Wild (sequel to Deep) - Zarry AU

Victoria

It was 10am and Harry was nursing a Bloody Mary. He had thought that it might help him wake up.

Victoria, his English interior decorator and on-and-off personal assistant slash housekeeper, swept into the kitchen and stopped. "What are you doing, Harry? Is that what I think it is?" Harry shrugged. He'd had no idea she was in the house but at the same time he wasn't surprised. She was always around, like so many of the people paid to be in his life now: they were dancers on the stage around him, passing silently back and forth so that he need do nothing other than be the star, shining and central. No need to dance unless he wanted to.

Victoria was carrying a framed print which she leant against the fridge before making her way across the shiny floor to Harry. She lifted the glass out of his hand and tipped the rest of the thick, red liquid into the sink. Harry pouted. Three weeks previously he would have protested and maybe even wrestled the glass back from her. But he was too tired. He rubbed his eye with his knuckle. Victoria stared, chewing her cheek. "You look terrible," she said, finally.

"Thanks," Harry smiled.

She ignored the sarcasm and moved closer, peering at his face.

"What's happened to you?"

Harry coughed and turned away, raking a hand through his long hair as he did so. "Nothin'. Juss not sleeping much."

Victoria stood frowning, with her hands on her hips. "You know, I think you could really use some Qi Gong, Harry. I'm gonna get you to meet my teacher. He is so fabulous. Honestly, it really works for stuff like stress and... stuff."

Harry smiled again. "Thank you, Vicky. But ah really don't need anything..." grinning now, he waltzed over to a high cupboard and took out a bottle, "apart from another Bloody Mary."

Victoria rolled her eyes.

*

Harry stood, glass still in hand, in the second reception room to his house. It was nearly finished now. The carpet, chosen by Victoria, was white and seventies-deep – walking on it felt nice under his bare feet. The walls were grey, adorned only with a large screen which sat blank over the vast fireplace. A number of prints stood stacked, leaning against a wall near the entrance. "Choose one or two – make a statement," she had said to him and he was trying to comply. Leaning forward to see the images clearly, he flicked past a Hockney (too retro), a Timothy Oulton vintage map (this he liked, but it was maybe too London) and a Cole Sprouse photograph (no way!). The next choice was a multi-coloured urban graffiti panel. He stopped and swayed slightly. Then he leaned the canvasses carefully back against the wall, stood straight, turned and walked across the room to look at the bare, grey wall. "That's it," he said, out loud and to no one.