Direction Dreamer

Chapter Sixteen

When I stepped out of the airplane into London, my heart fluttered and something about me began feeling whole again. I was home, my home, my amazing home. It was like getting pulled through the wardrobe in Narnia, going from misery to sheer elation, and the feeling wasn’t comparable to anything in the entire world. I didn’t know where I wanted to go, which direction to choose. My Porsche arrived just on time, and I loaded it with all of my belongings, heading to the only place I could think to go for the time being: Jailyne’s house. I knew where she hid the key, and I knew that she wouldn’t mind if I vacated it for a few days while I was waiting for the party to make my disappearing act come to an end. First thing was first, drop off my belongings at the house, then go shopping for the party. I found my way into the streets, recalling every single familiar scent of London, the way the pavement felt beneath my feet which were only guarded by thin sandals, and the people who seemed so carefree and amiable. In America, there was so much of a rush, but here wasn’t nearly as fast-paced. It was quiet, but not too quiet, and the entire city was a piece of artwork. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, how I had stayed away for even a moment.

While wandering the streets I found myself entering a tiny boutique piled with dresses from floor to ceiling in all different shapes and sizes, and I knew I’d have a long day in here. I tried on white dresses, black dresses, multicolored ones and one of every color of the rainbow before making the decision to be safe and go with a purple number. I alternated from short dresses to long gowns, and to in-between but the decision was difficult. I went with short, because I wanted to show off my evenly tanned long legs. I didn’t want beads or sequins, nothing too flashy but not too simple either. I needed etiquette, style, grace, and glamour. While comparing two short, purple dresses I stumbled backwards, falling into a pile of dresses in all colors and textures, stuck my hand in, and pulled out the perfect dress. It was a short, purple dress, gathered vertically along the front, and absolutely perfect in every way possible. It met my expectations and then some. It was a Jovani, not too pricey, and I decided to pair it with a pair of purple pumps. I went home to find the ideal accessories, and ended up with my Alex and Ani Anchor, a gift from Harry,  who was, is my anchor in every way that counts. Alongside that was a twisted pendant necklace, and a pair of twisted earrings that complimented my hair and matched my necklace to a tee. I laid out my ensemble of choice, threw on a lighter attire - a pair of black laced tights under jean shorts with a  red checkered flannel, and a pair of all black Vans. My hair was thrown up, no big deal, light makeup and a deep, red lipstick to bring out my lips. I wanted to go walk out into London feeling like I used to: confident and beautiful, and right now, I did. I decided that I’d indulge myself in an “evening out on the town” for starters, Nando’s! I hadn’t eaten there in forever, and I needed my fix of their Chicken Peri Peri.

I walked into Nando’s, remembering the many times that I’d come here with the boys, whether it be with all of them, just Niall because he was perpetually hungry, or Harry for our lunch dates, way back when. It was under new management, and the staff had changed a bit - but it wasn’t too different. It was still a reminder of some of the happiest moments in my life. I got my chicken fix and went out to run the London Eye. Back during the simpler times, it had been a majestic experience that I’d only ever shared with one person - Harry. We had a lot of talks riding the 443 foot ferris wheel. There were a lot of magical moments there - it was the place where I had fully realized that I was undeniably, unavoidably, inevitably head over heels in love with Harry Edward Styles. The sentimental meaning of this ferris wheel was deeper than the beauty that it allowed those who rode it to see. It was a place of love, a place of friendship and a place that had captured a place in my heart. When I stepped on to the pod upon arrival, all of my memories flooded back like my basement during a hurricane when I was ten years. I was living with my former foster mother, Melissa, and nine other children who were as ragged and emotionally scarred as I was. I became incoherent to my surroundings and sat on the bench in the middle of the pod, pondering my future here in London. Would I ever be forgiven for the aching that I caused? Would my family welcome me back with open arms, or push me away like so many others had done? Would Harry ever be able to call me his sweetheart again? Would we ever make love and have children? Was the damage too thick to be peeled away? So many questions raced through my mind on that thirty minute ride, and lingered even after it was over. It was an unbearable and tedious feeling.

I took a single step from a cab that I’d taken four blocks from Jailyne’s house, and in an instant I was called by name. “OH MY GOD, IS THAT MIKAELA?!” screamed a stranger in the distance. It was a girl that I completely didn’t know, who I suppose recognized me from the time in my life when Harry and I frequently went out in public, debuting our affection for one another, and crushing the hopes of fans everywhere. I turned around and ran, what else could I have done? I couldn’t risk being discovered by the paparazzi. I escaped down a side street, navigating my way back to Jai’s. Once I got in, I shut and locked the door, vowing to be more cautious about going out in public for the next couple of days. It was easy enough, I would just practice, practice, practice my song for the next stage of the show. Otherwise, I would just imagine what it would be like to be in my fiancé’s arms again.

The following morning the headlines of the tabloids all read “MIKAELA TOMLINSON SPOTTED IN FRIERN BARNET!” the pictured displayed my back from a distance. I was only semi-turned around, and it looked like one of those crappy pictures you took with a phone that has a terrible camera. That little shit took a picture of me… and I thought that I’d gotten off scotch free. Damn. I knew that Harry would be getting insane amounts of paparazzi mobbing the manor, questions pouring out and he would be unable to answer them. I kept myself on the down low, only sneaking around carefully to buy food, which this house was severely lacking.

The celebration day arrived, and I called in a favor from previous friends to help me prepare for the party. No names, just a text message saying to please meet me at this address, I was an old friend in desperate need of help with my hair and makeup. I left the key under the mat in front of the tiny house and instructed them to just walk in. When they did, they screamed at me… but it was more of a “OH MY GOD YOU AREN’T DEAD THAT WAS YOU ON THE MAGAZINES!” rather than a “YOU TOTALLY RUINED HARRY’S LIFE, YOU JERK. WE HATE YOU!” scream. They squealed equally in delight and heard me out, and I wove my tale into a quick summary before enlisting in their help, instructing them what I needed done. They thought that it was amazing that I was on the X Factor now, and both revealed that I was making the right choice by returning tonight rather than a phone call or showing up on the doorstep. Eleanor did my makeup, curled my eyelashes out with a rich black mascara, then applied a deep satin purple eye shadow, followed by eyeliner and very light foundation, while Danielle styled my hair for me - it was pulled back with curls emerging from a bun, with curls that fell on either side of my face. I checked myself out in the mirror before scooting out Danielle and Eleanor after thanking them eternally - I didn’t want them to see my dress just yet. I slipped into it, strapped on my pumps, and accessorized. I called a cab, and grew absurdly nervous about seeing Harry after having been gone for three months shy of two years. I was hoping for the best.