Style // 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

5.

Saturday

If I had to put my own definition of 'time wasting' onto Wikipedia, I'd put 'picking Stella's outfit'. Opening Stella's wardrobe was like opening a matrix of outfits, I'm sure we could have found Narnia back there if we searched further. High heels, mini skirts, corsets that barely cover her boobs. It felt like I was working in retail, trying to dress a mannequin for display.

Stella set her eyes on wearing full black. But, there's different shades of black! Faded black, jet black, leather black. As soon as one black didn't match the rest of the outfit, the whole thing was torn off and Stella was down to her underwear in front of me. After we found 'the one' for her, my head was pounding worse than the morning after getting blackout drunk. It was such a horrible headache, I just had to go on a walk to get rid of it...

Had too. Did you see my excuse there? I slipped it in quite discreetly, if you ask me!

The heavens in the sky haven't opened their gates yet. In fact, the gloomy clouds are starting to subside. If you ignore the ugly shadows in the sky, it's warmer than it looks. Perfect conditions for my panicky and clammy hands. I decide to walk to his flat, hoping the monotone stone walls would provide a good distraction. Or, a mini gecko would pop out from a bush and scare all the thoughts out my skull. 

I grind my teeth together as I turn one of the last corners that lead to Charles' house. His address was leaked to the public not long ago, all his obsessive fans swarmed his front door for days, waiting to see him. What if there's still a crowd? I don't want to look like one of those screw-loose lunatics? I don't want paparazzi to see me either. An unknown woman captured walking into Charles Leclerc's home is a news title that everyone would gobble up and digest whole.

Deep breaths, contain yourself. You're being dramatic, Emma. It was leaked long enough ago for everyone to lose interest in it. Charles probably has some kind of security in place for mad-fan situations. And a restraining order. Or, he's probably moved out! I don't want to risk it! I'll just text him!

Me
Hey
Your fans have stopped ringing your doorbell right?

My hands fumble for the keys, autocorrect saving my ass on every spelling mistake. I scoff as I put my phone in my bag, forcing myself to keep walking as I shakily wipe my hands on my sides. At least I know if I get sweat patches then it isn't my armpits. Sorry, that's too much information. Another side effect of being nervous! I regret putting my phone in my pocket, as it buzzes moments later.

Charles
I think so

Me
Useful
Thanks

Is it that hard to look out a window?! Whatever, doesn't matter, I'm there now anyway. The boujee, tall, expensive looking building is right in sight, eerily calling my name. A bit like Princess Aurora's story where she pricks her finger on the spinning wheel, except her fate isn't falling into the trap of a non-commitable relationship. But, what would you rather? A month of an unofficial relationship, or potentially spend the rest of your days sleeping until the man of your dreams saves you?

Me
I'll be outside in a minute or so
Can you buzz the door open

Charles
...

Charles
No can do
Don't want to risk my fans breaking in
:)

I run my tongue along my back upper teeth, my patience for his games growing slimmer by the minute. Picking up the pace, my heels clack against the concrete. It sounds like a teacher- or my boss- walking down the corridor in the distance, which gives you that heart-dropping feeling. Except, I'm the one giving it, and I hope Charles can sense it. 

I jab the buzzer the second I'm at the front door, already feeling antsy. I look up at the monumental building, my eyes tricking me into believing it's leaning over my head. Every click, every footstep, any tiny flap of a bird's wings clapping together makes me flinch. My eyes find the security camera on the doorbell, the red lights indicating that it's recording. I almost want to threaten it, to jab a sharp-nailed finger in it's direction and demand to let me in.

"No fans, sorry." Charles' voice crackles from the buzzer.

"Leclerc." I warn him.

"Miss Morgan." Charles giggles, returning my humour.

"Open this door right now." I chuckle, my anger fading.

"It's open."

I flatten my hands against the glass door, leaving prints behind as I force my way in. I'm immediately hit with old-money luxury. The spiral stair case in this building is no match to the one in mine and Stella's building. Antique, complex, with a golden handrail. Natural wear and tear after years of use, no doubt coming from the hands of the rich. I wonder who's the richest person to ever live in this building? Is it Charles? It feels illegal for me to place my hand on it, like I don't have enough money to hold on. 

I reach Charles' door, my hands drifting off the hand rail. I don't want to let go of it. Like a scared child on a high-up building, or a simple climbing frame. Charles' door is jet black, branding a golden door knocker that looks more modern than the rest of the building's interior. This door, this damn door, is where the games begin. I can't spend too long out here, Charles will come looking for me, and I'll look frozen to the hand rail like an abandoned dog.

Stop being such a fanny and knock on the fucking door Emma-

The voice sounded like Rebecca Welton's, who continues to be my favourite character from Ted Lasso. All of my fear is pushed aside as I confidently grab the knocker, hitting the door with three satisfying clunks that ricochet around the corridor. Right, ok, pull yourself together. This is just a lunch, it's not a date. You and Charles don't date, you never date, it never goes well in the end. Why would it be different now when it's always-

"Hello, Miss Morgan." Charles smirks, his cheekiness still lingering.

Shit. My hands feel like waterfalls, sweating buckets from each crevice. 'Miss Morgan' is an old nickname, that disturbs the flock of butterflies resting deep in the bottom of my stomach. He overheard a patient call me in public, whilst he was luckily tucked away behind a corner. I hum as I shift my weight over to my other foot, crumbling under his gaze. Like placing a block of butter next to an inferno. My grasp to the handrail behind me unknowingly slips off, his presence luring me into a trance.

"Leclerc." I smile, letting myself into his apartment as he stands to the side. "Wow, it's almost like I saw you yesterday."

"You're still making that joke?" He asks, causing me to roll my eyes as he shuts the door.

"I'm British, of course I'm still making that joke."

One thing I have to admit is that British people have the worst jokes. And the worst puns. Then again, since watching Ted Lasso, Americans do too. Sorry to all of you who are British or American, or both.

Charles' hand caresses the small of my back, ushering us through his apartment. Framed photos and trophies in cabinets line the walls, memorabilia from his entire racing career including everything before F1. I can't shake off the Deja Vu feeling winding around my veins and cutting off my circulation. The many times I've walked into his house, including his own and his family home. Poor teenage me was oblivious, snapping some of the very photos that sit on his walls. He guides us through to the living area, where the least expected scene lays in front my very eyes.

"Oh wow."