In My Arms

The Bruton Street flagship store of Stella McCartney’s design house closed early on a cold and rainy Saturday, so that Elizabeth could have a private dress fitting for her Oscar gown. She’d known Stella since childhood—family time with Keith was instead, typically, abandoned and instead spent at the McCartney house—and there wasn’t anyone else she’d rather go to for a gown.

Since Harry was not in the least bit interested spending an indeterminable amount of hours looking at dresses, she enlisted the assistance of Perrie Edwards. They decided to turn it into a girl’s only night, leaving Harry and Zayn at Harry’s flat to watch football or rugby or some other sport Elizabeth wasn’t interested in, along with enough pizza, beer, and wings to last them at least several hours. After massages, manicures/pedicures, dinner and drinks, followed by a few more at Funky Buddha, they headed to Bruton Street.

“Damned paparazzi have been following us since we left Funky Buddha.” Perrie glanced in the rear view mirror. “I’m willing to bet they were outside the spa, too, don’t you think?”

“I’m almost positive they were. I’m just glad you think on your feet and got that stylist to pull your car around back.” Elizabeth twisted her sapphire ring around her finger, she could already feel her pulse starting to pound in her temple. The harassment was constant. And now, it was extending to her out without Harry. Just what kind of exclusive were they trying to get? “This is the shit that drives me insane.”

Perrie parked as close to the front of the design house without actually parking on the sidewalk and shut off the car engine. “I know, love, I know. The girls are bad enough, but living under the paparazzi microscope is worse.”

The night exploded with flashbulbs as they pushed their way through the photographers posed outside the design house. It was the same questions as always, “Is it a wedding dress fitting, Liz? Is Harry ready to pop the question?” or “We heard the boys were out with models the other night, is there any truth to that?” and her personal least favorite, “Don’t you worry Harry will cheat when you’re not around?”

Perrie linked arms with her and together they hustled to the store front. A security guard pulled the door open just enough for them to squeeze inside and then closed it, flicking the lock into place. Stella was waiting for them in the reception area. “Hello gorgeous girl!”

“I brought some photogs with me, if you need any paparazzi work done tonight.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes dramatically, then hugged Stella. “Do you know Perrie?”

Stella shook her head and extended her hand to Perrie. “One of the chosen ones, yeah? Just like Miss Liz here?”

Perrie laughed. “Something like that; we actually met through Zayn and Harry.” “Yes, the chosen ones indeed.” Stella wrapped her arm around Elizabeth and squeezed her. “I still can’t get over it, Liz, you and Harry? When am I going to be designing your wedding gown?”

“Should the occasion arise, I’ll let you know.” Elizabeth pursed her lips together coyly. “And I can be honest with you two, because you’re my friends, that we aren’t engaged. No wedding plans. Just us, having fun. Doing whatever.”

“And doing each other.” Perrie giggled.

“Yes. And going each other. That man, I tell you what; he is the best I’ve ever had.”

Perrie elbowed her and laughed harder. “I know your reputation, lovely. That’s saying a lot if a twenty-year-old is the best.”

“Please, he does things some of those other boys only wish they could do. I have the videos to prove it.”

Stella led them into a boutique room, where her assistant was setting out glasses of wine. “So, Liz, I have three dresses ready for you to try on: the navy column, the gold and white mermaid, and the pink drape. I know which one I’d pick for you, but try them on and see what you think.”

Elizabeth tried on the dresses and, over the next hour, they laughed, drank wine, and gossiped about relationships, the entertainment industry, and their own personal sex lives. There wasn’t much consideration needed for selecting a gown—she tried on the gold and white mermaid first and insisted nothing could be better than it; Stella agreed—and so she and Perrie moved on to trying other sample sized couture dresses Stella had on hand. The wine flowed freely and the laughter started to get louder; the conversation more scandalous.

“Did he really spend ten thousand pounds on vacation with you?” Stella perched on top of a dark wood coffee table and took a sip of wine. “Or is that just media bollocks?”

“No, he really did.” Elizabeth held her hand to show her the sapphire ring. “Plus whatever this cost.”

“Jesus.” Stella set down her glass. “That’s what, two karats? The diamonds maybe a karat each? That’s got to be pushing two or three grand—at the least.”

Perrie looked up from her cell phone. “Did you meet his mum yet?”

“Yeah, Harry had reserved a suite at the Ritz for five days and had her and his sister visit for brunch.” Elizabeth held up her hands dramatically. “And can I just pause to discuss how awkward it was eating huevos rancheros and crème brulee French toast on a table he and I had sex on the night before? I mean, literally. I was sitting there, trying not to think about it, and every time he’d look at me, he’d give me this big, goofy grin. He knew what I was thinking. He always does.”

Perrie and Stella burst out into laughter. Perrie tossed her cellphone in her purse and adjusted the short, pink mini dress she’d tried on. “Did you get along with her? And Gemma?”

“They were really sweet. I just felt…I don’t know, weird. I mean, table sex aside, here’s this nice little family and then there’s me and my awful reputation and prior heroin addiction and the fact his mother knows—she knows—that we’re intimate and…ugh. I was sweating like a whore in church.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.” Perrie giggled. “If you want awkward, meet Zayn’s mother sometime.”

“Please. I was less nervous when I met Prince William and Prince Harry last year.”

“I’ve met Gemma a few times.” Perrie shrugged casually. “She seems like a nice girl. I’m surprised you two didn’t hit it off; she’s as well versed in sarcasm as you are.”

“She probably was, but I just kept sitting there thinking, ‘you’re fucking her brother. You’re fucking her brother.’ At least I didn’t trip or spill anything on myself. Harry said I was as sweet and charming as he knew I’d be. I felt as if I acted like someone who didn’t entirely understand the English language.”

“I’m sure it was fine.” Stella tucked her legs to the side. “Your awkwardness is endearing.”

“No, you know what’s endearing? Harry’s fucking V lines. He’s so damn skinny, but when he takes his clothes off, he looks like his chiseled from solid granite.” Elizabeth sank down onto the couch and covered her face with her hands. “These are the thoughts that cross my mind when his mother was asking me about my Oscar. Don’t ask me why because I have no idea. Chiseled Harry, statue of a naked man. I’m perpetually twelve.”

Perrie gulped down a glass of water to help counterbalance the alcohol in her system. “Put the gown on again, lovely. We need to see it one more time just to make sure it has the proper effect on young Styles.”

“I’m positive, it’s the best.” Elizabeth held the gown in front of her. The bodice was white with a gold overlay, making the fabric look more of a muted beige or soft latte color. It was embellished with gold appliqué leaves and vies, which travelled above the plunging sweetheart neckline and to her throat almost in a halter style. The bodice itself was form fitting, but at her knees it flared out into a soft, full skirt and train. “I fully intend to defend my ongoing ‘best dressed’ status.”

“Harry will be beside himself when he sees it.” Perrie smirked. “Knowing him, he’ll prefer it crumpled on the floor beside the bed.”

“Just make him unbutton it carefully, these buttons are hand sewn on.” Stella scooped up the gown and handed it to her assistant. “It’s the one I would have picked for you. You’d just better not gain any weight before now and the ceremony; this dress is cut to your exact measurements. And, though it goes without saying, don’t get pregnant.”

“Your lips to God’s ears.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Trust me, I set an alarm on my phone to take my birth control pill. I seriously take it the same second every day. I’m not taking any chances.”

“You should just get an IUD. It’s never been a problem for me and Zayn.” Perrie ran her hands down her hips and glanced at the dress. “I’m going to go ahead and get this, Stella. This and the purple mini skirt.”

“We’ll pack it up for you.” Stella slid off the edge of the table and retrieved her sales book. “Liz, do you want the white eyelet dress?”

“Yeah, it and the mint green one. I’m undecided on the poncho.”

“If you change your mind, call me.”

Elizabeth nodded and then rolled her head towards Perrie. “I thought about an IUD, but the feeling passed when I read phrases like cervical dilation. No thanks. Stell, is the Oscar gown ready to go tonight or do you need to work on it?”

“I’ll drop it off at Harry’s flat next week. There’s just a little more embroidery work we have to do.” Stella made a mark in the ledger. “Do you want to pay with check or credit? Or cash?”

“Yeah, let me just grab the five grand out of my wallet.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I’ll write you a check.”

Once the dresses were wrapped and checks written, Elizabeth changed back into her clothes and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough, Stella. There’s no one else I’d want to make my Oscar gown.”

“You just remember to thank me when you’re accepting that award.” Stella hugged her and then turned to Perrie. “It was nice to meet you, my dear. Come back anytime.”

Perrie smiled. “I will!”

One of Stella’s assistants took the dresses and headed to the front of the store with them. The moment the door opened, the flash bulbs lit up the sky like lightening; the questions immediately being screamed out at them. Elizabeth was stunned at how large the crowd had grown; both fans and paparazzi. Girls were screaming out for her and Perrie’s autographs. The photogs yelled questions and tried to elicit a response anyway they could: Did Zayn sleep with a waitress in Australia? Had she heard about the girl who supposedly slept with Harry and Niall in the United States?

One pap was particularly snide. He fell into step with Elizabeth, his face just inches from hers. “Harry’s a womanizer, isn’t he? Do you just turn your back on his cheating?”

She kept her mouth shut. Not this shit again.

“Come on, Liz, everyone knows that Harry sleeps around. He did it to Taylor. He did it to Kendall.” He snapped a picture of her face. “Did he cheat on Kendall with you? He can’t keep it in his pants. He’s probably cheating now.”

“He’s not.”

“How do you know that? You have separate careers, practically separate lives. You’re not together all that much, so, how do you know what he does when you’re off filming your movies? When he’s touring the world?” There was a pause. “You’re a nice girl, Liz, do you really want to be cheated on? Again?”

She stopped walking, turning to glare at the photog. Perrie grabbed her arm. “Liz—“

“How dare you?” She wanted to shove him backwards and toss his camera onto the ground. “Mind your own fucking business.”

“It’s everyone’s business, Liz. Every move you two make, every time he kisses you or buys you some kind of present or takes you on a whirlwind romantic vacation, everyone wants to know. These girls hate you and love you at the same time. They want to be you. And the way he is, maybe some of them have been you, at least, in the bedroom.”

“Fuck you.”

“Admit it. You know he’s a cheat.”

“No, he’s not.” Elizabeth allowed Perrie to pull her backwards, but kept talking to the pap. “You have him all wrong. He loves me.”

“That’s what they all say. Here, I even have a picture of him making out with some blonde. Do you want to see it?”

Perrie yanked her towards the SUV. “Ignore him, lovely. Just keep walking.”

As she opened the passenger’s side door, Elizabeth stuck up her middle finger at the photog. “Go fuck yourself. You can quote me.”

He snapped a picture of her. “I will.”

She slammed the door behind her, turning her head away from the crowd as they continued to snap pictures of the vehicle. Perrie jumped behind the wheel and muttered a cheery thanks to the assistant. The moment the door was closed the backed the SUV directly onto the road and pulled away. “Bastards. Brush it off, Liz.”

“I can’t. You heard them.”

“Harry wouldn’t cheat on you, you know that. It’s just the same bullshit as always.”

Elizabeth held up her cellphone, waving it in emphasis. “Some bitch on Twitter said that she hopes I overdose. She literally told me to shoot an 8 ball and die.”

“Are you serious?”

“That’s not even the first time I’ve gotten that kind of shit. They literally do it all the time: Hazbeth has to end, Harry can do better, I cry when I see them together, I hate her, blah blah blah. I mean, I get that these girls love him. I get that. But why do they hate me? Because he’s happy?”

“Because they want to be with him and if you are, they can’t. I know exactly what you mean. I get that kind of shit all the time,” Perrie glanced at her, “but not quite to that degree.”

“Try it sometime. This is the kind of fucking nonsense that would drive me back into shooting heroin. At least then I’d be incoherent and numb to all this bullshit.”

They fell into silence for the remainder of the ride and, when they got back to the flat, Elizabeth gathered up her dresses and stormed past Harry and back to their bedroom. God damn it, this had to stop. She dumped the dress bags and her purse onto the floor, then pulled out her cell phone. There was one number in her contacts list that she swore she’d never dial again; she stared at it. One call. All it would take was a quick phone call and within the hour, she could have the best heroin in London delivered to the flat. It was that easy.

She scrolled past it and pressed her sponsor’s number instead.

Johanna Graves had been a costume designer in Hollywood since the early sixties and had been sober since 1980, after nearly twenty years of cocaine addiction. They texted weekly. Elizabeth was secure in her sobriety, so their telephone chats were few and far between.

That was probably the reason she answered so quickly. “Hi, Liz, there’s a voice I haven’t heard in a long time! How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been better.” Elizabeth’s voice wavered and she closed her eyes, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I’m just…having a really hard time right now.”

“You’ve been in the media a lot lately.”

“I’m just so tired of it; I’m tired on being criticized by girls and paps who don’t even know me. I’m too fat, I’m too much of a slut; I don’t deserve him. I’d be better off dead.”

“You’re none of those things, Liz.”

“God, I haven’t used in four years. Four years of being clean, and coherent, and happy and now…Jesus, all I want to do is use. I want to feel that that numbness, washing up my body and clouding my brain. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” She clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. “I don’t want to feel like I don’t deserve to be happy.”

“Does he make you happy, Liz?”

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I love him more than anything.”

“Sweetie, we both know how damaging the media spotlight is; it burns you straight to your soul. With the negative, there’s always positive. Not every outlet is saying that about you. The people who matter aren’t saying that about you.”

“I’m just so tired.” Elizabeth squeezed her eyes closed, yanking her fingertips through her hair. “Maybe it’s still the pneumonia or maybe it’s me working too hard. I feel like I’m breaking down.”

“And you want to use.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, Liz. What were the reasons that you gave for sobriety being a gift?”

“Because I’m alive.”

“Alive to love?”

“Yes.”

“And you love him? How do you think he’d like the strung out Liz? The Liz who was so dead inside that she’d cut herself so she knew she was alive? The Liz who had to shoot heroin in the veins in her ankles because the veins in her arms collapsed? The vain Liz. The selfish Liz. Sweetie, that wasn’t the real Elizabeth Richards. That was the rotten shell of a beautiful girl—a girl who left that life behind. Be honest. Is one night of numbness worth falling back into that life?”

“No.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I know it isn’t, but…I don’t know. I’m just tired.”

“You need a break, Liz. When are you coming back to Los Angeles?”

“Two weeks.”

“Okay, two weeks. Let’s plan on getting together and spending some time talking and going over things. Where are you at now?”

“Harry’s flat. London.”

“I want you to call me if you get the urge again. No matter what time of day it is, you call me and we’ll talk about it. Okay?”

“Thanks Jo.”

“Anytime sweetie. You take care of yourself.”

Elizabeth hung up the phone and stared at herself in the mirror. She just wanted to put her head down and sleep for a day or two.

She heard the door open and soft footfalls on the carpet. Harry sat down next to her, putting his hand on her back and gently rubbing the area between her shoulder blades. “Perrie told me what happened.”

“Yeah, it was a great night.” She tossed the cellphone onto the bed beside her. “I love hearing how you’re cheating on me and how your fans wish I was dead.”

“I hate seeing you like this.”

“Me too.” She ran the back of her hand over her cheeks to wipe away her tears. “It’s been four years since I last shot heroin. I was at my breaking point tonight and…and I was close to wanting to use. Really close.”

“Baby, I’m sorry—this is my fault. If it wasn’t for how the media—“

“It’s not just the media, it’s the fans. I can’t stand hearing how the fans hate me and want me dead.” She took a deep breath. “Did you fuck someone behind my back?”

His eyes widened. “I’d never do that to you.”

“Because I had a pap tonight tell me he had a picture of you making out with a blonde. It comes up all the time. All the time, Harry. I know you hug the fans and kiss their cheeks and whatever, but why is there always this one story about you sleeping with a blonde? A waitress, some skank you slept with you and Niall and Zayn all in the same night?”

“So, now you don’t trust me? Is that it? A couple rumors and now I’m that womanizer they all say I am?”

“Do I have a reason not to trust you, Harry? Because you’re awfully fucking defensive all of a sudden.”

He stood up from the bed and stared at her, his brow knitting into a frown. “Meanwhile, let’s not ignore the fact that everyone is saying you fucked Lee Pace on set. Not once, Lizzie, but for a solid month.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You tell me. You obviously think I have motivations to cheat on you. So you must have motivations to cheat on me.”

“You believe ‘everyone’ over me?” She could hear the panic in her voice rising. How had this escalated up into a fight? Sure, they had arguments like every couple did, but not like this. Never like this.

“Based on what, the onset pictures of us together? Pictures from a movie? Shit, Harry, it’s a movie not a porno. I didn’t fuck him onset.” “

There are pictures of you two coming out of a hotel together!” His lower eyelids reddened, as if he was holding back tears. “You were holding hands!”

“The movie was partially filmed at the Waldof-Asoria, you fucking bastard. We were filming!”

“You were in street clothes.” He spat the words out like they were sour. “I’m not stupid, Elizabeth, I know they didn’t wear jeans and t-shirts in the 1930s. Try again.”

She stared at him, her eyes again filling with tears. “I swear to you, Harry, we were blocking off scenes. They can’t shut New York down so we can practice walking in and out of the hotel all day long. We had to do a run through.”

“Bullshit. What about Chris, did you fuck him when I was away?”

“Are you going to answer my question Harry? Or just keep insinuating that I’m a whore?” Tears spilled over her cheeks. “Because it seems like you’re pretty convinced I am.”

“Jesus, Elizabeth, of all the people who would fall for media lies, I never once thought it would be you. I never had this problem with Taylor.” He snapped his mouth closed. He was still frowning, but his eyes grew wider, as if he’d said the words in anger. As if he’d just blurted out the first thing he’d thought.

She didn’t care. She picked up her cellphone and took several steps back from the bed. “Well, then maybe you should just go back to Taylor.”

“Maybe I should. Then you can go back to Chris. Or Lee.”

“Yeah, well fuck you, Harry.” She grabbed her purse off the floor and stormed out of the bedroom, her vision blinded by tears. Her heart was breaking—but she was too angry with him to care.

“Where are you going?” He was behind her, she could hear him running to catch up. “Lizzie, stop.”

“It’s over, Harry.” She hesitated in the threshold of the door and turned back. “We are over. I can’t handle this bullshit with your fans anymore. I can’t handle being cast as some kind of whore in the media.”

“I didn’t cheat on you!” His voice was a near roar, raspy and choked as if he was losing the battle to hold back his tears. “I have no reason to cheat when I’m in love with you.”

“And you think I do?” She stared at him. “Harry, I love you. I do. But I don’t love what is happening around us. Your fans want me to overdose and die and tonight, for the first time in four years I was ready to do it. I can’t handle it, Harry. Being with you has been the best thing to happen to me, but it’s suddenly the worst. I can’t do this anymore. They win.”

He stammered for a minute, obviously searching for the right words. Finally, he said, “If you leave, I’ll know the rumors were true.”

She shook her head and walked out the door. “Fuck you.”

Notes