Hungry for Release

Hungry for release: Part 1

At the time, it had felt like a metal door coming down in his mind, sectioning off the wilful, impulse side of his nature, and letting the determined, focused part take full control. A klaxon had sounded, and something impossibly strong had rolled down into place. When he thought about it though, in retrospect, the barriers had been building for some time.

That first day though, all he knew was this. One morning, as he had innumerable times before, he went down to the hotel breakfast buffet and surveyed the standard spread - much like any he'd face on any day of the tour - and everything had changed.

On autopilot, he went to fill a bowl with Coco Pops, sleepily fumbling as he grabbed it from the pile. Unexpectedly, he felt himself freezing mid-pour, and emptying the chocolate puffs back into the container.

Forget it, his brain buzzed. Too much sugar. Think of your flabby stomach. Think of your blotchy skin. He nodded, and looked towards the eggs. Protein is good, right? But when he went to serve himself, once again, something jolted him to a stop. All he could see was oil, sweating off the egg whites, and oozing on to the surface off the pan. Nope, nope, nope.

Bread. Bread was low fat right? On offer were croissants, thick slabs of white toast, and a bright array of fruit muffins. Hold on a minute though, those portion size were ridiculous. Almost three times the size of what you'd get in the UK, and even the British media was full of stories out of control pastry size and the supposed sinister effects of carbs.

His stomach growled. As intimidating these options were, it was six am, and he had three big interviews alone scheduled in before noon, to be followed by a long afternoon of rehearsals, and, finally, a concert. There was no way he'd manage all that with no fuel inside him.
A hearty hand clap to the back shook him out of his torpor. "'Alright, Zayn?" Liam drawled in his sing-song Wolverhampton accent, "You clearly need a coffee - you look like you're in a trance. What do you want?" He asked, gesturing towards a gleaming, a very space age looking machine.

"Ah - ha ha, yeah, right. Espresso me up, Payne," Zayn ordered. While his band mate's back was turned, he dived into a silver tureen full of, mostly untouched, low-fat yogurts - hardly surprising, considering the vast array of treats on offer - and furtively scanned the calorie count of the first one that came to hand. It might be full of sugar, but at least it was a safe, manageable portion.

He turned around and headed over to Liam, grabbing a banana at the last minute. As usual, Liam was already tucking into one of his token ham and bacon sandwiches, pausing between bites to scan the latest football results on his phone. "Thanks man," Zayn muttered, cringing at the bitterness of the strong coffee.

"Not to your taste? It's a wee bit more intense than your usual latte milkshake," he laughed. Zayn smiled. "Yeah, but I've decided to cultivate an air of mystery. From now on, I'm only going to wear black, drink nothing but black drinks..."

"So coffee, black Russians, Cola, and Guinness?" Liam asked.

"Right!" Zayn nodded enthusiastically. "I'll dress solely in ruffled shirts, a magnificent sweeping cape, and elegant velvet trousers. Just need to think up a fiendishly tricky code to write my Tweets in, and I'll be in business."

"Sounds splendid. I'm off for my wardrobe fitting now, so I'll alert them to your dramatic new fashion direction. Ta ra! Liam fastidiously folded his napkin and deposited it in the cup, and trotted out.

"Cheers dude." Zayn waved him away, and took one last dreg at the now lukewarm espresso. Shit. He'd forgotten about the fitting. He'd just about recovered from last month. Out of the three pairs of jeans that had laid out for him, he'd just about been able to get one over his hips - and that was after a good few minutes of shimmying and jostling, praying for the zip to just reach the top.