When Harry met Z

OLIVIA

I called the studio to cancel the work for the day. 

The hangover was huge. My assistant went to pick up my car from downtown. There was no news of Z. He was probably flying, on the plane, or who knows where. Z hung up on me last time we talked. I was tired.

My song writing was doing well, but my health not so much. I was starting to have anxiety, especially when we had fights, and we couldn't solve them due to the distance, or because one of us had gone ghosting. I hated it. 

Olivia was the name of a song I wrote some time ago. So many journalists had asked me  the so boring question: "Who is Olivia?"

Unimaginative bastards. 

-Hey!

It was Barbara, waiting 6pm sharp at the gate of the bar. 

-So, you want to hump up and go somewhere? 

I asked from my car, looking at her leaning to my car window.

-Hey, I googled you. I know who you are now. Listen, this is not my beat. I don't follow celebrities, and if I had in the past it was all out of obligation. I can't do much for you, promote you, write about you. Sorry. 

- Let's have a drink somewhere, I can't stop here too long, shall we go somewhere else?

We drove for some time without speaking. She seemed busy as the day before, sending messages non stop on her phone.

-Are you free tonight? Can I treat you to dinner? 

I said that. I don't know why, I felt the urge to talk to someone. I had no news of Z. He had gone silent, that's how it was. 

-Hey Harry Styles, big shot, what do you want from me? I am really not the type of journalist you are looking for. I am trying to find a good story, something like interviewing the next Obama, finding out new health care policies, human right responses to what is going on in China, not a f-ing boy band....

-Barbara. You said you were looking for a human story, right?

-Yes. That's true. Don't tell me that you are some sort of human rights defender of the boy bands in the world.

- Barbara. What if I confide in you, tell you our story, our band's story, tell you how I am not who the media portrays, I need to confide in someone, and then live my life, here, in London, or anywhere, am tired of faking it.

- I don't get it. Plus, I really need to find a Pulitzer type of story, something that will give me credibility so I can do better assignments, not the f-ing Apple product reveal again and again. Is your story Pulitzer Prize type of story?

The neon lights near Sunset Boulevard changed colour shedding warm tones to Barbara's face. She said she had been covering the fire going on in Los Angeles, and how it was one of the worst ones she had ever seen.

-There is a huge environmental crisis in this country, politicians don't want to do much. We are doomed.

-Totally agree with you. 

Los Angeles had some unique charm. I had grown to like it. I didn't like the opulence of some parts of the city. But, I loved the weather and the laid back culture. To say the truth, most of the time I spent here I was working, either on an album, collaborations or concerts. For that the city was amazing. There was nowhere like Los Angeles. Everyone was here, all the producers, musicians, studios, it was just amazing.

-I know we just met. Do you mind if I invite you to my house? I don't know anywhere else we can go that is private enough to talk about this.

She paused for a second. Looking at her phone. She also looked tired.

-Pfff. Sure. I've been to riskier places. If I could go to see Chinese dissidents in their home with the police waiting outside the door, I sure can go to your house. Just let me alert a colleague. This is standard protocol. Don't get me wrong, I don't cover celebrities, maybe I am in some sort of crisis...

I was kind of nervous of what I was going to do. Nothing mattered, I had suffered for years after I had split from Z. My managers had warned me to be careful, but, deep down I knew my career wouldn't be over, just like so many before me, I knew if I wasn't true to myself my music would be worth nothing. So many of us, Prince, George Michael, Elton John...there was a huge list of people whose life was far from conventional.

The phone rang, it was Z. I didn't answer. Z left a voice message.

-Hey Haz, am arriving to LA tomorrow. Do you have some time for me?

I turned the phone off, made some tea for two and sat down near the window overlooking the hills. 

-Barbara, this is not off the record, but please, no recording devices, no notes, just listen first, and let me know if this is worthy of a story. If it's not, then let's forget about it, I am not going to ask you to sign an NDA, I trust you. I will tell you a bunch of stuff, if it's good for a good human story, we use it. If not, we forget about it. Deal?

Barbara opened her bag, turned off her phone, showed me her recording machine, took out the batteries. And looked at me: Tell me all Mr. Styles.

To be continued...