Ten Years Later
Saturday.
Saturday mornings were always a swell of anxiety for me; a frantic rush to set up my little market stall on time. Wake up, shower, pack my pull along trailer with the muffins and pastries I'd baked the evening before, pull it along to the tube station. Fumble said trailer onto the tube, much to the annoyance of the other early morning commuters. Awkward smiles and mumbled apologies. The smell of coffee and newspapers.
I had a love-hate relationship with Saturday mornings. I loved that I got to go to work, that it was the busiest day of the week which meant opportunity for new customers, loved the busy buzz of the market.
Hated digging under sofa cushions and rummaging into old jackets to collect enough change for the tube, or admitting defeat and having to inch further into my over draft.
Today was leaning toward the less pleasant end of the scale, because on this stuffy, sunny, July Saturday in London, not only was I skint, I was also hungover.
Not that either facts were a particularly new occurrence, if anything it had become progressively worse and more frequent in recent months.
I'd usually hold out on the drinking until I'd finished up work for the day, when I was no longer preoccupied with egg washing pastry and shuffling croissants in and out of my oven, before the silence would creep in.
Each corner of my little house would feel like it was expanding, the emptiness stretching out before me. I would switch on the TV but there was no one to enjoy it with. I couldn't laugh at a comedy, or cry at a drama without being callously reminded of how the other side of my sofa was pristine and firm, un touched and unoccupied and how my phone remained silent all evening.
So I'd down a couple of shots or fetch a bottle of wine from the corner shop. A couple of drinks would see me through until it was an acceptable time to sink into oblivion under my bedsheets. That's just how it went.
However last night, after stewing in an especially ripe bowl of self pity, I'd made my way well into a second bottle. The result being that I could practically feel the Merlot exuding from my pores as I sweat on the muggy and packed tube carriage.
My eyes were crisp and dry, red rimmed meaning I'd had to make a small effort to conceal the purple bags that surrounded them with a little make up. Hoping that my garish appearance wouldn't ward off too many customers. My stomach jumped worrisomely at each bump of the tube carriage, and it took all of my effort not to have a reverse wine tasting with my fellow passengers.
Note to self: red wine hangovers are the worst.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket with a sigh, opening up the message that had vibrated in my denim shorts.
Lucy
8.06am
Just opening up and your new Market neighbour is setting up already. Looks to be some sort of music stall! Excitinggg.
Thank goodness for Lucy, my best (and only) friend and fellow market vendor. I'd almost forgotten that the empty market pitch next to mine was being filled today. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous to meet whoever I'd be working beside from now on. Making friends didn't exactly come easy to me.
I think Lucy and I had only clicked so well because her overly extroverted and outgoing nature cancelled out my social anxiety. And I provided her with free coffee each morning. That probably helped.
I'd opened my own coffee and cake stall, Buttercups, at Islington's Indoor Market last summer, and the entire time the pitch next to mine had been empty. It would be weird to have a little work buddy after all these months. I'd gotten used to my seclusion in my corner of the market.
Lucy said it was a Music stall, I wonder what exactly that entailed nowadays? It's not like people buy CDs anymore. Maybe they'd be selling instruments? I was envisioning an elderly man in a crushed velvet waistcoat, with a gold hoop in each ear, giving me the low down on the differences between an oboe and a clarinet.
Five minutes later I was pulling my trailer along into the market, pinching the bridge of my nose to will away my searing migraine, and heading towards my stall in the far left corner.
The market was along the canal in an old Victorian tile factory, with a high, pitched roof with large heavy steel rafters. The market committee had wrapped them in bunting, fairy lights and festoons, because apparently the young hipsters of Islington could sniff out a festoon a mile off and it brought them in in their droves.
The walls were a mix of chipped, painted corrugated iron and exposed bricks, littered with old posters and flyers for kickboxing classes, weight loss groups and church fetes. For the duration of my time there running Buttercups, a total of 23 stalls had occupied the large, open space. As of today it'll be 24.
We had a variety of vendors here, from Krish on the spices stall, Martha and her handmade Jewellery, Kevin and Petra selling organic soaps, Rafferty and his Nostalgic Sweets and Candies, Gavin dishing out greasy burgers and paper cones of chips and everything in between. Lucy was 2 stalls down from me, selling her hand spun pottery; she sold mugs, plant pots, little trinket dishes and all were made in the shed at the end of her mums garden.
And then there was me, in my little corner at the back. ButterCups Coffee and Cake. Originally I was just "ButterCup Cakes" and my aim was to sell an array of fancily iced cupcakes, French patisserie slices and pastries. Business started slow, and customers were regularly asking for coffee and something they could eat on the go. There was clearly a gap in the market here, and the rates for keeping this pitch aren't cheap, as well as having to pay off my extortionate business loan, so I let my dream slowly drip away.
I often thought about Buttercups, and what it had become when I was wallowing in wine of an evening, and if I'd reached that peak of being just drunk enough I'd let myself cry about it. Last night was one of those nights.
As I rolled in to the large hanger, waving at Lucy on my way past and promising to get the coffee machine on pronto, I took a look at the large scaffolding and plywood frame that was now erected next to my stall.
I could see from here that it was absolutely rammed with Vinyl records, seemingly some either rare or famous ones displayed in glass frames. I could also spot some guitars lined up on the left hand side behind what looked like the till counter.
There were a handful of men all working together setting up, organising stacks upon stacks of vinyl into baskets. And more noticeable than anything was the music absolutely blaring out of a speaker somewhere.
I look back at Lucy as I near, grimacing at how loud my little corner now was.
Was that Fleetwood Mac?
I wheeled my case around the back of my glass counter, flicking on the lights and turning my coffee machine on, barely able to hear its usual comforting hum over Stevie belting out The Chain from next door.
My head pounded, seemingly on time with the base. Fuck, please tell me they're going to turn it down before opening.
I unpack the baked goods into the display case, and quickly make two cappuccinos before shuffling down to Lucy with a frown.
"Are they serious with that" I moan as I pass her a cup, rubbing my dry eyes, pushing into them with my thumb and forefinger to try and compress my headache.
I neck back two paracetamol before taking a scorching sip of my own coffee.
Lucy laughs, flipping her wavy, warm blonde hair over her shoulder, the jangly bangles on her wrist (curtesy of Martha 3 stalls down) dancing down her arm with a chime.
"I don't know, I like it," she says, swaying her hips, "gives the place a bit of life on a Saturday morning."
"It's okay for you down here," I mutter, glaring over my shoulder. "It's deafening over there, they're going to drive my customers away!"
"Oh stop being such a Scrooge," Lucy giggles again. "Go say hello and introduce yourself, the guy is actually a bit of babe."
Lucy thinks everyone is a bit of a babe, so I take that with a pinch of salt. She's the type of person that will fall in love with someone within minutes of meeting them, and often the feeling is mutual. She's so easy to like.
Whereas I...well I'm not. Im fully aware that I'm moody, stand-offish and according to Lucy have a serious case of resting-bitch-face. She'd even gotten Gavin from the burger stall to snap a photo of me looking particularly menacing after a customer had asked for their coffee "extra hot". I was mortified to say the least.
After that I'd been making efforts to soften my features when engaging with customers, but there's no knowing if it's working.
Lucy looks at me with one of her sympathetic smiles, "Really Riley, don't get too in your head about it. Take them some coffees over and make friends. I'm sure they'll turn the music down if you ask."
Urgh. I know she's right, I should make the effort. We'll be neighbours after all, Wednesday through til Sunday every week. And first impressions matter, right?
I know for a fact Lucy will have already floated over there, charmed the new vendor and his friends with a warm welcome, maybe even offered to spin them their own personal Market Mug. All of us had one now; me included, a beautiful pale yellow Mug with little flowers printed around the base.
I sigh again, muttering to Lucy "I'm too hungover for this shit." But I doubt she hears me over the music.
I sidle back to my corner, discretely counting how many people are helping to set up, before taking out 4 large cups and filling them with black coffee. I make up a little tray with a milk jug and sugar cubes in a bowl, and add on four slices of banana bread, loading it all up before giving myself a pep talk.
You can do this. Just don't be weird. Don't be a bitch. Remember to smile. They may just like you. You never know, this could be a new friend.
And how I long for friends. Someone to help fill the dark, quiet corners of my house. Maybe my evenings wouldn't be so lonely. Maybe I'd have someone to share my wine with, and my hangovers would be halved.
Taking a deep breath, I check my reflection in the shiny surface of the coffee machine, trying to get my fringe to sit right before giving up and flicking it either side of my face.
I pick up the tray but allow myself a moment to collect myself after I notice the cups clinking together under my trembling hands. A cool coating of sweat gathers on the back of my neck, and my heart begins to knock heavily against my breast bone.
Despite my efforts, my symptoms only worsen the closer I get the group of men who have now formed a circle. They're deep into some discussion the makes them erupt on a chorus of laughter as I approach, the cups on my tray now practically vibrating.
Shit I feel so stupid stood here.
They're all tall and tattooed, one has deep brown collar bone length hair and a stubbly chin, a faded David Bowie shirt on. He's particularly lean and spindly, with brown cord trousers and old beaten up converse trainers. He looks Music-y, maybe he's the stalls owner? I try to grab his attention.
"Uh, Hey..." but they can't hear me over their speakers. I try again, stepping forward right behind the tallest one who's facing away from me.
"Hi- Hello, I brought some coff-"
But I'm cut off as the one with his back to me spins, almost knocking the tray out of my hands. Luckily he grabs both of my forearms in his large grip steadying me.
The first thing I see when I look up are green eyes and a wide, open toothy smile. Both things that I know too well, but haven't seen in years.
Fuck. Double fuck.
The smile slowly fades and his brows furrow as he obviously recognises me as much as I do him. He's still gripping my arms, frozen, seemingly as stunned as I am.
My throat constricts dryly as I swallow, stumbling over words, panic setting in. My palms are sweating, and his music is so loud, my head is spinning.
His gangly friend with the long hair turns the music down behind us, seemingly to better witness this awkward encounter as the two of us stare at each other in shock.
"Riley Fucking Smith" the man before me breaths out, his tight grip on me finally loosening as he steps back.
He eyes me from the top of my messy bun, dragging down my faded yellow apron and further to my worn plimsolls before meeting back up to my face. Which is likely beetroot red. I've never wanted to be invisible more in my life.
"H-hi Harry."
***
"Wait, wait, wait...let me get this straight. So you were friends with him at school?" Lucy asks as I pace around the side of the Market building.
I check my watch, whilst trying to catch my breath. Shit, 5 minutes until we open.
"Yeah. I mean, no. Kind of" I gasp out, shaking out my hands, flinging my head back and shutting my eyes while trying to suck as much air as I can, willing away what feels like an impending panic attack.
After it was confirmed that it was in fact Harry who had set up stall next to mine, I'd awkwardly shoved the tray of coffee at him, mumbling a welcome and bolted out of the side door. It felt as though I couldn't get draw oxygen into my lungs as memories I'd long since tried to bury came clawing up through the dirt, playing in horrific flashes at the front of my mind.
Harry and his kind smile on a September morning.
Harry telling jokes and sharing a celebratory McDonald's in the back of his beat up van after he passed his driving test.
Harry pulling me up from that bathroom floor, whispering comforts in my ear with a shaky voice.
"It's okay Riley, I'm here now."
"What does that mean? Kind of?" Lucy asks, pulling me from my thoughts, as she watches me pace back and forth. Of course she'd followed me out here, having been witness to the whole horrendous encounter and then me bolting out of the building with teary eyes.
"It means we were friends," I huff, bending to clutch my bare knees with clammy hands. I perch myself on some old plastic crates after that position did nothing sooth my tight chest. "But like...no one knew. We hung out all the time, only in secret. But then something happened - something bad that I did - and now he hates me."
Lucy scoffs, "Now I know you're being ridiculous. You think everyone hates you, I bet he doesn't at all!"
"No, Harry Styles definitely hates me. It's a bonafide fact."
"We'll he's a bonafide babe. Was he that good looking at school?" She asks, still laughing.
I groan, "For god sake Lucy, I'm over here busting an artery after coming face to face with the fucking ghost of High-School-Past - after ten years - and you're asking if he was fit at school?"
She freezes with a sheepish look, then shrugs her shoulders.
"Well was he?"
Jesus fucking Christ.
I ignore her this time, and stand up to pace again, muttering under my breath about going home early, having to give up my pitch at the market, worrying how I'll ever afford to pay off my loan.
"Oh come on, Riles," Lucy stands in front of me, gripping my shoulders and given them a gentle shake. "You just said, it's been ten years. Whatever you did at school won't have been bad enough that he still hates you now".
Want to bet on that, Lucy?
I sigh.
"You remember me telling you how I was a massive bitch when I was a teenager and all the awful shit I did?" I ask, avoiding her kind face and feeling sick with shame at the thought of those years.
"Yeah..."
"Well it was worse than all of that combined," I groan, pulling my hands down over my clammy face.
Not long after we met I'd given Lucy a highly airbrushed and redacted tale of my teen years. She knew that I was "popular" but wasn't particularly nice, that I'd basically been a snob and a bully, and though she didn't know the details of why, that it had eventually all crumbled around me.
"Jesus...what did you do?" Lucy asks, her tone quiet and serious.
"I...may-have-gotten-him-expelled-from-our-school" I rush out in one word. Unfortunately, Lucy caught all of it.
"You what?" She laughs out in disbelief, making me groan in embarrassment. She looks at me wide eyed, amused and incredulous, "How on earth did you manage that?!"
"I can't tell you Luce, it's too much" I groan out, covering my eyes like an absolute coward.
Truth be told it's a memory I've shoved way, way at the back behind the skeletons in my closet. I'd hoped it was something I'd never have to confront again, and on the occasion it did rear it's ugly head then a few shots of vodka usually karate-kicked it straight back into temporary oblivion.
But my blissful ignorance - or more so denial - was all over now, I couldn't hide from what I'd done, nor what had happened to me, because the person that had been so deeply intertwined with the darkest period of my life was now working within a metre of me.
I allow my thoughts to wallow, vaguely aware of Lucy trying to hype me up to get back to work, but the flashes of those green eyes sucked me back into memories I'd been suppressing for years.
Harry Styles had once been my secret best friend.
We'd shared hidden jokes and notes under tables, lunches locked in an art cupboard. We'd shared his headphones whilst he excitedly introduced me to his favourite band of that week, he'd stroked my back when I cried about my awful friends, my awful parents and my awful, awful high school boyfriend, Jason.
But no one ever knew about us, because Harry wasn't one of the "cool kids" and unfortunately for me, I was. Popular by association. Deemed important because my dad was a wealthy solicitor, who had dirt on all of the other financially endowed parents. So they stuck us all together in some twisted group of spoiled brats and ignorant meat heads. What a merry bunch we were.
The thing is with being "popular", you end up being alienated from all of the other social circles at school. I was painfully insecure, lonely and unhappy. And that manifested in me being a confrontational bitch at best, a downright bully at worst.
No one would even talk to me because I'd made myself so unapproachable. By the time I was 17 and just beginning my last year before University, I was utterly depressed.
Until Harry.
Until his bright, dimpled smile. His loud, unabashed laugh that filled a room with joy and was scarily contagious. His unwavering kindness that I never deserved. That first day in the art classroom, when I took the empty seat next to him and he'd introduced himself like I wasn't the biggest bitch in the school. I felt seen, for the first time in a long time.
It took determination, but eventually Harry broke through my stone cold exterior to a point where I was itching to escape my "friends" to meet up with him during our Art lessons. To have him listen, and to listen to him and actually be interested in what he had to say. I hung onto his words like they were golden, dripping with Devine nectar that soothed my isolated soul.
I held on to the moments where he'd tuck a stray hair behind my ear, and lay awake at night wondering why my heart raced at the thought of such a simple and soft gesture.
And then after everything, all of that and more, I betrayed him. Betrayed him so abhorrently.
And that's why, even now at 27 years old I know that Harry Styles still hates me.
AN: Hi, hello. I'm very nervous 😂