The Beautiful Escape [ZARRY]

2

This year Harry Styles wasn't taking any chances. He was going to lose himself in the wilds of deepest, darkest Yorkshire until the so-called festive season was well and truly over.

He didn't like Christmas... Why was it considered a crime when a man refused to participate in the manic few weeks that climaxed in several days of insatiability in the company of people you avoided for the rest of the year?

Of course, the most insupportable part was the fact that everyone was so understanding. He refused to put on a paper party hat and suddenly he was failing to come to terms with his loss. He'd had it with pop psychology, no matter how well-intentioned.

After the debacle last year, when the girlfriend- and he used the term in the vaguest possible sense- of the moment, armed with champagne, sympathy and a criminally sexy nightie, had tracked him down to the hotel he'd holed up in, he decided he wasn't leaving any clues. She'd proved to be a scary tenacious woman. She'd had her revenge, though; she'd sold the story of their so-called 'stormy relationship' to a tabloid.

He would have been quite keen to avail himself of Jeffery's hospitality if he'd known that the renovations of the big Victorian pile had been at such an early stage, but that was hypothetical now he was here.

"God, man, you're getting soft," he told himself. His deep voice sounded eerily loud in the empty lofty-ceilinged room. "What's a rat or two between friends...? A bit of good old-fashioned country spirit is what's called for here. Who wants to call Room Service when I can pump up the old Primus stove?" His tone lacked faith even to his own ears.

Having unrolled his sleeping bag, he made his way into the overgrown garden that stretched down towards what sounded like a river in full spate. He tightened the collar of his leather jacket around his neck; it was almost as cold out here as inside.

From the bone-chilling temperature in the old place even after he'd lit that smoky fire in the cavernous grate, he suspected he'd need to invest in a few thick blankets to supplement his state-of-the-art bedding, which might well live up to its press and be able to withstand a night in the North Pole, but the Yorkshire Dales in December... forget it!

He looked around in distance at the bleak landscape. God, the place was so grey-grey and extremely wet. It was baffling when you considered how many people waxed lyrical about the area.

The periphery of his vision picked on something that broke the dull grey boredom. Something suspiciously like a human voice raised in song drifted across from the general direction of that fleeting glimpse of scarlet. Harry immediately felt displeased. Jeffery had sworn on his very alive grandmother's grave that Harry wouldn't see another human being unless he wanted to- and even then it wouldn't be easy.

Harry had come away with the distinct and very welcome impression that the natives were hostile to strangers.

Eager to defend his solitude against intruders, Harry followed the melody to its source, wrecking his shiny new boots in the process. He discovered the clear, pure sounds actually came from just beyond the boundary of the sprawling grounds. He could no longer eject the songbird, but his curiosity was piqued.

His knowledge as a renowned singer enabled him to correctly identify the melody as The Love You're Given. How very romantic; he thought, his lips curling.

Acting on impulse- which wasn't something he made a habit of- Harry swung himself up onto the lower branch of a convenient oak tree. The identity of the owner of the bell-like tones was going to bug him unless he satisfied his curiosity. Besides, if he was going to be listening to romantic songs on a regular basis it was as well to be forewarned.

From his lofty vantage point, he could now see into what must be the garden of the sprawling stone-grey house that sat at the bottom of the lane that held up to Jeffery's investment.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

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