I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Zayn Malik for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the tan, caramel brown-haired boy with blue eyes staring back at me, and give up.
Zayn is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive 4 hours to London in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Styles Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Zayn an interview. A real coup, he tells me. Damn his extra-curricular activities.
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Zayn is huddled on the couch in the living room. “Lou, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Zayn begs me in his rasping, sore throat voice. How does he do it? Even ill he looks rugged and handsome, jet black hair in place and brown eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
“Of course I’ll go Zayn. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?”
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at him fondly. Only for you, Zayn, would I do this.
“I will. Good luck. And thanks Louis – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”
Gathering my bag, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Zayn talk me into this. But then Zayn can talk anyone into anything. He’ll make an exceptional journalist. He’s articulate, strong, persuasive, god-like, argumentative, and beautiful – and he’s my dearest, dearest mate.
The roads are clear as I set off from Manchester towards Stafford and the M1. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in London until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Zayns lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Styles’ global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Styles House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
YOU ARE READING
50 shades of Styles
Fanfiction[Copied version] When literature student Louis Tomlinson goes to interview young entrepreneur Harry Styles, he encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Louis is startled to realize he wants this man and...
