Like Clouds Cross Skies

“Spiked?”

“Yep. That's what NHS direct said. You have all the symptoms; you said you suddenly went downhill after having that second vodka and red bull, and I know you're a lightweight but you're not that bad.”

“But spiked by who?”

I shrug. “Not Harry, I hope.”

Lianne's expression drops scornfully. “It wasn't Harry. At least he helped me back to the flat. I remember that bit, anyway. Everything between that second drink and Harry practically carrying me up the stairs is a blur. How embarrassing.”

She rubs a hand down her face. Her skin is pale, tinged a sickly grey. Lianne isn't a hypochondriac - she can handle whatever illness is thrown at her – but right now she's looking the worst I've ever seen her. She's been throwing up all morning and I've been holding her hair back. Now she's slumped at the kitchen island, sipping a glass of water because she can't stomach anything else.

“When's your shift today?” she asks me, her bloodshot eyes managing to focus.

“Evening,” I say. “Now seriously, Li, go to bed; you look horrific.”

She shakes her head weakly. “Ugh, I wish you weren't working tonight.”

I smile regretfully. To be honest, looking after Lianne would be less stressful than waiting on a full restaurant for another night. As if yesterday's shift wasn't already exasperating enough.

“Oh, didn't you have any plans with Harry today?”

Lianne's eyes widen, and the sudden flood of emotion gives her the strength to properly lift her head. “Yes. Oh, fucking hell,” she answers, a hand flying to her forehead. “I can't meet him today, I'll just vomit on him.”

I can't help but laugh. “I'd pay to see you blow chunks on Harry Styles.”

“No, no, no,” Lianne interjects, flapping her hands about, “I need to meet him today otherwise it ruins the whole 'my week with Harry' thing.”

The situation suddenly seems marginally less funny. “Can't you get someone else at the magazine to go in your place?”

She shakes her head. “They're all busy with their own things. Besides, this is my first article as features editor; I wanted it to be really good. I wanted to prove I was actually worth the job,” she says, her face crumpling a little.

Lianne isn't half self-pitying sometimes, but for once she has good reason to be. This job is what she's dreamed of. Working for Wildfire is all she ever went on about at sixth form, and as annoying as it may have been at times, I always knew she would get what she wanted. We both got As in English Literature and Language, but she was better. Writing was what she was always meant to do.

“Phone Harry,” I say, being decisive for her. “Tell him what's happened, I'm sure he'll understand.”

Lianne agrees, pausing for a moment to let a wave of sickness pass. Harry answers quickly, and Lianne pipes up politely and openly as ever, “Hiya Harry.”

“Not so bubbly,” I whisper at her, miming someone on the brink of death, and she nods, lowering her tone a little so she sounds partially dejected at least.

“Ugh, not great. Turns out my drink was spiked,” she goes on, pausing for Harry's replies and laughing sweetly at the correct moments. “I really don't know, I didn't see anyone... let's just say there's nothing left in my stomach... I feel really awful about calling today off... I know, but I feel like I'm letting everyone down... yeah, Kailey said that but-” her face suddenly brightens, “-actually, I could send Kailey in my place.”

Lianne smiles mischievously at me, while I sternly whisper 'no', waving my hands at her. I told her how Harry had found me half-awake on the sofa with no make-up and my brothers old clothes on. She thought it was highly amusing, especially how he'd given back as good as he got when it came to my less than hospitable attitude. Yet I'd hoped that I wouldn't have to see him again, and so I wouldn't have to feel any guilt or embarrassment at the way I'd acted around him since Saturday. And now Lianne was stomping that hope into the ground.

“Yeah,” she says in answer to Harry, drawing out the word, “she'd be fine with it, and it would be a big help; I don't want to ruin the whole 'my week with' theme of the feature... yeah, I suppose sending my grumpy best friend in my place would add an interesting spin on the thing,” she adds, laughing at her own joke.

“Please, Lianne, please,” I hiss at her, but she continues to ignore me. I'd love to be a fly on the wall wherever Harry is right now. I know Lianne's having a good stab at me, and I bet he is too.

“Alright, I'll send her with some questions... yep, where we planned, same time, same everything else... she'll be there... okay, bye!” She puts her phone down, a smug smile plastered on her face as she watches me.

“Lianne-” I start, but she interrupts.

“You've owed me one ever since I bitch-slapped Sarah on your behalf when you weren't at that party. So, consider this as you repaying me.”

I glare at her, but I can't argue with that. “God, I wish I'd seen that slap.”

“It was magnificent,” she says, grinning proudly.

I sigh. I'm going to have to accept my fate. Just an hour or so with Harry, I'll be perfectly proper and polite, get Lianne the answers she needs, and then I am steering clear of him forever. “What am I doing then?” I ask grudgingly.

“Just let me be sick and then I'll tell you,” she says, shuffling off to the bathroom, but she's still smiling.

* * *

I'm meeting Harry at Bea's of Bloomsbury café. Truth be told, I've been wanting to come here for ages but just haven't got round to it.

The tube journey was a nightmare; it seemed like every tourist in the country was all on the one line, and someone reeked of BO. What made it even worse is that Lianne has plied me with about a million sheets of paper with notes on Harry and questions for Harry and facts about Harry. The most I actually know about him is that his name is Harry Styles and he sings in One Direction. I could probably name a few of their songs at a push. Okay, that's a lie, I could probably name the majority of the singles, but they're inescapable. And it seems that Harry is too.

I'm trying to sort Lianne's pages into some kind of order when I find myself outside of Bea's of Bloomsbury. It's swankier than I expected, and I eye the floor-to-ceiling windows warily. I'm about to be out in public with Harry Styles. At least Lianne is a journalist and has a valid reason. What am I doing? Helping out a friend, yes, but I still definitely do not under any circumstances want to see myself plastered on the front of gossip magazines as the next potential girlfriend of Harry Styles. I'm just a waitress. A shitty waitress who's meant to be on a gap year.

I loiter outside the café, debating whether I should go in, but I'm not a fan of 'walk of shame' situations. My heart is hammering like a pneumatic drill. I hate it. I hate this. What on earth am I doing?

A Range Rover pulls into the parking space closest to the café, and the sight of it makes my heart fumble for a second. Range Rover. Why is that important? I hurriedly flip through Lianne's mess of notes. Come on, I know I saw it.

Cars Harry owns. The Range Rover is on the list. It might not be him though.

Or maybe it is.

His unruly hair is tucked into a beanie, and instead of the usual smart blazer I'm used to seeing him in, he's dressed-down in a checked shirt and skinny jeans. I swear it's colder than that outside.

Here we go.

He attracts a few stares as he walks towards me, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's just smiling. At me.

I clutch Lianne's notes to my chest. I am so prepared for this to go wrong. I will not be in a bad mood. I will not be in a bad mood. I will not be in a bad mood.

“No boys clothes today?” he cracks when he's in ear shot, smirking again.

I eye him disdainfully, but I can't stop myself smiling. “Alright, none of that,” I say, “I'm here on business.”

He's beside me now, and he gestures to the café door. “Let's get this show on the road then, shall we?”

“You can wipe that smug smile off your face while you're at it,” I say, walking through the door he's holding open for me. He's a bit too pleased with his 'boys clothes' joke.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he answers, but he keeps smiling.

The majority of the café sneaks obvious glances at us as we join the queue to order. I wish they'd all stop staring. Yes, it's Harry Styles, you can stop staring now, you've had an eyeful. I just wish I knew what they were saying. I want to yell I'm not his girlfriend, I'm just interviewing him for a friend, in the least insane way I can.

Well, at least no one's taking photos. Yet.

And through it all, Harry barely even seems to register that people are ogling him. I bet he does really, he's just used to acting like it's nothing, perfectly normal. I don't think that, if I was in his position, I could be like that.

“Shit me, these cakes are expensive.” I say it without really thinking, the words just tumbling from my lips. “Probably aren't that expensive for you though,” I add, glancing at Harry.

He laughs, peering through the glass at the assortment. “I think that's if you buy the whole cake.”

“Oh.” Shoot me now. “Well, the cupcakes are more in my price range.”

“I'm paying.” I look up at him, and he raises a challenging eyebrow at me. “They're only about two quid, I'll pay. Hardly gonna break the bank.”

“If that's the case then I'll have two.”

“I might join you on that one.”

Harry orders once we're at the front of the queue. The girl who serves us has a grin that's a little too wide. I can practically see the stars flashing in her eyes. After that, we head upstairs to a kind of balcony seating area, our view being the street outside. It's quieter up here, but Harry still turns heads. We take a seat in a colourful, baroque patterned booth, me taking the cushioned bench and Harry having the seat opposite. He puts our food on the table while I let Lianne's pages spill from my arms.

“Right,” I begin, making the pile neater, but no more words come. I really don't know how these things work.

“Aren't you going to record it?” Harry suggests.

I stare at him blankly, and I can see he's trying so hard to hide his smirk but it's really not working. He's having fun with this, making up for the times I've been rude to him.

“Here,” he says, gesturing for me to pass him my blackberry. I unlock it and cautiously hand it over. He frowns, doing god knows what on there. And then he places it on the table between us.

I peer at it. “I didn't know my shitberry had a voice recorder.”

“Now you do.”

“Is it recording now?”

He nods, visibly holding back a laugh.

I glare at him, and he returns my stare unashamedly. I return to Lianne's notes, finding a page where she had scribbled questions for Tuesday???. Doesn't feel like it was only this morning that Harry was in my flat. How he doesn't look red-eyed and hungover I do not know.

“Lianne's notes are a directioner's dream,” I comment.

“Yeah?” Harry takes a bite of one of his cupcakes. I glance at my food. I kind of don't want to eat in front of him. I don't like eating in front of anyone really unless it's Lianne or my family because I always get stuff down me or smeared all over my face.

“I think she's got every tiny detail of your life written down here,” I answer, looking at a few pages I didn't notice before. “Oh, you support the red shit, apparently.”

Harry narrows his eyes at my Man U remark, but he's smiling through his cake. “Go on then, who do you support?”

“Chelsea.”

“They're doing shit at the moment.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” But against my will I smile. “Anyway, question time.”

“Go for it.”

I scan the ideas Lianne had for today, and one of the questions catches my eye. It's one that I suppose I'd like to know the answer to. Prove me wrong, Harry. “So, to get an awkward question out the way... how many of your alleged romances are actually true?”

He breaks my gaze, his fingers toying with the edge of a cupcake case. “Like...” he begins, pausing to think, and he manages to find my eyes again. “The media likes to make up a lot of stuff. Not all the media, but some. Like barely any of the 'romances' I'm meant to be having are true. If they were then I'd be dating about ten girls at once. Sometimes the media just can't seem to understand that I can hang out with a girl who's, you know, nothing more than a friend.” He shrugs, as if to emphasise his point.

The dregs of my original anger, an anger that seems ancient now, begin to fizzle away. I respect him a bit more after that, I suppose I do, and he seemed sincere, although I'm a pretty poor judge of character.

The 'interview' continues. I go down Lianne's list. I'm pretty sure a lot of these questions he's been asked before, but he doesn't seem bored and he's certainly not monosyllabic. I also manage to eat a cupcake without getting it everywhere, although I'm brushing a million crumbs off my lap.

Harry's still talking when something catches my eye. Over his shoulder, out the window and across the street. Harry notices that I'm distracted, his speech faltering, and he twists in his seat to look behind him.

He turns back, waving a hand dismissively. “Ignore them, it's fine.”

Paparazzi. Lenses pointing up at us. I knew this might happen, but now that it has it feels as though my stomach is trying to drag itself through the floor.

Harry must notice my expression, and I can only imagine I look panicky, because he says, “Honestly, Kailey, don't worry about it. They pop up everywhere.”

But all I can think is: Aaron. What if he sees photos of me and Harry together? And he will. I know that after Saturday he'll be keeping tabs on websites like the Daily Mail. He can't get answers out of me – I won't answer his texts – and now he'll turn elsewhere and all hope of me explaining myself will be gone. I don't love Aaron any more, I know I don't, I don't think I ever did. We lasted a year, the last year of sixth form, and he was my first proper boyfriend, and that notion alone kept me nervous enough. Too nervous to fall for him. At the end of the day, though, he's a complete dickhead, but that's why I'm worried. I'm not entirely sure of what he's capable of any more.

“Kailey?” Only now do I become aware that Harry's hand is on mine where it rests on the stack of papers, squeezing to try and reassure me and get my attention. I snatch my hand away, and he looks startled. Why did he do that?

“I think I'm gonna go,” I mumble, standing up. "I shouldn't have come here."

Harry copies me, quickly getting to his feet. “There's only two of them, they'll go away soon. You don't have to be like this.”

I feel blood rush to my cheeks again, hot and livid. “I'm not being like anything.”

His eyes are imploring. “Kailey, I didn't-”

“Leave it,” I snap, dodging his arm as he reaches for me.

“But Kailey.” Stop saying my name. “Come on, please. But- you forgot Lianne's notes!”

I don't turn around, and he doesn't follow me.