When Beatle Met Lennon // h.s

Chapter Fourteen - Thus Begins My Life as a Spy

Fourteen – Thus Begins My Life as a Spy

I have cleavage. Melons. Bazumbas. Bodacious tatas. Handfuls of bosom pouring out of a minuscule black dress that I’m going to wear in broad daylight to the boys’ house. I can’t stop looking down. I’m stacked, a buxom babe. My scrawny self is positively zaftig.

How can a bra possibly do this? Note to the physicists: Matter can indeed be created. Not to mention that I’m in platforms, so I look nine feet tall, and my lips are red as pomegranates.

“May the force be with you,” Amy says, and sends me on my way, which is up the hill to the One Direction household in aforementioned black cocktail dress, platforms and bodacious tatas.

The whole way up I keep repeating what a horrible idea this is, but seven minutes later I am looking up at Maison One Direction, the dry summer grass crackling all around me, humming with hidden insects.

When I reach the driveway, I see a man dressed in an expensive looking suit, pacing back and forth, and waving his arms around, shouting in French at a stylish woman in a black dress [hers fits her], who looks equally peeved. She is hissing back at him in English about the management of the boys and paparazzi.

I definitely do not want to walk past those two panthers, so I sneak around the far side of the house and then duck under the enormous willow tree that reigns like a queen over the yard, the thick drapes of leaves falling like a shimmering green ball gown around the ancient trunk and branches, creating the perfect skulk den.

I need a moment to bolster my nerve, so I pace around in my new glimmery green apartment trying to figure out what I’m going to actually say to Harry, a point both Amy and I forgot to consider.

That’s when I hear it: piano music drifting out from the house, the melody Harry wrote for me. My heart does a hopeful flip. I walk over to the side of the house that abuts the tree and, still concealed by a drape of leaves, I stand up on tiptoe and see through the open window a sliver of Harry playing the piano in the living room.

And thus begins my life as a spy.

I tell myself, after this song, I will ring the doorbell and literally face the music. But then, he plays the melody again and again and the next thing I know I’m lying on my back listening to the amazing music. The music is making me rapturous; I slip back into that kiss, again drinking the sweet taste off his lips –

To be rudely interrupted by Liam’s exasperated voice.

“Dude, you’re driving me berserk – this same song over and over again, for two days now, I can’t deal. We’re all going to jump off the bridge right after you. Why don’t you just talk to her?” I jump up and scurry over to the window: Kitty the Spy. Please say you’ll talk to her, I mind-beam to Harry.

“No way,” he says.

“Harry, it’s pathetic . . . c’mon.”

Harry’s voice is pinched, tight. “I am so pathetic. She’s just like every other girl. Only with me until the next guy comes along.”

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Boy, did I blow it.

“Whatever, already, with all of that – shit’s complicated sometimes, man.” Hallelujah, Liam.

“Not for me.” He says, and I see him push past Liam and leave the room. I stuff my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming in frustration.

I suck, there’s no other way of putting it.

There’s also no other way to put this: I’m so freaking in love – it’s just blaring every which way inside me, like some psycho opera.

I get up, peek out through the thick curtain of leaves and almost pass out to see Lachie walking toward the front door. WTF-asaurus? He hesitates before ringing the bell, takes a deep breath, then presses the button, waits, then presses it again. He steps back, looks toward the living room, where the music is now blasting again, then knocks hard. The music stops and I hear the pounding of feet, then watch the door open and Lachie say: “Is Harry here?”