50 shades of Styles

Chapter 2: Claytons

My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of London. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.

No man has ever affected me the way Harry Styles has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap – what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.

As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself – but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be – he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I’m irritated that Zayn didn’t give me a brief biography.

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While cruising towards the M1, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic – as if he had a hidden agenda. And Zayn’s questions – ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was bisexual! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Fucking Zen!

I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occa­sion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating green eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Styles’ more like a man double his age.

Forget it, Louis, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting expe­rience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the radio and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the accelerator. As I hit the M1, I realize I can drive as fast as I want.

We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Manchester, close to the Manchester University campus. I’m lucky – Zayn’s parents bought the place for him, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Zayn is go­ing to want a blow-by-blow account, and he is tenacious. Well, at least he has the mini-disc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.

“Louis! You’re back.” Zayn sits in our living area, surrounded by books. He’s clearly been studying for finals – though he’s still in his pajamas, the ones he reserves for the aftermath of break ups, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. He bounds up to me and hugs me hard.

“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”

“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the mini-disc recorder at him.