The Primrose Thrills (Harry Styles)

Part Thirteen

Our attempt to miss the Friday traffic along the M1 was flawed by the fact that everyone else seemed to have the same idea. After a four hour journey, we arrived at Harry’s house in Holmes Chapel just after midnight and I was awoken by the touch of his fingers through my hair and the high-pitched squeals of what sounded like wailing cats, though upon opening my eyes, I came to realise was just a group of bright-eyed young girls standing excitedly on the path outside of his house. Harry sighed and swept his fingers through his hair. He was tired, I could see it in his eyes and feel it in his touch; but that didn’t stop him from going over to talk to the excited girls and take photos. It baffled me how they’d even found out that he was coming home. It wasn’t the sort of thing that reporters were on the ball about and as far as I was aware, no paps had caught us leaving in his car, nor followed us through London and on to the main roads. But either way, they’d found out and they were here. I wondered how long they’d been waiting in the cold; it was something that I doubted I’d have the willpower to even do, but then again I didn’t blame them for wanting to meet him. With Harry, what you see is what you get (apart from the obvious things that are kept behind closed doors). He really is as genuine and polite as he comes across in interviews, and even more attractive in the flesh.

I smiled from the inside of the car as I watched him make their day (and probably their year), before slipping my shoes on and stepping out into the icy night air, so cold that I could see my breath floating out in front of my face. I felt somewhat on edge as eyes followed my moves; I was somewhere completely unfamiliar, not quite sure whether to walk over to Harry or walk towards the house that I’d never been to before. In the light of the street, I could see that his house was fairly large and modern, half red-bricked half white, three steps leading up into a small veranda. I took my bag out of the back seat, standing awkwardly in Harry’s zip-up hoodie and a pair of jeans, hair a mess and bags under my eyes from where I’d slept for the final hour of the journey. I watched girls squeal and giggle excitedly, eyes occasionally looking over in my direction. Two of the girls walked over to me, shy and reserved, before saying hi. I returned their smiles and laughed as they asked me questions about Harry – silly questions, like what his favourite food, his favourite song and what he likes to do in his free time – the questions that I’d been eager to learn myself when I first met him, which was nice, I thought. They’re the types of questions which might seem trivial, but that allow you to get to know somebody that little bit better. I guess it made them feel closer to him without being close to him. Well, until one of them got a bit brave and asked if we’d had sex yet, both bursting into fits of awkward giggles, and I was grateful that Harry came over to save me from making an entirely inappropriate joke (or not-so-joke) about spanking.

“I’m guessing that happens a lot,” I laughed as we finally stepped inside of his house.
“They’ll probably be back tomorrow. I’ve met some of them before.”
“Do they just… wait for you?”
He laughed. “Pretty much.”
I couldn’t help but notice that the house smelt somewhat like Harry- all fresh and warm with hints of clean laundry. He switched the kitchen light on, bringing the house out of the darkness. The kitchen matched the modern exterior of the house; large granite worktops and a tiled floor, beech cupboards and matching stalls around a breakfast bar. It was a complete contrast to the dark mahoganies and stones of my own home.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself some fans,” he smirked as he poured two glasses of water and perched himself on one of the stalls.
“They just wanted to talk about you,” I smiled, walking over to him and slotting myself between his legs.
“How do you do it?” I asked as I stroked one hand up his chest, the other running through his hair. “Do you not get tired of it?”
His eyes momentarily fluttered shut as he turned his head into my touch, humming deeply as he exhaled.
“There are times,” he began, opening his eyes up to me, “when I wonder what it would be like to not be famous. To not have people following you everywhere, all the time.. To not have people in your face all the time, telling you what to do, speculating over every little thing that you do and making up stories for the sake of having a story. I wish I could go to the shops without having cameras in my face.”
He shut his eyes again and I moved my hands to the back of his head, massaging his scalp and the nape of his neck, firm and tense beneath my fingertips.
“Sometimes I find it hard and there are times when I don’t feel like talking or taking photos. But I’m so grateful to be where I am and to be doing something that I love doing. I owe it to fans to be nice to them and to take the time to see them. Even when they are screaming and pulling on my clothes.”
“They do love you a lot,” I smiled.