The Love Club

I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe to be stood up, though I know Harry would never do something like that. Maybe, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I’m expecting him to confess his undying love for me with roses and a bottle of red wine, but that’s not quite right either.

What I’m not expecting is the group of four politely milling about in the restaurant lobby.

The girl catches sight of me first, politely nudging her brother in the shoulder to catch his attention before pointing my way. His green eyes are lit up when he turns to find me, and he promptly laughs at the wide-eyed shock I’m wearing.

“Hi,” he greets as he approaches me, giving me a one-armed hug. In my ear, he says, “I would have warned you, but surprises suit you.”

I’m not entirely sure what he means by this, but I don’t have time to figure it out before he’s introducing me to his sister, who pulls me in for a hug like she’s known me for ages. Harry chuckles again at my quiet acceptance of this, despite the fact that I’m stiff as a board before complying.

“So nice to finally meet you,” Gemma says as she pulls away, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She shares the same bone structure as her brother, the same open acceptance of everyone who crosses her path.

I barely have time to squeak out a hello before I’m engulfed in yet another hug by the woman Harry has introduced to me as his mum. She’s warm, her embrace somehow simultaneously strong and gentle. When I pull away, she’s giving me the same toothy grin I’ve learned to associate with Harry, and I can’t help but smile back.

When I turn to Robin, he offers me his hand and I sigh in relief, something that has the rest of the Styles clan in yet another round of laughter. I wonder if the blush in my face has started to fade yet, or if I’ll have to wait another ten minutes for my complexion to settle down to its normal fair tone.

After that whirlwind of an introduction, I take a brief moment to scan my surroundings. It’s a dimly lit posh restaurant hidden in an extremely ordinary white brick building. When I had been standing outside, it took me more than a moment to decide whether or not it was actually the correct address. I feared I had stumbled upon a bank, but somehow plucked up the courage to try the door anyway.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” Anne asks, and I nod dumbly as a hostess appears to show us to a table.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so out of your element,” Harry comments quietly as we weave through a maze of tables and chairs. “I bet you’ve never shown up somewhere so unprepared in your life.”

I turn to glare at him and promptly trip over my feet. Harry reaches out to catch my arm, a smug smirk on his face. I’m about to curse at him when I realize we’ve stopped at a table, the rest of his family seated and observing this exchange with more than mild interest. Instead, I accept the chair he’s cheekily pulled out for me and plop into it. A few seconds later, he’s taken the seat beside me.

The hostess leaves us, promising a waiter to arrive shortly. Harry and Robin are already searching the menus, but I notice Anne and Gemma’s respective gazes on me and cross my legs under the table self-consciousy. So much for returning to a normal skin tone.

The dining room is dimly lit with candles and fairy lights strung above our heads. As I scan the room, it’s apparent that the place must be reserved for celebrations or business meetings; the tables are filled with mixes of both.

In my occupation, I’ve seen my fair share of nice restaurants. I’ve done stakeouts in a few, or have been otherwise treated by clients who are thankful for the matches I’ve found for them. I never look a free meal in the face. So I’m not sure why I feel so out of my element as I open my menu and blankly scan the contents. I’m no stranger to places like these, and yet I fidgit restlessly in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs as I try to ignore Harry’s occasional worried glance.

Harry opens his mouth like he’s about to say something to me, but is interrupted by the arrival of a waiter, who fills our empty glasses with water and asks what we’d like to drink. Harry orders a bottle of red wine for the table, which thankfully saves me from having to read over the drink options in a hurry.

“So Harry tells us you’re a matchmaker,” Gemma says, and I may be imagining it, but I think I feel a breeze on my legs as Harry gives his sister a quick kick under the table. It seems she has anticipated this and moves her legs so he misses. I watch in curious observation before I realize I have a question to answer.

“Right,” I confirm before reaching for my glass of water.

“How does that work?” Anne asks.

I set down my glass of water before looking over at Harry’s mum. She has her brows raised in genuine curiousity, her gaze settled on me. I feel the heat rushing to my face again being under such scrutiny, but try my best to keep it from showing.

“I’ve sort of always done it,” I tell them. “Eventually I built up a database and a reputation. It pays the bills and keeps me on my toes.”

“And you’re trying to find someone for Niall right now?” Gemma continues.

I look over at Harry, who is deeply immersed in his menu all of the sudden. I wonder if he’s told them and they’re being polite, or if he’s embarrassed that he’s hired me. Probably the latter.

“It’s quite the task, but I think I’ve found someone,” I reply with a soft smile. Gemma snorts.

“She must be one hell of a woman.”

“How did that go, by the way?” Harry inquires.

I shrug in response as I finally open my menu after having caught sight of our waiter on his way back to the table, wine bottle in hand. “I won’t know until tomorrow.”

“Why is that?”

A torso suddenly stands between us, the waiter busying himself with opening the wine bottle and pouring each of us a generous glass. I eye it warily, thinking of my lonely nights in the apartment. One glass usually makes me feel hazy, but two and I’m belting out a Hilary Duff song like I’m in a karaoke bar. I take a small sip hesitantly, being careful where I put my glass on the white tablecloth when I’m finished.

It seems everyone else has already chosen what they’d like to eat, and as they rattle their orders off, I try to find something that seems remotely appetizing. I’m the last to order, requesting a salmon and frowning at the face Harry gives me.

“What’s that for?”

“Salmon,” he repeats, his tongue falling from his mouth in a disgusted gesture.

“You used to love fish as a kid,” Anne interjects. “Used to eat everything, actually.”

“Oooh, tell the one about the eraser,” Gemma suggests.

“No. Absolutely not. We’re not getting into the childhood stories,” objects Harry, but he has this dreamy half-smile like he’s remembering it already.

“Oh, Harry,” sighs Gemma. “I’m sure there’s no childhood story embarrassing enough to top whatever nonsense you’ve unleashed around this poor girl.”

“Hey! I’m not that bad.”

“Must have been the toxins from the eraser he swallowed whole,” she tells me conspiratorially. I laugh and Harry launches his balled up napkin in the direction of his sister.

“Harry,” Robin warns. He looks to his step-dad in mock offense.

“She started it!”

“Harry,” he repeats again, and Harry settles into his seat, defeated but fighting a smile as Gemma sticks her tongue out at him.

“In my defense,” he says, his attention directed back to me. “It was pink and I was in a stage in my life where I thought all pink things tasted like bubble gum.”

“Easy mistake,” I nod, trying to restrain my laughter. He gives me his signature grin before he turns back to Robin, who is asking him something about the stage set up.

With everyone else otherwise occupied by their own conversations, I let my eyes roam the restaurant. I’ve always loved people-watching, which is probably why I’m so good at what I do. It’s an easy way seek out new prospects for my clients, adding to the long list of names in my database. Mostly, I’m looking out of habit.

Still, I can’t help the sinking feeling in my gut when my eyes fall on her, all five feet, six inches of her. Her hair is long and dark, falling in a straight curtain down her back as she leans against the bar sipping a glass of champagne. Nearby, a group of girls I assume to be her friends are all huddled together and giggling. She watches them from the corner of her eye as she takes a long swig of the bubbly beverage in her hand.

In a red dress and gold heels, she’s stunning. I glance over at Harry briefly before glancing to my hands, which have unexplicably begun to shake. The way my heart’s pounding, the sweating in my palms, there’s no need to question if this girl is Harry’s type.

Hell, she’s my type.

“Harry,” I say quietly, chancing a glance over at him. Though I’ve said it softly enough to question whether or not he would have been capable of hearing it, he turns to me immediately. His green eyes meet my brown ones and for a moment I’m really questioning what I’m about to do. Then he licks his lips, those pouty lips I can barely pull my gaze from, and I all but blurt, “You need to go talk to that girl at the bar.”

His brows raise as he purses his lips, leaning forward as if not sure he’s heard me correctly.

“What?” he asks.

“The girl in the red dress at the bar. You need to go talk to her.”

“Why?”

“Because this is what you’re paying me to do,” I answer, but it comes out more high pitched than expected, more of a question than a statement.

Harry’s eyes leave me to focus on the bar behind me. I watch as he sizes her up, his pupils dilating as his eyes shift almost imperceptibly back and forth. Finally, he looks back at me and with a small smile says, “No.”

I almost want to breathe a sigh of relief. I almost want to strangle him.

“What do you mean ’no’,” I hiss.

“I’m with my family right now. I’m with you. It’s rude,” he shrugs.

“You might never see her again!” I tell him.

“There are other girls out there, Mina.”

But there aren’t, because I can feel deep in my gut that this girl is a match. I’m about to argue this further with him, but our meals arrive at the most inconvenient time. I sigh in frustration, my view of Harry blocked once again by the waiter’s body as he serves us our plates and implores us to enjoy.

But I’m not about to enjoy. I’m about to drive myself mad.

“Where are you from, Mina?”

The question comes from Robin, and I jump slightly, not expecting to be addressed. I’m so lost in my own mind, frustrated and tangled, that it takes me a moment to process the question.

“Nebraska,” I answer shortly. I realize then from the looks being passed around the table that this requires elaboration. The accent tends to throw most people off.

“I moved here with my dad when I was seven, after my mum died. He remarried and lives in Oxford now.”

Anne nods at my response before turning her focus to spinning pasta onto her fork. Gemma is eyeing a wilted leaf in her salad warily and Robin gets to work with his ribs. It is Harry who is ignoring his steak, watching me with a peculiar expression.

“What?” I demand, and Harry blinks, like he’s coming out of some sort of daydream.

“Nothing,” he responds immediately.

“Not nothing,” I retort. “What is it?”

He shakes his head again, but there’s a small smile he’s trying to bite back on his lips.

“You look nice,” he finally says when he realizes I’m not about to let it drop. He clears his throat uncomfortably as he sets to work cutting up a piece of his sirloin. “That color is lovely.”

I freeze, my mind reverting to a different day on a different continent. I tried on a navy romper and ran straight into his chest, and he told me navy brought out the brown in my eyes.

I suddenly feel ill.

“Excuse me,” I say quietly, standing and folding my napkin down on the table. Harry watches me with worry as I stride toward the bathroom, trying to keep my breathing even. When I reach the heavy mahogany door, I push it open with my shoulder and stumble into the dim restroom.

My hands fall to either side of one of the sinks as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The girl before me looks nothing like the Mina I’m used to; sure-footed and organized, unafraid of a challenge and confident in the result.

I need to pull it together, because what is happening right now is a dangerous game. Harry is flirting with me. He’s introducing me to his damn family, and I’m letting it all happen. I’ve just run into the girl he might spend the rest of his life with, and I’m playing make-believe like I might actually have some sort of chance with him. It’s pathetic.

I try to rationalize with myself while I turn on the faucett and splash my face with cold water. Harry just doesn’t know what he’s missing and I’m the only girl of the female variety he’s been able to spend time with recently. He’s confused, and I’m lonely, so I’m letting it happen.

I can’t let my feelings for Harry get in the way of what I’m supposed to be doing here, what I’ve been doing from the start.

As if on que, the door behind me opens and the girl in the red dress stumbles in. She glances my way for a moment, sending me a half-smile before pushing into a stall. I try to pull my eyes from her for the sake of not looking creepy as the anxiety seeps back in. My shoulder hunch, tense, and I try to focus my eyes on the white porcelain of the sink, the cool smoothness of it.

This is the girl Harry should be with, will be with when I finally pull my shit together. This graceful gazelle of a girl, all limbs and piercing blue eyes, not a hair out of place. Her red dress clings to her body as if thankful for the opportunity to be worn by her, and her heels click on the black tile, somehow finding a way to even class up the loo.

In contrast, the girl in my reflection is gangly and awkward. I’m much shorter than she is, my hair in a pixie cut that only allows itself to be styled on days I’m not planning on changing out of my pyjamas. My eyes are brown and dull, and the dress I wear is just too large in the bust for it to be noticable. My make-up is smudged from where the water has touched it and I desperately try to fix it as I hear a flush from the toilet and the girl reappears behind me.

She approaches with a soft swagger, looking over at me and smiling politely. When she reaches forward to turn on the tap, it’s in one fluid movement. I jab hopelessly at my smudged eyeliner with a wet towel.

“This might be rude of me,” she says, her voice a low drawl that sounds much too similar to the one of the boy I’ve left behind at a table with his family. “But I can’t help but notice you’re dining with Harry Styles. What’s that like?”

“What do you mean?” I ask with a sigh, abandoning my endeavors and tossing the towel in the bin.

“I just mean to say you’re lucky, is all. That’s his family, yeah?” she asks.

I turn to face her fully, trying not to let my eyes land in one spot for too long. Her blue eyes search mine as she dries her hands off, spinning a ring on her right hand that reminds me of my mum’s wedding ring.

“I’m not his date,” I tell her, trying desperately to snap into the professional I should be in this situation. Instead, I feel like I might implode at any moment. “I’m his matchmaker.”

Her brows lift as her smile grows.

“Matchmaker?” she repeats. “Those are still a thing?”

She doesn’t say it condescendingly. In fact, everything that has fallen from her lips sounds interested in my every answer, polite chatter in a restroom as she escapes from her horrid friends.

I hate that I like her.

“What’s your name?” I ask, instead of answering her question.

“Victoria,” she answers.

Of course I think to myself. Like Victoria Beckham. Like Posh Spice.

“Do you have a pen, Victoria?”

She frowns at the question, as if stumped by it, but nonetheless opens the clutch she’s set on the ledge above the sinks and digs through it until she finds one. She tries to hand it to me, but instead I give her one of the paper towels.

“Write your name and number down for me. I want to pass it along.”

There’s a light in her eyes that almost overpowers my nausea.

Almost.

When I finally make it back to the table, apologizing for being so long, Harry leans over and asks if I’m alright.

“Never better,” I answer him, though it’s far from the truth.

With his green gaze fixed on me, concern etched in his every feature, I try to swallow down my selfishness. I concentrate on the folded up towel hidden away in my purse, a name and number written in a clear, looping cursive, and force down a bite of my cold salmon.

–

The next day finds me at Niall’s side, doing assistant-y things despite the fact I’m not his assistant. I mostly surmise this has to do with a growing attatchment to me, a need to feel comforted by my presence. I happily go along, though I’m not all too thrilled with running the most boring of errands.

“But which one do I wear,” Harry whines aloud, and I roll my eyes as I sit beside Niall with my legs crossed. Niall absently strums something on his guitar. His eyes are focused on his fingers but I know he’s lost in thought.

“Which one are you most likely to actually button?” I ask, not bothering to look up from the game of Dots I’m absorbed in.

“Neither,” he answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then it doesn’t matter.”

He grumbles something beneath his breath as he chooses a shirt to wear on stage. Zayn lets out a snore on the couch opposite us and my eyes move to him for a moment before returning to my game. In the hall, I can hear Louis on the phone with Eleanor, who is coming to the second show. Liam is unaccounted for, but no one seems worried. He’s responsible enough to be counted on to show up.

“Niall?” I ask.

“Hmm?” he hums in response, his blue eyes zoning in on me a moment later.

“I think it might be time to put down the guitar. Since you’re not bothering to play it anymore...”

Niall looks down at the instrument on his lap in slight surprise. He hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped playing.

With a deep sigh, I lock my phone screen and reach for the guitar, setting it on the other side of me. Sitting forward, I level my gaze with his.

“Niall, you’ve done what you could. You have to stop thinking about it,” I tell him.

“We go on in fifteen, mate. You need to snap out of it,” says Zayn, who is sitting up on the couch. Harry, clad in a pattered shirt straight from the Cosby show, has shook him awake. With a yawn, Zayn stretches before mustering up the strength to stand. Across the room, his in-ears are waiting.

“What about you? You said you were going to fix this,” he huffs.

I think about the envelope and wonder what has become of it. It might be sitting abandoned on Tinley’s kitchen table for all I know, or tossed in the bin. I have hope, however, that it’s in a cab, tucked away in her bag.

“I’ve done what I can, Niall. She has to do the rest,” I shrug.

Harry eyes me suspiciously from across the room, but I ignore him as I stand and grab Niall’s mic and in-ears, tossing them his direction. He catches them moments before they hit his chest.

“Are you staying for the show?” Harry asks, catching me just before I grab the doorknob to leave. It twists beneath my grip and I take a step back to allow Liam to make his way through, squeezing between Harry and I.

“Yeah. I think Niall could use some moral support,” I answer honestly, glancing back at the blonde who has managed to tangle the chords to a device he uses nearly every night. I bite back my criticism.

He nods and opens his mouth to say something else, but Louis chooses that moment to make his grand entrance, giving him a pat on the back as he moves by. I give Harry a slight smile before stepping out of the room and making my way down the hall. I always feel out of place standing around during their pre-show ritual.

A few minutes later, the boys pass me again as they make their way to the stage. I try to squeeze against a wall to make room, and Liam gives me an appreciative wink. I can’t bite back my smile.

And then it begins.

The boys make their way to the stage and I watch from the sidelines, obscured by the shadows. I’m just as mesmorized as I was the first time, watching how their energies bound into the crowd before bouncing back to them. I shake my head and laugh when Harry trips over various items thrown to him on stage, or when Niall gives him a quick kick to the arse. Every so often, Harry’s eyes stray to where I’m standing, though I doubt he can see me in the darkness.

I’m lost in their performance of Happily when I feel a presence beside me. I don’t bother to look, but I can’t keep the smile from spreading on my lips. When the boys finish, I turn to see Tinley shifting her weight uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest.

“You made it,” I say.

“I almost didn’t come,” she responds, focused on Niall in the distance. With awe, her eyes dart around the arena, taking in the thousands of fans responding to his every word and action.

“But you did,” I continue, and she finally looks over at me. I offer her a warm smile and she hesitantly returns it.

“You make a damn good argument.”

I think fondly of the sole ticket to tonight’s show I’d slid inside the envelope, and how I almost left it at that. I came to realize she deserved more than that, so I’d jotted down a quick, ”Don’t sell yourself short. Don’t live with what if.” before sealing it up and walking down to the café.

Then, with my gaze finding Harry, who is already looking back at me with a goofy grin just as a stuffed banana is thrown at his head and he misses it completely, I think of another argument. It’s the one I waged with myself in the bathroom of a dimly lit restaurant before asking for the number of a girl he really belongs with. I think of the two phone calls I made this morning, one from that napkin and another from a Google search.

My smile fades, but it’s all the same. Harry’s not looking anymore.

“Yeah,” I mumble to myself. “I guess I do.”