No Control | Holding Me Ransom (Book 2)

87 - Running Over Thoughts That Make My Feet Hurt

We landed at Heathrow on Sunday afternoon, and Harry had arranged for a driver to collect me from the airport as Louis was heading to his house in Barnet which was further out of London, and around a twenty minute drive away from Hampstead Heath. 

As we slipped into separate cars just outside the entrance I heard the familiar clicking of a camera, and kept my head down as I shut the door behind me, only risking a glance out of the back window once my car was well on its way.

My phone beeped with a text from Louis a few seconds later.

From: Louis Tomlinson: We just got papped.

To: Louis Tomlinson: I guessed as much. Let's hope no one realises who I am, or it'll be a pain in the arse for both of us.

But of course, this was the One Direction fandom, and to hope for anonymity was ridiculous to the point of insanity. I texted Harry immediately after Louis' message to warn him about the photographer, and less than an hour later the internet went into meltdown over the pictures of me and Louis at Heathrow, prompting rumours of a romance between us, a suggestion that I had been to LA to meet Freddie, and a few random claims that I was one of Louis' staff and this was the reason I was accompanying him. And thanks to the nature of the fandom, no one was left in any doubt that I was the same girl who had supposedly been kissing Louis outside Libertine last June, with 'on-off boyfriend Harry only feet away inside the club.'

I tried to resist the temptation to read my Twitter mentions, but part of me wanted to be forewarned and forearmed, so by the time I arrived back in Hampstead I was barely holding back angry tears at being called a 'slag,' a 'slut,' a 'snake,' and a 'home-wrecking whore' (apparently I was causing trouble for Louis and Danielle, and Louis and Harry, although how anyone unrelated to us knew this remained unclear.) I looked over my shoulder as the car pulled into our driveway and the gates closed behind us, checking I hadn't been spotted arriving here, as that would only have made things ten times worse considering we hadn't publicly confirmed that I was in a relationship with Harry, much less moved in. The driver helped me inside with my case and I made sure the gates were securely locked after he left, before stomping into the kitchen to make myself a drink. I sat at the breakfast bar, seething, reading every negative tweet (both about me and to me), struggling to maintain my composure and biting my tongue to avoid sending blunt replies to each and every one, which would only result in blowing our cover and exposing us to the world.

It seemed as though every move I made was mentally noted by certain members of the fandom, and regurgitated, analysed and judged at every opportunity. I felt a stab of nerves at the idea of always being labelled the girl who had 'cheated on Harry with Louis,' and the girl who 'tolerated Harry's many other women,' and now apparently the girl who was 'sneaking around with Louis behind Danielle's back.' Part of me wanted to compose a lengthy essay, detailing every part of my relationship with Harry from start to finish, explaining every moment of madness, every misunderstanding, every false claim about us and the heartbreak involved for both of us that had led us to the point we were at now: finally over all the trouble in our past, and happy and excited for the future together, and release it as an official statement to shut everyone up. But even as these thoughts whirled in my mind I knew they were fruitless. I would never really want to discuss the most private details of our relationship with anyone other than Harry, and even if I did, people would still find reasons to disagree with me, find fault with me and judge me. It was part and parcel of being in a high-profile relationship, and I knew by now that I would just have to hold my head high and ignore the shit being written about me, and accept that the speculation surrounding our private lives would always be tabloid fodder. It didn't stop me secretly wishing there was a way to turn back the clock and erase some of the mistakes I had made (namely kissing Louis), or a way to wipe the slate clean.