Yours: a short story [harry styles] ✓

2

13th July 2017

I stared at myself in the mirror—hoping I didn't look as ridiculous as I felt. Elenore had sent the dress from Italy and it was much tighter and shorter than anything I would have chosen for myself. It was a very dark grey, high necked with capped sleeves, and covered in a long-sleeved dark tulle layer; subtly embellished with some kind of sparkle. Fitted was an understatement. Was this even appropriate for a film about World War II? I was fairly confident that breathing would be the only movement this dress would allow—I'd tried not to think too much about the red carpet. Especially because of the shoes.

The shoes were a whole other matter entirely.

Another gift from Italy. High, black velvet and a licence to kill (or break multiple bones at least). Elenore had assured me their chunky heel would make them easier to walk in—but it was the dainty strap around the ankle that had me concerned, plus the fact my toes seemed to suddenly have a limited blood supply the moment they were squished into the end.

"I am fu—"

"You look pretty, Mummy." I whirled around to find Nola stood in the doorway of mine and Harry's room—a bright pink octopus toy wedged under her left arm. Anne was staying with her at our house tonight and I almost wanted to suggest we switch roles for the evening.

"Thank you, sweetie." I forced a grin. "Mummy's worried that she looks a bit silly."

Nola's forehead crumpled as she comprehended my words, immediately changing to a look of surprise as Harry snuck up behind her and hauled her into his arms. She shrieked with delight; thrashing her small arms and legs in the air while he spun her around our bedroom.

"Mummy looks hot." Harry winked at me when he finally came to a standstill. "I'm not even sure I can take her with me, Nola."

I watched as our daughter twisted her head to look at him—the confusion evident on her face. "Why?"

Harry's features shifted into faux concern. "Daddy might have to fight off all the other people who want Mummy's attention!"

I rolled my eyes at him. "I'm hoping nobody will want my attention. The less eyes on me walking in these shoes the better!"

Harry stepped forward and a ran a hand up the length of my left arm. "Well I'm going to have a tough time not having my eyes on you. You look absolutely gorgeous, I mean it."

Heat flooded my cheeks as we made eye contact—the air suddenly thick with the kind of tension that could only be acted upon without a child in the room. "Well, you certainly don't scrub up too badly yourself."

I ran my eyes over his tall frame and smiled. Harry's reputation in terms of his wardrobe was generally considered eccentric—this, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Tailored to his lean body—a custom dark blue-green wool mohair double-breasted suit; no tie, with a white shirt unbuttoned. Some would probably go as far to say "understated" until they discovered the Gucci label in the back. 

Of course, our daughter clinging to him dressed in a pair of Paw Patrol pyjamas was enough to bring the situation back down to Earth. 

"But Mummy is mine and Daddy's!" Nola suddenly protested—wriggling between us and promptly bashing Harry in the face with her octopus. He flinched and a piece of perfectly styled hair fell across his forehead. 

"Of course, I am." I assured her. "Daddy's just being silly."

A snort of laughter drifted in from the landing outside our room. "When is he not being silly?" Anne beamed at the three of us; the Three Musketeers as she so insisted we be known. She'd helped assemble my outfit, with Elenore barking instructions through my phone speaker—propped up on my dressing table where she could see me in the camera. It had been a tedious process; mostly because Elenore had been three glasses of white wine deep, but also because I hadn't been able to find my earrings. "The car is here, you'd better start heading downstairs."  

I watched, with trembling knees, as Harry smothered our daughter's face in kisses before passing her across to his mother. "I just need it to be known, while I have witnesses," I grimaced—following my family out onto the landing. "That if I finish this evening with any broken bones, I am holding you, Harry, personally responsible."

Harry whirled around in a cloud of aftershave; a shit-eating grin spread across his face. "Me? Unless I'm the one who pushed you, I refuse to accept any responsibility, my love." 

I scowled, gripping the bannisters for support as we made our way down the stairs. As long I kept all my focus on where I was putting my feet, the shoes really weren't so bad. "I'm holding you responsible because if you weren't so damn talented, we wouldn't be going to a premiere in the first place." 

His shoulders jumped with laughter. I knew he'd be rolling his eyes or preparing something ridiculous to say, purely to make our daughter laugh—but instead, at the base of the stairs, he turned and placed his ring-adorned hands on my waist. I shivered at the contact; the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of my dress like a pool of warm water. "I'll look after you, Marnie." He said; his voice low and reserved only for me. "I'll always look after you." 

Once upon a time, when I was younger and more scared of the outside world—I didn't trust Harry.  I was frightened of his fame; of the attention it brought. I was frightened that he'd never be able to put our daughter first. But now he's one of the two people I trust more than anything in this world. 

"I love you." I said; smiling so brightly that for a moment, I forget what I'm wearing and where we are going. It's just the two of us in a bubble that I never want to burst. 

"You two really need to hit the road." Anne announced in my peripheral vision, with our daughter stood by her side. "I don't want you to be late." 

"I am never late." Harry grinned, knowing full well that it's the worst lie he's ever told. Punctuality has never been his forte—a fact all of One Direction would be able to vouch for. He turned to me; one hand outstretched, and bowed. "My lady." 

"Give me strength." I snorted—looping my arm through one of his instead. "Are we really doing this? Remember to ensure I remain upright all evening." 

As we kissed Nola and Anne goodbye, Harry leant over to whisper in my ear. "Not a promise I can keep, I'm afraid. The minute we get back home this evening, I don't intend for you to be upright at all." 

Grinning like the cat that got the cream, Harry threw me over his shoulder and hurried us outside and into the waiting car. I squealed as I hit the leather seat; almost bouncing into the footwell from the force of my landing. As I turned my attention to the window, Nola and Anne waved in the doorway—our daughter mostly obscured by the beloved octopus that rarely left her side.

"Onwards, driver!" Harry announced dramatically, like some sort of 1930's thespian. "Cinderella shall go to the ball!" 

Leaning across the middle seat; I thumped him with my clutch, but even I couldn't resist smiling.