LA to The Bay

Chapter 3: London Heathrow Airport (2)

Terminal 3, London Heathrow Airport

I have of course had some correspondence with Louis whilst he has been travelling. I would like to stress that it's neuroses which I suffer from and not psychosis, and so I fully recognise that just rocking up uninvited on the other side of the world, in the hope that he might be there, pining for me on his knees along the sea shore, would be a little bit too much of the crazy. It's not like I'm some random bunny boiling snot ragged sociopath who he happened to smile at once; the boy told me loved me for God's sake. And he has persistently communicated with a much noted enthusiasm that he would love it if I could join him at some point during the year. Although our correspondence has lessened in frequency as time progressed, when I suggested I join him on the California leg of the trip he had sounded just as ecstatic as I could have hoped. Full of glee for a fact; summersaults and star jumps and all.

What is bothering me now, as I struggle to lift my suitcase on to the airport shuttle bus, both it and I already heavy with an exhaustion resulting from a sleepless night spent jumping to the sporadic slur of jumbo jets taking off, reacting each time like a dying toad being tormented by a child with an electrode in science class, is that the only instruction I've received in the past three weeks is that the trip will begin at the Holiday Inn, Anaheim on July 10th and that I am to meet somebody called Harry at Heathrow.

Well it won't take a genius to predict that such plans are going to be just a bit too elusive for an obsessive nature such as mine to contend with; and so I have concluded the obvious, that this is all just a wicked plan, some sort of elaborate drug trafficking scheme, the key part of which involves me being hoodwinked in to becoming an unwitting mule simply because I politely shook hands with a boy called Harry at the airport on Louis instruction. Surely they wouldn't do that to me? Well I wouldn't put it past Lottie but definitely not Louis.

Regardless, I've resolved that the safest option is that I don't make any sort of bodily contact with the person who is about to greet me. Having to repeat a year has been bad enough and so I will certainly not be risking my future further by spending time in a Californian jail.

'You're seriously not planning on carrying that fancy bag and a suitcase all around America, now are you?' A thick accent rasps out at me, causing me to startle, as I stumble through the entrance to the terminal, already tripping in haste that I might be late and that check might have closed since the flight departs in a whole four hours from now.

'What's wrong with my bag?' I clutch at the black fabric, holding it against my chest protectively, like a mother might do to her distressed child. 'It's Prada I'll have you know!' I underline the gold letters which are blazoned across the front of the bag, to make the point that I know exactly what I'm talking about; that it really is Prada.

'I don't care what it is, but I know it's too posh for you to be going travelling with. It's totally impractical; you need a back pack.' He is matter of fact. Too matter of fact for my liking.

'I will not be carrying a backpack!' My temper flares in defence. I've spent months planning my outfits for this trip, arranging them neatly on my bed, assessing and re-assessing the never ending bikini / sarong / sandal combination and my Prada handbag was the pinnacle, the crowned jewel of my entire boho beach look; I can't wait to showcase it off across America, in Malibu!, and so I'm hardly about to ruin my entire look by carrying a back pack, now am I? Although dang he's right, it was already starting to chafe at my wrist and I've only travelled from Oxford to London. But a girl has to suffer for her fashion, not that I'm about to admit that to this rude stranger, which reminds me, why is he even talking to me, 'and how do you know I'm going to America?' I bluster.

'Er, because this is Terminal 3 and that's where flights to the US leave from.' He chuckles smugly, obviously proud of his response.

'Anyway I'm Harry.' He holds his hand out to me but I pretend not to notice, remembering that he might be about to try and slyly hand me a covert package of white powder, 'Louis showed me your pic when we were on Fraser Island, so I recognise you, duh.' Louis showed him a photo of me? That means he's been carrying my image all around the world with him, forever close to his heart, and maybe even keeping it under his pillow at night? He really does love me.

'Wait, you're Harry?' I emphasise his name, gulping down the image of the man standing in front of me.

'Sure am.' He holds out his hand again for me to shake. He sure is persistent with this thing, but there's no way I'm touching it, there are too many rings and charm bracelets for my liking; an obvious sign of a drug dealer.

'Aww, look how cute your little hand is.' He is literally taking matters in to his own hands as he grasps for my hand, shaking it, me, like a dizzy snow globe, denying me the chance to dodge the bullet of his contact.

'But you're...' I stammer intimidated, 'you're so...tall.' And he really is; all imposing and brooding and certainly not the blonde haired surfer boy I have been imagining.

Authors note: I dedicate this chapter to the amazing rainbowbrook for not only being truly kind and supportive but for being one of the best writers on Wattpad and writing the absolutely brilliant Kissing Is The Easy Part. I could fangirl over Flora and Sean all day!