The Love Club

There’s a grandfather clock in the foyer of my dad’s house that I’ve always hated.

It was a gift from one of his colleagues at the university, though I’ve long forgotten which one. It’s been around as far as I can remember, this big hulk of a thing that presides over the comings and goings of our family. A heavy gold pendulum swings side to side behind a glass pane with frosted decorations printed on it. The clock itself is carved intricately and has a cherry finish. I can’t help but admit how beautiful it is, but it’s the sound that always gets to me.

Sometime during its long run of years, the chimes have gotten off time. I’m not sure if it was a natural process or if something happened to it during a move, but one chime in particular is off time from the others. Every time it plays, it’s one beat behind, clashing with the rest. My dad has never taken the time to get it fixed and it makes me cringe when I hear it. He says he likes it; that it gives the clock character.

It’s that horrible noise I’m hearing now as I walk up the front steps to his house, a casserole balanced in my right hand and a bottle of wine in my left. I wrangle open the door without bothering to knock, knowing neither Felicity nor my father will be able to hear me over those god-awful chimes.

Felicity is crossing the foyer to the dining room, a basket of rolls in her hands. She starts when she sees me, but smiles anyway. My heels are caught on the ancient rug that greets the entryway, so I’m trying desperately to step out of them while somehow managing to keep the casserole safe under my arm and switching over the wine to my other hand. A string of curse words escape me and Felicity’s smile turns to a frown. She hurries into the dining room to set down the rolls before returning to me and pulling the casserole from my hands. I thank her as my bare feet finally meet the safety of solid ground.

“Language, Mina,” she warns as she turns on her heel and recedes to the dining room once again. I roll my eyes and head in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. On the burner, a pan is cooking chicken breast. Beside it, pasta is boiling. I set the wine down on the counter just as Felicity enters the kitchen again.

She looks nice in a dress and flats. The one rule about once a week dinners at my parents is that you must be formal. It was something we cooked up as a joke when I first moved out, but a tradition we hold true to.

She looks young, despite the fact that she’s twenty-four years my elder. Her crows feet are just beginning to become noticable, and the wrinkles on her forehead are barely prominent. Her body is slim from the morning jogs she continues to take, and I know she’s recently started taking yoga classes. By this time, there should be small streaks of gray beginning to show in her hair, but the platinum blond hides it well, especially in moments like this when it’s swept up into an elaborate bun atop her head. Without thinking, I move forward and wrap my arms around her. She’s surprised, stirring the saucepan, but uses one arm to squeeze my shoulders. It is at this moment there is a clearing of the throat at the kitchen table at the far end of the room, and I turn to face my father.

He also looks quite young, though his hair has grayed prematurely. He’s a few years older than Felicity, closer to the age of 50, but I don’t really remember a time when his hair wasn’t peppered. He’s wearing a navy button up with the sleeves rolled, tucked into a pair of blue jeans I supervised him buying so he wouldn’t look lame during his lectures. His eyes are a cloudy hazel, something I wish had passed on to me, though I know he prefers the light brown of my eyes because they remind him of mom. He’s crossing the room toward me and I meet him half-way, wrapping my arms around his torso because he’s too tall for my short frame, even in heels. He lifts me off the ground like he did when I was a kid and I laugh.

“Good to see you, Mina,” he tells me quietly in my ear before setting me down.

“It’s only been a week,” I respond.

“That’s ages when you live in London.”

I roll my eyes at him, but make no comment. When I was nine and we moved here, it was for my dad’s job at the university. I had always longed for the streets of London, though, so I relocated there the first chance I got. Now I’m stuck driving the hour and a half back to Oxford every Wednesday for dinner, though I don’t really mind it. I’ve always enjoyed long drives to clear my head and this is the only one I usually get.

“It’s ready to eat,” Felicity declares, and I turn back to her to help carry the plate of chicken breasts to the dining room. Dad grabs the wine while Felicity pours the sauce over the pasta.

I put the plate on the table and take my usual seat. My dad pops open the bottle of wine and pours it into each glass through an aerator. He’s no longer finished when Felicity enters the room, a decorative bowl filled to the brim with spaghetti, and it’s then that it hits me.

“Felicity! I made casserole,” I hiss. Dad seems taken aback.

“They were out of ham at the grocer’s,” she shrugs as she sits down.

I frown, slumping into my seat. I went through hell to make sure that casserole was made for dinner. I always bring something for, but Felicity changed the menu last minute. If I had known, it would have been simple to toss together a salad. As it was, I had Casey on the phone complaining about Kevin all day as I tried to assure her I had someone else lined up for her. I ended up hanging up on her and messaging Willem her number, explaining the situtation and how it was his duty to restore her faith in men. He sent me back a cheeky reply that I burnt my hand while reading. Even now, it hurts to grip a fork.

“We’ll eat it for lunch tomorrow, munchkin,” my dad assures me.

I’m still moping, but I choose not to answer as I impale a chicken breast and throw it on my plate. The rest of the food makes its way to me and I heap a portion of everything on my plate. We say grace, then dig in.

“How has your week been, Mina?” Felicity asks as she twirls some pasta on her fork.

“Busy,” I respond truthfully between bites. She raises her eyebrows at me, imploring me to go on. I oblige after swallowing.

“I mean, it’s only mid-week, but I’m wrapping up with a client and starting another next week...”

I trail off, unsure how to approach the subject. My dad notes my hesitation and watches me with expectant eyes. With a sigh, I set down my fork and fold my hands nervously on my lap.

“About this new client...”

“Yes?” Felicity asks, looking up from her plate. She looks from me to my dad, having missed what I had left unsaid. She’s still not as good at picking it up as my dad is, but she now has the same concerned look on her face.

“It requires me to do a bit of traveling.”

“What do you mean? For how long?” my dad immediately demands.

“I’m not sure, dad,” I admit, running a hand through my hair. This is exactly the reaction I didn’t want.

“You can uproot yourself for that long? For one client?” Felicity asks.

“This client is... complicated.”

“So uncomplicate it.”

“Dad, calm down.”

He’s upset. As it is, I only see him once a week. Taking that away will be difficult for him, but it won’t be for too long. He’ll get over it, but right now he’s fighting to keep his composure.

He stays silent and takes a deep breath. Felicity gestures for me to explain.

“Niall Horan came to me a few days ago. He’s in that band, One Direction. Said he wanted my help and would pay me double my going rate, plus a salary to be his ‘personal assistant’ for privacy reasons,” I tell them, using air quotes on ‘personal assistant’.

My dad watches me, dumbfounded. Felicity cocks her head to one side as she’s contemplating this.

“How did Niall Horan come across you?” Felicity asks.

“I set up a friend of his. It’s not a big deal, he just came to me and I’m going to help him. It shouldn’t be hard, I won’t be gone for long.”

I look over to where my father is still sitting silently. It’s been hard for him to be separated from me, even if it’s just by an hour and a half. He’s not fond of London, but he still makes time to come see me when he can, on top of my weekly trek to Oxford to visit him. He’s still struggling with me moving out, starting this business, and living a life on my own. He worries more than what can be considered healthy, something I always note when he makes his visits to my apartment and I can see the heavy bags beneath his eyes. Right now, his face is softening. It’s as if he can hear my mother in the room, telling him to let it go.

No one says anything for the rest of dinner. Felicity is contemplating the information I’ve given her, probably working out any other questions she has for me. My dad is shoveling food in his mouth to keep from saying anything negative. I can tell he wants to be positive, but it’s not his first reaction. We finish eating in the next fifteen minutes, and Felicity claps her hands as I’m leaning over to help clean up some of the plates.

“Leave it,” she tells me. “I have an idea.”

I raise my brows, glancing over to my father who looks equally as stunned. Felicity’s idea of fun usually doesn’t apply to those around her. I’ve spent many an afternoon helping her craft, painting on a fake smile and nodding enthusiastically whenever she asked if I was enjoying myself, which was approximately twice an hour on average. Now she has a glint in her eye like she’s come up with something brilliant, which more than likely means dad and I are in trouble.

“Let’s watch the One Direction movie,” she says. I almost drop the plate I’m holding.

“No,” is my immediate response. I turn to my dad for backup, but he’s smiling, surprisingly enough.

“Absolutely not,” I repeat firmly, glaring at him. He only laughs at my reaction.

“It might make me feel better about it,” he shrugs. I roll my eyes, crossing my arms as I turn to Felicity.

“You don’t even have it.”

“We can watch it on demand,” she counters, holding her hand out for my father. He connects his hand with her and they both begin in the direction of the living room.

I glance down at the plate in my hand, then back up at their receding figures. I could just do the dishes while they watch it, but something like curiousity is overcoming me. I’m intrigued by getting a glimpse into the world I’m about to be thrust into, but there’s a part of me that is repeating that I’m twenty years old and am not about to sit on the couch between my father and step-mum while I watch a documenatary about a boy band. It’s ridiculous.

With a sigh, I set the plate down and shuffle to the living room. My dad is sitting on the couch with his arm outstretched on the back cushion. Felicity is sitting beside him, fumbling with the remote. I slowly make my way over to it and throw myself down beside them defiantly. My dad smiles at my child-like temper tantrum, but Felicity is too engrossed with the TV guide to notice. A moment later, she has located This is Us and agrees to pay £5 for it.

“This is the stupidest thing,” I grumble as she hits play. Felicity makes no comment, but settles into my dad’s side. I pull a blanket from the back of the couch and wrap it around myself, angling my body so I’m as close to a lying position as possible in the confined space I have. A moment later, the movie begins.

I feel so uncomfortable I’m almost ill. My dad and Felicity are watching with mild interest, but I’ve got the blanket pulled up to my chin to hide my absolute mortification at the fact that we’re actually doing this. It was one thing to agree to help Niall as a client, but it’s quite another to watch a documentary about his boy band.

Still, as the minutes drag on, the embarrassment begins to fade. After getting over the fact that I’ve actually had one member of this band play with my cat on my couch in my apartment, it’s easy to get lost in it all. I begin to see the appeal, the boys-next-door charm they wield on girls across the globe. Their apparent good looks and talent doesn’t harm their case, either.

My eyes begin to feel heavy. I’m doing my best to stay awake, but on a full stomach in a dark room, cuddled beneath a blanket, it’s not easy. I finally give in, my eyes drooping closed as the scene on the screen changes. A dimpled grin is the last thing my mind registers before I fall into unconsciousness.

-

My biggest regret with agreeing to Niall’s conditions is the fact that I’m awake right now at 3:15 AM. I’m leaning against the rail that runs the perimeter of the elevator, on my way down to the lobby. Niall has informed me that he’s arranged a car to pick me up and take me to the airport and that it should be outside now. I’m not to be late, which isn’t something Niall would ever have to worry about when it comes to me because I am nothing but punctual.

I have two suitcases filled to the brim with clothes and toiletries. Our first stop is South America, which should be warm, but I think it’s better to be prepared, so I’ve packed a few warm items as well. I’m still unsure how long I’ll be on this tour, or even where I’ll come across Niall’s match. The probability of it happening in South America is extremely low, but he’s not giving me much of a choice right now. He wants me to focus on Europe, which seems much more likely, but it would look strange if his personal assistant showed up after the first month of the tour. It looks as if I’ll be living on this tour for at least a month and a half, which would be a major setback if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m getting paid triple what I normally do.

Dad sent me an encouraging text this morning, followed by one from Duncan who jealously told me I should be excited to see more of the world. He’s stuck bagging groceries for the next few months at least before he starts a low-paid internship at an architecture firm, and the moment I mentioned I was traveling to help a client, he became fiercly envious. I know I should be more appreciative of the opportunity I have, but I’m too far out of my comfort zone already to even begin to contemplate it.

This becomes even more apparent by the Range Rover idling against the curb and the man who takes my bags for me without a word. He reaches for the small crate in my right hand, but I ward him off. As if on que, Gatsby lets out a hiss from within. He raises his brows in surprise, but says no more as he opens the door for me. I slide in and buckle up, setting Gatsby’s carrier on the seat beside me. A moment later, we’re moving toward Heathrow and I’m pulling out my phone in a desperate attempt to distract myself.

I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m much happier at home, with my cat, taking on clients and living by my schedule. I don’t like being away from home and I don’t like having to live by anyone else’s rules. Being exclusively committed to one client is almost unheard of for me, and on top of that I don’t like the uncertainty that this all holds. As we arrive at the airport, taking an awkward route to get to the private landing strip where two jets await, I’m cursing my curiousity.

When the door is pulled open for me and I step out in a pair of jeans and a yellow zip-up hoodie, sneakers on my feet and a cat in my hand, I’m ready to turn right back around and book it home. The driver offers me no help on where I should be going, only unloads my bags and sets them down beside me. He leaves a moment later and I’m staring dumbfounded at the two giant planes on either side of me.

“Your name?”

I turn to my left where a wary looking man is standing with a clipboard. He looks just as exhausted as I am.

“Mina Underhill,” I answer, though my voice makes it sound more like a question. He flips through a few pages to the U section and writes something down. He hands me a small, flat box and explains within it is everything I’ll need to get around during the tour. I thank him when he stops speaking, mostly because it’s what is expected of me. After a moment, I add a “have a nice day,” because he looks like he could use it. His expression doesn’t change, and I’m unsure of whether or not he heard me. Regardless, I swallow, tuck my hair behind my ear, and pick up my bags.

“Mina!”

I look up. Standing in the entrance to the jet on my left is Niall in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, a backward snapback over his blond hair. I smile from relief of a familiar face, and also because I don’t have to muster up the courage to turn back to the stone-faced man and ask which plane I’m supposed to be boarding.

Niall’s beckoning to me, so I assume this is where I should be headed. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing my luggage. Niall laughs and instructs me to leave it there, someone will come by and get it. Against my better judgment, I listen to his advice and keep only Gatsby’s carrier with me as I ascend the steps, praying to God that my luggage doesn’t get left behind on the tarmac for the next month.

When I reach him, he’s blocking my entrance. I glance up at him and he promptly throws his arms around me in an unexpected hug. I freeze, unsure of how to respond to this overt act of friendliness. I haven’t seen him since that day in my apartment when we went over details, and though we’ve sent a few texts back and forth, they’ve mostly been informative.

From her carrier, Gatsby meows. He steps back and looks down at what is in my hands, then back up to me.

“You brought Catsby?”

I nod.

He’s looking at me like I’m insane, but I keep my head up and eyes tarined on him, determined to be assertive.

“You brought your cat,” he repeats for clarification.

“Look,” I sigh. “I’m not leaving her behind for however long I’m doing this, so you’re going to have to put up with it. Besides, I don’t have anyone to watch her. My dad is allergic.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but stops when someone calls to him from inside. His head moves involuntarily in that direction as he listens to whoever it is telling him to shut the damn door. With a sigh, he turns back to me and runs a hand over his face. He silently reaches forward and takes Gatsby’s carrier from me before turning and disappearing into the depths of the jet, sending me one last glance over his shoulder as he does so.

I take a deep breath and look over my shoulder at the airport behind me. I’m still not totally convinced that I should be doing this, but I somehow muster up the courage and step onto the plane.

“You brought me a cat?” exclaims a deep voice.

“It’s Mina’s,” Niall explains. His tone doesn’t indicate that he’s enthusiastic about this, despite the bonding they’ve done in my apartment. I’m not sure what the pet rules are when it comes to world-wide stadium tours, but I must not be complying with them.

As if on que, the boy who had spoken first turns to look at me. I recognize him as Harry Styles immediately and bite back a blush. As far as bandmates go, I reluctantly admit he’s the most attractive to me. His green eyes light up as they settle on me, a dimpled grin falling over his lips.

“So you’re cupid,” he says.

“Yeah,” I respond, taking a seat beside Niall, who is rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Something like that.”