Hungry for Release

Part 13

"So...that's about all we have time for today. Same time next week?" asked the gentle voice from the chat window.

Zayn paused for a moment, considering. "Yeah - that'd be good, please."

"OK, I'll pencil you in - and, as ever, if you need anything before then, please email me," his counsellor agreed kindly. They'd been having Skype sessions for a while now, and even though Zayn thought maybe he'd be OK without them, his doctor had recommended sticking with it for a few more months just to make sure he was on an even keel.

Zayn didn't really mind if he was honest. It was quite nice just to have that hour set aside each week for reflection. Though they had a lot more time to themselves with the new management, alone time remained a precious commodity.

The change had been rough - but they'd stuck to their guns. For the most part, the band had left the fighting to their lawyers. One thing they could say for all that crap they'd been forced to flog - it generated more than enough to cover all those eye watering legal fees.

It wasn't shocking that Modest was reluctant to let them go. At first, they'd assumed it was a ploy for more money on the boys' side. Astronomical cash advances had been bandied around, with ludicrous sweeteners and eye-watering bonus offers.

The boys were immovable - it was time to grow up, and take back their lives. Aside from Niall, who was cheerfully resilient as ever, it was growing clear to Zayn that the others were rapidly crumbling - in some ways, maybe more deeply than he ever had - and it would only be so long before another one of them reached crisis point. It was a case of act now, or fall apart totally.

In the end, there are some things that money just couldn't buy. All you had to do was look at the tense expressions on everybody's faces and the unnatural shadows under the their eyes to see how unhappy the band was. But, as is inevitable with every battle, there had been some collateral damage along the way.

With the management deal in flux, for a few weeks they'd been left to their own devices. Everyone had scattered to their respective families, keen to stay out of the spotlight and avoid any scandals when there was nobody to cover their backs.

Zayn had gotten far too comfy at his parent's house, and without even realising, with that comfort had come a slip back into old habits - just like shrugging into a old winter coat with the first November chill.

In no time he was sleeping through breakfast. Then it was easy to pretend he'd had lunch while everyone was out, busy in the real world of school and offices. By the time dinner came round, he could get away with minute portions, claiming he'd been snacking all day.

The time crept by, and he grew steadily more gaunt, to the point where even baggy sweaters that folded in heaps around his middle barely concealed the weight loss. Zayn didn't care though. He stayed in his room painting and sketching, the days broken only by phone calls from their lawyers and messages from the boys.

It sounded like Harry was going slightly mad trapped at his suburban home after his long months of hedonism. Even the fans were slightly bewildered, though pleased, with how often Liam and Niall had taken to Tweeting - anything to distract them from the case. Zayn kept away from all that though, staying in with his family and shutting out the outside world.

Then one evening he had tipsily stumbled in late from his cousin's house to find his mother tearfully sifting through a pile of family photos at the kitchen table. She'd obviously had a few glasses of wine herself - it tended to make her a little sentimental.

"Oh, Zayn," she said, taking him in as though for the first time, a look of deep sadness in her eyes. "Look at you here," she sighed, holding up a picture of him from junior school. He was grinning and giving an excited thumbs-up to the camera. "So happy...so healthy...I never thought I'd have to go to sleep every night, worried about you...about the things..."

"Mum...I'm better...." he mumbled, shocked at the outburst.

"Get help Zayn. Look at you. You're like a fucking scarecrow. I know you're not eating even half of what you should. The weight's just dropping off. Get help...we can do it together. Whatever you've been doing clearly isn't working. Let's try a new way. I've done a lot of research, and I think there's a counsellor who could really help, I think. Please. Please. "

"I..." Zayn cringed, unable to find any holes in her argument. "What did you have in mind?" he asked. He couldn't stand to see her face like this...so broken and lost. And he couldn't remember what it felt like to be that little grinning boy - so carefree and content. But he so very desperately wanted to. And maybe that's what made 'Recovery: Round Two' different.

This time, he and his mother had worked out their own plan, with room for error, and plenty of people he trusted not to push him over the edge. Crucially, he felt like he was in control. By the time he was back on tour, a full support net was in place to make sure Zayn didn't falter again. And should he 'slip', there would be plenty of buffers to usher him back in the right direction.

It hadn't been easy to regain his momentum, and every day brought new challenges. But, there was so much to look forward to too, so many things they were planning - all five of them - for the band the year ahead, decided democratically and fairly, that there was plenty to keep him focused on the future.

And it wasn't just Zayn that flourished under the new management. Nobody hassled them about what they did out of hours these days, and quietly, Louis and Harry had fallen back into their old mysterious rhythm, laughing and joking in stage like they were young teenagers again.

Niall was just happy to have the "angst-bomb" as he referred to it, defused. He'd even started joining Louis and Liam in their songwriting - and amazingly, had agreed to perform a record number of solos on the new album. It seemed that with his bandmates calmer, he was happier to take a bit more of the spotlight too.

Just that morning, Niall had excitedly played a few of the new demos to Zayn over breakfast, waiting patiently as his friend laboured over his wholemeal toast and poached eggs. Zayn didn't know if he'd ever be able to just nonchalantly grab chocolate muffins and bacon like his Niall, who was cramming in a second helping of croissants as though they were about to be ripped away from him.

The gates might be opened, but the old traps the disorder had dug remained, and try as he might, he still struggled to untangle the 'good' and 'bad' foods in his brain. But, at least he was eating at all, he thought to himself. And he would do it three times a day, even if it felt like an endurance competition with no end.

Right now though, he was having a 'moment', fiddling fretfully with his tight waistband in front of the mirror as he got ready to go on stage. How gross did he look from this angle? Christ, what was everyone going to think? Look at those rolls of flab...

He paused, gathering his thoughts, trying to remember what he'd been taught. No...no actually...that wasn't what he should be thinking about before the concert.

He should be thinking about how great the warm up had been, and how exciting this all was. And how funny it had been earlier when Harry had climbed into a bin to surprise Lou, only to freak out when an unsuspecting roadie deposited a banana skin right on his precious hair.

Things that would make him look happy and confident. Anything but this stupid litany of abuse. "Breathe. Breathe," he whispered. A large shape loomed behind him in the reflection.

"Looking hot dude!" Liam laughed, grabbing his shoulder. He was so much more relaxed these days. The other day, he'd even suggested ditching their planned workout and go to the cinema - something that would have been sacrilege a few months ago.

Zayn felt his stomach unclench. "Time to go man," Liam said, smiling. "Hey, Miley's in the audience!"

"Really? Oh God, she better leave the twerking to Harry, or there'll be hell to pay," Zayn joked, turning away from the mirror without a second glance to join his friends. This was his time, and, for once, he wanted to feel every second.

Sometimes it felt like the anorexia was an invisible anchor that would always be there though, trailing behind him wherever he went. With every photoshoot, fitting, or concert, he'd feel the yank of its chain, threatening to pull him back down into that deep dark anxious place. Every day though, a new link was added, and one day, he hoped, it might get so long, he'd get through a day barely feeling the tug at all. One day.