Rebel Rebel |harry styles| - ongoing

NINE

Ismael Serrano: Km.0

Essie

When last week started, I had no idea it would end in such an emotional way. It helped that I told Harry the whole story, but I felt genuinely relieved because that was the first time I allowed the thoughts to fully form inside my brain. Before I ran into Ed, I never let myself think about our relationship and all the things I did wrong.

"Hey gran?", I hadn't called her in a while, "Essie girl, is that you? I don't have my glasses on, so I didn't look at the caller ID before picking up.".

"Yes, it's me. How are you?"

"I'm alright. Oh, the weather has been divine in Madrid. You should come visit.", gran Rosa beat me to it.

"That's why I'm calling. I've got some free time and I thought I'd come see you.", my gran has been living in Spain for over twenty years. She moved to Madrid when granddad died, I was about four. However cliché it must sound for a Brit to move to Spain, she didn't want to fall under that umbrella of living in Alicante or Valencia and she went straight home. She was born in Madrid, but her family relocated to London when she was little.

"That's wonderful news darling! Is there any chance of your father joining you? I've not seen him in over a year.", that sounded like my father, neck deep in banking and no spare time to visit family and disconnect from the business world.

"I'm not sure, granny. But I'll check.", she sighed, used to this perpetual roundabout when it came to my dad.

"Okay love. I'll see you soon, then. Bye now!"

I contemplated leaving without letting anyone know, but I decided against it. I didn't want Harry to think I was running away, and I knew Becks and Ramona would fly straight to Madrid if they thought I was hiding over there. I shot everyone the same 'I'm on holiday' text and email.

The trip to Square Mile was usually long and uneventful. I didn't like visiting my dad at work, but since I booked my plane ticket for tomorrow, I was left option-less. The giant concrete structure rose from the ground and I dreaded pushing the door and entering.

"Hi Claudia. Is my father in there?", his secretary nodded and motioned for me to go in. Deep breaths. I wasn't afraid of my father; he was a genuinely nice man when he caught a moment to be an actual human being instead of a machine. We just never found a common language. He was calculated and logical, and I had a part of that logic embedded deep inside me. But I was an artist like my mom and he never got that. He never tried to understand why we chose art as our vocation. To him, it wasn't a career and it could never keep you afloat for long.

"Hi dad.", he spun around on his big office chair and looked at me puzzled.

"Estee, what are you doing here?"

"I can't stay long, but I wanted to tell you I'm travelling to Madrid tomorrow, to see Gran. She asked if you'd like to come as well, but I reckon you don't have the time?", he sighed and looked down at the stack of papers on his desk. He insisted on leaving a paper trail with everything he did and swore that he made better financial decisions for the Group when he could see the numbers in print rather than on his computer screen.

"I'm afraid it's a terrible time to take a trip to Spain, but I'll go in summer.", the same old line that he's been feeding us since the beginning of time. 'Oh, Leah I'm afraid it's a terrible time to go see your show, I'll go in the summer, though.', or 'Essie, I'm afraid I can't make it to your recital, there'll be one in the summer, right?'. 'The summer' was a metaphor for 'never' and both mom and I learned to ignore it. We only ever asked him to come to these things because we felt obligated to, we knew full well he'd never make it.