worse for wear so I kinda had to help her up here,” he replies. He's not slurring his words, so I'm presuming he's already sobered up slightly. Well, at least I don't have to deal with a pissed Harry Styles in my flat.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

He waves away my comment. “Don't mention it. Anyway, I'd better be going.”

He heads for the front door while I try and rub the dancing spots of light from my eyes. I hope this isn't a migraine.

I'm waiting for the sound of the door closing when I hear, “Your phone, it's flashing.”

I look up to see Harry loitering in the doorway while my shitty old blackberry sits on the coffee table, the little red light blinking. I fumble for it and unlock it, but as soon as I see the number I don't even want to read the texts. Aaron. I haven't heard from him in weeks and now he won't shut up.

I shake my head, but it only makes the throbbing worse. I don't need any of this, I really don't.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” I snap.

A pause as I watch the lights swim in my vision. “You don't look it.”

I groan. He can't take a hint. I just want to go to bed and sleep everything away. “Are you always such a girl?”

“Do you always wear boys clothes?” Harry quips, quicker than I had expected.

I look at him, look at him properly. He stands there in the doorway, gripping the front door and smirking. I'm sat here on the sofa, dressed in an oversized t-shirt that was my brother's and a pair of his boxers that he gave to me because he didn't like the colour. I have no make-up on and my hair is fluffy from my shower. My head feels like a sinking ship. “Touché,” I answer. “Now please leave.”

“Whatever you say,” he answers, shutting the door behind him, his smirk going with him.