Crumbling Castles

"What the fucking hell?!" My screech echoes through the empty hallways of the house. But seriously, what the bloody-effing-hell?

"Is this Grafton or whatever bitch serious?" I call out. I know Sutton's somewhere in this godforsaken house nursing a raging hangover, but my anger must not be ignored!

"What're you talkin' about, love?" I hear him groan and stumble around–stumble, another word I can't use anymore because the tabloids have ruined it for me. Who does this shit Sugarscape writer think she is? "Oh, we mean it in the most loving way," blah blah blah, addressing me like we've been friends since primary school? As if! She could only wish she was friends with a girl like me in primary school, much less the real me! I close the webpage before I get too worked up, planning on calling Eva later to discuss all that PR bullshit. Snooty Miss Taylor Fuckton doesn't even know what happened, and if the night of Giordie's birthday had gone down the way I'd planned, I sure as hell wouldn't have left with Sutton Kensington, best friend extraordinaire (save for Giordie), of all people! No, if the night had gone my way, I would've left with Harry Styles. And right now, I was wishing he really was hitting on me then, because while my face would still plaster the tabloids, it'd be beside that of Harry Styles, who'd be my new rumored boyfriend by now and we'd probably also have a home in the south of France, not to mention two rabid dogs running around our glorious château.



"All right, you proper twats, you, bottoms up!" Giordie screams as she downs what may quite possibly be her eighth shot of tequila. The liquor burns–unsurprisingly–as it trails down my throat, but not as much as the smolder a certain curly-haired boybander is giving me right now.

Harry Styles wants me, and I am all-systems-go for this mission, but I want to be chased. I want him to come to me (and come for me, but all things in good time, I suppose), so I give him my best slow-smile and go back to my fifth–or was it sixth?–shot of tequila.

But he doesn't come over. In fact, he's actually turned around and laughing at something some ginger bloke has said to him, leaving me wondering, "What the actual fuck?" for what may be the third time tonight. (The first time being when someone's very itty bitty knickers were flung right into my drink, the second time being when Giordie stood up on the bar and flashed the entire crowd–how is it that Sutton and I had made the tabloids and her tits didn't?) In an act of what could've only been sheer desperation, I swallowed my pride for the first time and I broke my first rule: let someone else do the chasing.

The moment my arse was sat beside his, his attention was on me, as it should have been.

"Well hello, love, I'm Harry. And you must be?" He stuck his hand out as if he were ready for us to be "just mates," as if he could ever be "just mates" with a girl like me!

"A little upset, actually," I confess to him, a growing smirk gracing my lips.

"Oh? And why's that?" he asked, and that's when I starting pulling my tricks. Casual flip of the hair, check.

"Just that there was this really fit bloke giving me bedroom eyes and then he just looked away, you know?" Girly giggle, check. Hand on knee, double check. He bursts out into explosive laughter and I wonder if I've done something wrong. Have I? Was it the touching thing, was that too forward? But it's me, he should like that I'm being forward, right?

"Wait, wait, did you think I was checking you out? Oh, god, I'd never–I mean, you're beautiful, you really are, I just–the pizza came. And some girl with pink hair just set all the boxes on the bar and opened them and I knew I had to have one. I'm so sorry if you were confused or anything!"

The worst bit was that he seemed genuinely sorry. Sorry? For me? Please! I didn't need his sympathy or understanding, although he did get one thing right: I sure am beautiful. Fucking gorgeous, in fact, and he'd be all too lucky if I went for him.

But I was still really pissed at home being an arsehole, so I huffed for dramatic effect, picked up my clutch and left to find Sutton.

"Wait, wait! I didn't catch your name! Erm, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings!" He called after me multiple times, but I was far too angry to care for what he had to say. How could he not even know my name? Actually though, how? I've graced the covers of how many magazines, and he doesn't even recognize me?

When I found Sutton, he was in the bathroom with a girl who appeared to be Daisy Fairweather–Fairworther? Firweather?–and holding back the hair of another girl as she vomited in the toilet.

My nose automatically crinkled with disgust. "Come on, Sut, let's get the fuck out of here."

"Wait a sec, give me your hair clip for your pinup, Dess!"

"What? No, absolutely not!" I responded, horrified, but Sutton didn't seem to be taking no for an answer. I made certain he could see my frown as I took out the clip and handed it to him, then shook out my hair. After fixing up Great Britain's Miss Puke 2013's hair and leaving her to Daisy Fair-I-can't-be-bothered-with-the-rest-of-her-name, he took my hand and we bolted, but not without wishing Giordie the grandest of nights to which she responded, "Oh, fuck off for leaving early! The night is still young!"

Sidenote to Sugarscape: that is why my updo was no longer in its originally pristine condition. Assuming arseholes.

Then Sutton and I proceeded to my place, where we watched Love Actually for the rest of the night. Fuck you and your rumors, Taylor Grafwell. You don't know a damn about what went down.