Turquoise

The English showers were sprinkling just lightly enough for the use of wipers to be an irritation. Abby Hajjar alternated between flicking the lever on and off as she meandered through the North London streets, inconspicuously watching the other drivers to ensure she wasn’t being dramatic with her wiper speed. As she slowed to initiate a right turn, the sky opened and the gentle splatters of rain quickly turned into a heavy shower of thick drops, the loud plinking of the drops on the roof echoing through the car.

The puddles formed quickly, the drivers unable to avoid splashing the pedestrians on the street. Abby was among them; though her slow city speed caused the water under her tires to barely hit the sidewalk. The drops swelled and the visibility waned. Driving in poor weather wasn’t Abby’s forte and she was relieved the rain held out until she was off the M1.

She turned the stereo up, drowning out the sound of rain with the voice of Merle Haggard. She might not have been an Okie from Muskogee, but Mama Tried.

“Mama tried, mama tried to raise me better,” Abby quietly sang out to herself, slowing to a stop at a red light. Seeing a group of teenage girls under the bus stop across the street, Abby reached into her purse and found her sunglasses. She put them on, despite the rain, in an attempt to remain unnoticed. Though sunglasses during a rainstorm would likely have the opposite of the desired outcome, the girls were too focused on their cell phones and remaining dry to notice the heroine from the popular post-apocalyptic film trilogy in the car across the street.

On the green light, Abby slowly inched past the group, casting a covert glance in their direction. They looked to be only a few years younger than her, and a wave of wistfulness washed over her as she briefly wondered it would be like to be them. However, the thought left her mind as quickly as it had entered, and she flicked through her music, settling on a George Michael song as her final driving tune.

Moments later, she turned down a stone driveway in Brondesbury Park, a detached brick house settled at the end. The house was nestled between mature gardens and hibernating birch trees were scattered across the lush lawn. Though it wasn’t her house, it was the closest thing she had to a home. She parked her car next to the garage, her officially-unofficial parking spot. Leaving her suitcase in the seat behind her, Abby pushed open the driver’s door and quickly darted to the front door, twisting the unlocked doorknob and stepping inside.

“Hello?” she called out, shaking out of her jacket before hanging it on the crowded coat rack. She kicked her shoes under the console table and dropped her purse on the cluttered surface before wandering deeper into the house.

“I’m in the kitchen!” a voice answered, the loud tone likely audible for the neighbours. Abby followed the voice and the smell of coffee to the back of the house. Her best friend, publicist, voice of reason, shoulder to cry on and occasional punching bag, Jenna Parkes, stood in front of the open fridge, peering inside. She turned to greet Abby, a wide grin on her face.

“Hi, roomie!” she enthused, wrapping her friend into a hug. Abby reciprocated, though her embrace not as tight as her friend’s. Abby was not a person who enjoyed physical displays of affection, but Jenna was one of the select few who was not only allowed to hug Abby, but who Abby would hug back, albeit weakly.

Shortening the hug, Abby pulled back, clasping her hands behind her back. “Hi,” she greeted, her tone standardly deadpan. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” she added. “Hopefully it’s not for long,” she said, not wanting to be a burden on her friend or her husband.

Jenna dismissed Abby’s comment with a wave of her hand. “Hopefully it is,” she corrected. “I like having you here.”

Abby smiled and nodded, but her original sentiment was still valid. Though she felt at home at Jenna’s house, Abby was at the dawn of a very unsettling crossroads in her life, and the sooner she could leave Jenna’s home and begin rebuilding her life, the better.

Being unsettled wasn’t new for Abby. Being born to a staunch Muslim man and a vagabond Jewish-Southern Baptist woman in Turkey during Desert Storm, Abby’s life began in turmoil. Her mother hadn’t intended on falling pregnant by a Turkish man with vastly different morals, beliefs and values. Her father hadn’t intended on impregnating a Jewish American barely out of high school. But during a Western-influenced New Year’s Eve celebration in Istanbul, the gypsy-spirited Becky and the charming Mustafa met over heaps of over-priced, watered-down cocktails. Nine months later, a bouncing baby girl with a variety of ancestries was born in a small neighbourhood on the outskirts of Kilis. Over the next eighteen years, Abby would be tugged around the world by her mother, calling a variety of cities, states and countries home but never feeling home. When Abby turned eighteen and became an adult – legally, at least – she escaped the clutches of her drifting mother and settled in London, trying to understand the feeling of home. She still came up short, but she was trying – desperately so – to get her roots deeply planted in London. Friends like Jenna helped, but Abby often wondered if she would ever feel like she belonged.

“So, we have a few things to discuss,” Jenna began, seguing into her role as publicist and gesturing for Abby to sit at the table, a carafe of piping hot coffee waiting for them. Abby let out a quiet sigh, her annoyance evident, but obliged. She reached for the pot as she sat, pouring a cup first for Jenna and then for herself. She abstained from adding cream – Jenna’s coffee was never strong enough to warrant additives – but Jenna added a generous splash to her own cup, taking a sip before speaking.

“I’ve been getting calls all day about the quote-unquote new direction you’re taking,” Jenna told Abby, supplying air quotes. “Beth apparently tweeted something along the lines of being fired. It’s been deleted now, but people saw it.”

Abby snarled her lip incredulously. “Why does Beth even have followers?” she asked, spitting her former agent’s name out as though it tasted horrid. It did.

“Because of you,” Jenna reminded Abby. Abby’s role in the highly-popular teen novel adaptations had sent her fame soaring, and the fans didn’t discriminate. Whether an actor, makeup artist, agent or craft service server, as long as they had a part in the series, they would be followed. Even three years after the final chapter, D-listers like Beth Connor were still raking in the followers, and loving every minute of it.

“Fuck her,” Abby sighed, rolling her eyes. She adored acting – as a shy person with no real sense of identity, it gave her the opportunity to be someone she wasn’t. But the fame that came along with it, the hordes of fans who worshipped her but had no knowledge of personal boundaries, the stories, the rumours and the painful – but apparently necessary – interviews were massive downfalls to the career she cherished. She loved being an actor. She hated being famous.

“Did she also tweet about how she was a complete tit at her job and could only line up auditions for bloody Middle Eastern war movies?” Abby asked, blowing out an aggravated breath. Her outward appearance was clearly Middle Eastern and playing the wife of a Republican Guard soldier committing treason and falling in love with an American was apparently all she was good for anymore.

“She should have,” Jenna agreed, sidestepping her job as a publicist to be a friend for a moment. “I haven’t returned any of the calls or emails yet, but I think I need to say something. The last thing you want is shit rumours going around while we’re finding new representation for you.”

Abby shrugged. “Say whatever,” she told Jenna. The trust Abby had in her friend and publicist was insurmountable. Jenna always knew what to say and how to say it best, and Abby paid her handsomely to stick handle her career and public image, often without Abby’s input.

Jenna nodded. “Right,” she agreed. Abby knew she already had a draft press release sitting in her email. Jenna was nothing if not one step ahead of the game, always. “No one else has said anything, as far as I know, but… you firing every single person that worked for you – aside from me,” she added, an involuntary twitch of a smile on her face, “is going to get people talking. We don’t need anyone thinking you’ve gone off your trolley. Just… a new direction,” she surmised.

Abby rested her chin in her hands. “Yeah, now I just have to figure out what that direction is,” she answered glumly. She didn’t regret firing every person who’d been part of her entourage since her career began. Abby rarely got close to people, and her staff had been nothing more to her than just people doing their job – lackadaisically or not. But it also meant that for the first time since the inception of her career, Abby didn’t have anyone telling her what to do. It was freeing and terrifying at the same time.

Jenna smiled at Abby. “We will,” she promised reassuringly. “But, for now, you can use this time to rest, reflect and… maybe… make me some homemade baklava because you know how much I love it?” she asked hopefully, pleadingly pressing her hands together.

Abby scoffed. “Is that the only reason you’re letting me stay here?” she asked. If anyone had heard the conversation, they’d have thought Abby was angry with Jenna. Her tone was far from teasing, but her words were not to be taken seriously.

Jenna knew this. She laughed, sipping more of her coffee. “Of course,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Or you could stay at a hotel,” she teased suggestively.

“You could eat at Kibele,” Abby countered, knowing she would happily take over Jenna’s kitchen and cook her friend’s favourite Turkish dishes for every meal. Cooking was one of Abby’s favourite pastimes, and preparing the traditional meals from her home country reminded Abby of being with her grandmother – a woman who, twenty-five years ago, was mortified at the thought of her son having a half American child with a half Jewish woman, had quickly become Abby’s number one fan. Other than Jenna, her babaanne was the one person Abby knew she could tell anything to. She didn’t, but she knew she could.

Jenna frowned dramatically. “I already bought the pistachios!” she whined. “And those things are expensive. I used the business card,” she added with a snicker. Abby didn’t know if she was kidding or not, but she didn’t care.

“Guess I have no choice, then,” Abby answered, though already salivating at the thought of homemade baklava. She lifted her head, hearing the garage door open. A few moments later, Jenna’s husband Mike stepped into the kitchen, grinning a greeting.

“Hey, Abs,” he said cheerfully, uttering the nickname Abby despised. Mike was a decent guy, but he knew how to lightly push Abby’s buttons. Jenna had assured Abby for years that Mike only teased those he liked, and he strived to get Abby’s stone face to crack a smile. Occasionally, he succeeded, which only fueled him, but more often than not, eye rolls were all he received.

“Hello,” Abby greeted impassively, sipping her coffee. Mike grabbed a mug of his own before joining the women at the table, Abby’s blasé tone having no effect on him.

Mike filled his mug, taking a long chug of the hot liquid before refilling his cup. “Harry’s flight doesn’t get in until half ten,” he told Jenna by way of explanation. “Need all the help I can get to stay awake that late,” he chortled, gulping down another sip. “That kid’s going to want to visit all night!”

“Who’s Harry?” Abby questioned, finishing her coffee and standing up to put the mug in the sink.

“Styles?” Jenna supplied questioningly, seeming surprised by Abby’s question.

Abby made a face, turning back to face Jenna. “Gross,” she answered with a roll of her eyes. She’d never met the singer, but she’d seen enough about him in the media. A spoiled brat with mediocre talent, known more for his love life than his career, he was the exact type of person Abby refused to associate with.

Mike snickered. “You don’t even know him,” he reminded Abby. “He’s good shit. He’s going to be staying here for a couple of days.”

Abby’s face wrinkled incredulously, casting an astonished look at Jenna. “I’m going to be staying with you for a couple of days… weeks,” she reminded her friend, jabbing her index finger against her chest. She could relax and find the comforts of home easily enough at Mike and Jenna’s home, but not with a stranger lurking in the corners of the house. How was she supposed to lounge around in casual clothes, her face covered in a homemade purifying mask, with Harry Styles frolicking around the house, making himself just as at home?

Jenna glanced at Mike, her look clearly stating that having a second house guest wasn’t her idea. “It’s just for a couple of days,” she reiterated. “A week, tops. He’s just got off tour and he doesn’t like being alone in an empty house.”

Abby scoffed loudly, her massive eye roll nearly provoking a headache. “What, is he scared of the monsters under the bed?” she asked, her voice caked with phoney sympathy. What a spoiled brat he was.

“Plus, he’s talking about doing some renos in his house,” Mike added defensively. “And we always let you stay here, and he’s a lot more fun than you!”

“Goody for him,” Abby deadpanned.

Mike shook his head at Abby. “Oh, come off it,” he told her, standing up and plopping his empty cup in the sink. “Plus, he’s single. You’re single. Might do you some good to get rid of some of that pent up energy, yeah?” he teased, nudging Abby’s arm playfully.

Abby scowled, batting Mike’s elbow away from her. “I’m not an animal, Michael,” she snapped. “Some of us can find other ways to relax that don’t involve dropping trou. Like yoga or meditation. And I’m not pent up!” she added as an afterthought.

Mike laughed, his chuckle irritating Abby to her core. “If you say so,” he taunted. “I might have to get some earplugs though, just in case,” he added, flashing Abby a cheeky smirk as he sauntered from the kitchen, announcing over his shoulder that he was going to have a shower.

Abby frowned, hating that Mike had a way of pressing her buttons when she tried so hard not to let the opinions of others affect her. “I still get the big bedroom!” she yelled after him. If Harry Styles was going to intrude on her downtime, she was at least going to have a claw foot tub and king sized bed to relax in.

~*~*~*~

The biggest difference between American airports and British airports was the sound. In America, the boisterous and intrusive paparazzi screamed out questions, pleaded for the celebrity to look their way and generally acted like a swarm of irritating mosquitos. The UK paparazzi, while still invasive, had a modicum of British reservation about them. They kept a respectable distance and the only sound was the rapid clicking of their cameras, followed by polite queries about the flight. Though he was flanked on either side by security guards resembling line-backers, Harry was confident he could have made his way from arrivals to the waiting car on his own.

“Thanks, Harry!” a voice called out as Harry slid into the backseat of the waiting SUV. One security guard hoisted Harry’s suitcase into the trunk before climbing in after him, the other quickly hopped into the front seat as the driver accelerated away.

Harry leaned forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. “Hi Tom,” he greeted politely. “I’m going to Mike Parkes’ house. Over in Brondesbury Park, y’know?”

Tom nodded, signaling as he switched lanes. Scott turned around, laughing as he faced Harry. “You know, mate, you’re the only person I know who’d get off a massive world tour, surrounded by an arse-ton of people, and still want to have company.”

Harry shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a social butterfly,” he joked, his grin showing off his deep dimples. In truth, while Harry enjoyed the company of others, he found being alone with his thoughts to be one of the scariest things. The quietness of his North London home after months of being on the road was deafening, and the lack of human distractions left him only to think about his life, his career and the choices he’d made – choices he questioned, but he couldn’t admit it.

“I think you just don’t want to cook for yourself,” Andy gibed, reaching across the backseat and slapping Harry’s arm.

Harry snickered – that might have been a small part of it. Mike’s wife was no ace in the kitchen, but even her lumpy mashed potatoes were better than the microwave dinners Harry tended to rely on while alone.

“Yeah, you caught me,” Harry joked back. It was easy for him to joke with his employees, to convince them he was staying with the Parkes’ just for home cooked meals. The tour had finished earlier in the week, and Harry was still ‘on’, as far as his stage persona went. It was almost gross to him, how easily he could stay in his celebrity character. Tell the jokes, smile for the camera, thumbs up to the fans. It was exhausting. With Mike and Jenna, he didn’t have to act. He could be himself, and if that meant the occasional bad mood or cuss word, so be it. They were his friends; they didn’t judge.

“This the place?” Tom asked, slowing down the SUV a half hour later and pulling into the Parkes’ driveway.

Harry nodded, though Scott looked worried. “They’re leaving their gate wide open?” he asked, his concern for his famous client apparent.

Harry scoffed dismissively. “They knew I was coming,” Harry reminded his security guard. “They’ll shut it after. Don’t worry, mate. Go home and get some rest,” he advised kindly. He turned to Andy. “You as well,” he added, grasping the door handle.

“You too,” the two men answered in unison, chuckling to themselves as Harry grinned and hopped out of the car. Tom met him at the side of the vehicle, Harry’s luggage in hand.

“Thanks, Tom,” Harry said appreciatively, accepting his suitcase. “You take care,” he added, offering the three men a farewell wave as he walked up the driveway. As the SUV backed towards the road, Harry let out a loud sigh of relief. Finally, for a couple of days, the niceties were over.

Harry stepped to the front door, the unfamiliar car parked in front of the garage not catching his eye. He pushed open the door, bursting into the house. Mike and Jenna’s house had such a sense of home. Though it was smaller than Harry’s own home and the privacy was lacking, the couple in their mid-thirties had taken it upon themselves to ensure their guests always felt comfortable in their abode.

“Honey, I’m home!” Harry yelled out, kicking off his boots. A sudden figure emerging from the kitchen at the end of the hall startled him. She stopped short, as though he startled her as well. Harry was expecting to see Jenna and her wavy blonde hair, or Mike in his ever-present snapback. The slight girl at the end of the hall had a curtain of nearly-black hair cascading over her shoulders, a bowl of popcorn in her hands and a massive scowl on her face. He instantly recognised her as Abby Hajjar from the Nova Terra series, but he had no idea why she was in Mike and Jenna’s house, dressed in pajamas and looking as though she wished to kill him.

“Oh, uhm… hi…” Harry greeted curiously. While it wasn’t rare for Mike and Jenna to have visitors, it was rare to see someone other than the couple in their house near midnight, looking as though they weren’t planning on being anywhere else.

Abby didn’t answer. She was less than impressed that Mike and Jenna had decided to turn their house into a youth hostel – Abby’s house sold, she had no choice but to stay with them. Harry had his own home mere miles from the Parkes’ residence. Why he insisted upon cramping her style by rooming just down the hall from her was beyond Abby’s comprehension.

She rolled her eyes before turning on her heel and stalking back into the reception room. Mike let out a loud sigh at Abby’s lack of hospitality and muted the television before yelling “Hey mate! We’re down here!”

Abby slumped back down into the plush sofa, her arms crossed over her chest in a huff. “So much for watching the movie, yeah?” she stated, annoyed by the interruption. First it was bathroom breaks. Then snacks were needed. Then drinks. More snacks. Harry, Mike and Jenna would want to visit, but all Abby wanted to do was watch Benjamin Button die. She was a girl with many pet peeves, but interrupted movies were near the top of her list.

“Jesus, Abby… we will,” Mike answered, his voice as annoyed as hers as Harry stepped into the reception room. He stood up, greeting his friend with a handshake. “Good to see you, mate.”

Harry grinned at Mike, Abby’s cold reception throwing him off, but refusing to let it show. He wasn’t used to people greeting with anything but excitement. Conceitedly, he wondered why her reaction was different.

“Thanks for letting me crash here for a bit,” Harry answered, meeting Jenna halfway across the room and enveloping her into a hug.

“Of course!” Jenna enthused, meeting Abby’s eye over Harry’s shoulder. “The more, the merrier!”

Abby rolled her eyes again, sighing contentiously. Her loud exhale caused Harry to pull away from Jenna, eyeing Abby curiously for a few beats longer than necessary. Finally, he stepped towards her, offering her his hand and a dimpled grin.

“I’m Harry,” he said to her, waiting for Abby to accept his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Abby could spot a phony charmer from a mile away and the crooner standing in front of her was no exception. It was obvious to Abby that Harry was used to getting his own way, that girls fell over themselves for him and all he had to rely on was his cute smile. She loathed him already.

Abby looked at his hand, his fingers adorned with rings that no doubt meant nothing to him and simply cost a fortune. And the man bun. Who did he think he was, David Beckham? God, he was pretentious.

Limply, she accepted his hand, resisting an eye roll. “That’s correct,” she answered before dropping his hand, resuming her arms to the crossed position.

Well, fuck you too, Harry thought to himself, quietly letting out a disbelieving scoff before allowing himself to sit in the armchair on the other side of the room. He wasn’t pompous enough to believe everyone in the world would like him, but he had no idea what he’d done to Abby Hajjar to be on the receiving end of such a chilly welcome.

Notes