a tale of two cities // niall horan

Part One: New York City

1.

New York City in the fall is the most beautiful place to be. The leaves in Central Park are a rich plethora of oranges and reds and pale golds. The hustle and bustle of people walking around is intensified because of the thankful exit of summer's unbearable heat. In my honest opinion, fall is the best time of year. It's not quite summer, so the days aren't so hot that no one can stand being outside, but then it isn't winter and no one is bundled up so tightly they can barely move. I can just as easily walk outside in a sweatshirt and shorts as in jeans and a short-sleeve top.

The morning of September 29 dawns as a warmer day, about 68oF, and Mr. Belmay, my boss, has left a message telling me to dress slightly more formal than usual because I’m going to be recorded interviewing a boyband whom I assume to be either One Direction or 5 Seconds of Summer, my instincts leaning towards the former.

I sit up in bed and rub at my eyes tiredly. I’m not a morning person, but, as a Media Journalist for The New York Times, my job requires me to be at the office promptly at 9:00am. As a 21-year-old budding journalist, I’m very lucky to have gotten this job, but it was really all the Tylers' doing—they're friends of my parents, and they have a son my age, Alex.

When my alarm goes off for the third time, I know it's finally time to get up, and I sit up and wince at all the blood rushing too my head.

“Shit!” I hiss, after shaking my head only makes it worse. I stretch, the muscles in my back contorting and reach for my blaring alarm clock, silencing it once and for all until tomorrow morning at 7:00am.

I pad into the small bathroom that lies directly across the hall from my bedroom in my tiny New York apartment in Morningside Heights. I wince as soon as I make eye contact with myself in the mirror, my blonde hair a giant rat's nest from not bothering to brush it yesterday and going to bed after. I take it down and attempt to run my fingers through it, but I don't even make it to the bottom of my scalp before my fingers are tangled in the strands. I grab the brush and yank it through, wincing at the pain it inflicts on my sensitive scalp. Once my hair is 90% tangle free, I turn the shower on and hop it and shower as quickly as possible.

Mr. Belmay said more formal than usual because I’m interviewing today, so I grudgingly put away the skirt and short-sleeve I had planned to wear today and gotten out last night. Standing in front of my closet for another ten minutes is not how I envisioned my day starting, though I finally just picked a pale gold one with flats, it wasn't my best but it was as good as could be for being rushed. After taming my hair that looked like it lost a pillow fight with my pillow, it takes me twelve times to get it to look right in a bun. Makeup is another story, the eyeliner going on fine for once but mascara leaving thin, spider-leg-like wisps on my skin that I have to use makeup remover to move, and then, because the clock is itching closer and closer to 8:30, I apply eyeshadow too quickly and end up wearing it halfway up to my eyebrows.

It's going to be a long day.

It's 8:44am when I finally waltz out the door and board the Subway into Times Square. It's 9:19am when I open the glass doors to the office.

“Good morning, Virginia Grace,” our newest receptionist, a brunette woman in her mid-twenties, greets me cheerfully. I always insist, even with people my age and younger, to call me Virginia Grace. Ginny just doesn't seem to fit my personality. And it is a rather unfortunate nickname, in my opinion.

“Morning,” I say back, unable to remember her name, since Mr. Belmay has fired no less than five of them since I started up here six months ago. It's quite like the Defense Against the Dark Arts post in Harry Potter if I do say so.