When Lennon met Harry

Guess I'm not a Taylor Swift fan then.

LOS ANGELES

It's 3PM and I haven't sat down since Ty dragged me out of bed at 5 this morning.

I've bought Harry his underwear and I ended up choosing an extremely expensive face cream set for Giselle. The shop assistant said it was made with the stomach contents of a whale. She delivered this information in a slightly excited, breathy manner, as if rubbing whale puke all over your face is most exciting thing you can possibly do.

I'm fairly uncertain about this, but given the huge price tag and the glamorous looking woman who was eagerly purchasing it next to me, I decided to just go for it. I was in a rush and I didn't have a clue what I would buy a supermodel. If this is the 'in' thing she'll like it, right?

I haven't had time to stress about it anyway. I got lucky and managed to get into a conversation with the other buyer about her favourite restaurants, rather I allowed her the chance to brag about where she'd been. I steered the conversation round to places in New York and she recommended one called The Jungle so I quickly tracked it down and phoned ahead for Harry's date.

I have to say, the owner displayed an unprofessional level of excitement at the thought of Harry Styles visiting, I would have thought a classy restaurant would have been more discreet.

In between all of this I've had countless phone calls for interviews and events to be added to the huge diary I have to lug everywhere. With each thing I add, I have to check if I need to arrange a car to pick Harry up and if it fits in with the rest of his schedule for that day. I receive a breathless phone call from Ty, who sounds just as busy as me, to remind me to make sure Harry has meals delivered throughout his day and to contact the major designers to make sure Harry has different outfits for each interview and event.

My head is swimming with all the new information and I keep worrying I've overlooked something.

After dashing to collect the clothes from Harry's LA home and being interrogated for an annoyingly long time by his housekeeper, I'm finally at the soundcheck, feeling tired, overwhelmed and as if I've fùcked up somehow.

After checking the guestlist and making some completely unfunny joke about my surname being Lovelace the burly security guard ushers me into a side room telling me to wait.

And wait.

I've been sat here for 45 minutes and no one else has come in the room. I've given up stressing about Giselle's present and the New York restaurant so I pull out my phone. I have no texts or notifications on twitter or facebook (yay me). There's a whatsapp message from Glen telling me he thinks he might be pansexual, which I ignore, and an email from Star asking me why I lied to Mum about working for Harry Styles, which I also ignore.

I flick though a couple of apps on my phone, enjoying the chance to sit down and rest.

Listverse is my go to website when I've got nothing to do, so I load it up and click on the first link; Top 10 extremely disturbing brutal murders. I can't lie, I find stuff like this equally gross and fascinating. I scroll down the list, completely absorbed.

I'm just reading about a guy who murdered his wife then slept in a bed next to her corpse for a year when there's a polite little cough behind me.

I spin round to find Harry looking at me oddly.

"Oh... Hi..." I quickly shut down my phone and turn towards him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting... Although it looks like you found your own entertainment." He raises an eyebrow and sits down next to me on the small couch. "Hey, you're not getting ideas to do away with me are you?"