book of lies → l.s.

prologue → harry styles, who loves you

PART I

Just like Louis hadn't understood why the turtle beat the rabbit in the race in that one fairy tale, that he read when he was seven, he didn't understand why Mr Shmidt called him so early in the morning on a Saturday. He was late, of course, because he had just opened his eyes when he received the call from his boss, his mouth smelled like fish guts and the car keys were missing. He had to take the bus and drink a tasteless cheap one-dollar coffee from the machine at the bus station.

No one greeted him at the doorway of the tall building, but he wasn't surprised – who the hell would be working on a day off!? "I am, obviously," Louis thought and grinned to himself. His attire wasn't appropriate: gray pants, which he somehow dig out of a huge pile of clothes, and a white T-shirt that definitely hadn't been washed recently. He hoped there would be no casualties due to his morning breath as he looked through his pockets for a mint. Alas, he only found a piece of paper with a telephone number and a name – Daniel – which didn't sound familiar. Louis threw the paper to the side carelessly and entered the building, rushing through the lobby and heading straight to the elevator.

After a short trip to the seventh and last floor, Louis got out of the lift with a plastic coffee cup in one hand and a terrible hairstyle. He headed towards the office in the end of the corridor and faced the wooden door. He wasn't even thinking about knocking, when someone on the other side of the door pushed it open abruptly and Louis found himself face-to-face with the not-so-happy-and-radiant Mr Stefan Shmidt, better known as the man, who paid Louis to write books and sponsored his writing career. Stefan was a thirty-four year old man, married to a nymphomaniac woman and a father to two freaky children. Louis understood that his life wasn't perfect, but Mr Shmidt found his cure against sadness on the large desk with his secretary.

The man grabbed Louis by his already-wrinkled T-shirt and hauled him into the office. He swiftly took his place on the tall leather chair and motioned for Louis to sit on the armchair on the other side of the expensive desk. Tomlinson, like a obedient dog, quickly sat down and waited for the other man to speak.

"I'm disappointed, Louis," exclaimed Mr Shmidt and threw his hands in the air. "What's happening to you?"

And Louis smiled to himself, because even he didn't hold the answer to that question.

"I know you're angry, but this doesn't depend on me. I don't choose when to write well and when not," Louis explained, but his boss didn't move a muscle, just continued to glare angrily at the young writer.

"No, Tomlinson, listen to me. I don't pay you to 'write well', I pay you to write perfectly! I don't care about you and your whims. I don't even want to hear your sad excuses of lack of inspiration or some other crap."

"I'm sorry, Mr -"

"The commission didn't like your last idea."

"What? But it's perfect! The problems kids face in the twenty-first century is a hot topic right now."

"That's true, but you're not a psychiatrist, you're a writer. You write about love, adventures and some other bullshit. People expect everything from you and you give them nothing."

"I promise I won't stall any longer and I will do my best to carry out my duties," Louis replied and flashed an apologetic smile.

Mr Shmidt sighed. He was fully aware of the fact that Louis was a valuable asset and Shmidt couldn't afford to lose him.

"You have three months to write a novel. I don't want to hear any excuses. You'll write day and night and in the end the commission will decide whether you're going to continue working for us or not." Tomlinson nodded and Stefan gazed at the enormous window. "You're free to go now."