Talking to Harry on the phone or via Skype may not have been my preferred method of communication, but over the next couple of weeks, it was a godsend. We managed to chat nearly every day and as well as some pretty deep and meaningful conversations – such as how we felt when our parents divorced – we often talked about absolutely nothing at all, such as our favourite flavour of Walker's crisps or the best board games we'd played as kids. Harry kept me updated about how the tour was going and Skyped me from the green room a few times so I could talk to the other 1D guys.
We never ran out of things to say, and I often found myself sharing details I'd told very few people, such as how much our family had struggled after my dad left. In turn, he really opened up to me, talking about things such as how he still found it hard to read negative comments about himself online.
"I know I should be used to it, and I can take genuine criticism, I really can, but some of the nasty personal stuff gets to me still," he confided one evening. "I'm nowhere near as sensitive as I used to be, but I haven't really managed to grow a thick skin."
I remembered the heartbreaking video clip from One Direction's early days, in which he'd got really upset about horrible online feedback about one of his live performances. He said he'd always wanted to one of those people who didn't care what others thought about him, but he didn't think he was.
"Harry, I'm in awe of how you all deal with some of the shit that gets said about you. It must be soul-destroying."
"It can be, which is why I try not to look at it anymore. I just have to keep reminding myself that most people don't know the real me, and that sadly, there are those out there who just like to say horrible things for the sake of it. I wish people would treat others more kindly."
"Me too," I agreed with him. "But Harry, you're being a great role model – you are so kind to fans and everybody you interact with. I hope people learn from your example."
"Thank you. I can't complain about people being unkind if I'm not kind myself. So I do try."
I nearly said, "And I love you for that," but I stopped myself. We were a long way off using the L word like that. But sharing conversations like this made me feel that we were really getting to know each other on an even deeper level, and our precious moments spent talking were the highlight of my day. The rest of my time was frantic. I'd asked Gareth for as many shifts as possible, and in between working at the Enchanted Forest, I was studying until my brain hurt, and somehow also finding time to write headings and captions for Cal's photographic book. That wasn't hard work at all, in fact I loved it. But it did take time to research One Direction's song lyrics and find ones that were appropriate for the images.
I thought I was managing okay until a week before my first exam, when panic suddenly set in. I was finding it hard to study at home, thanks to sharing a room with my chatty little sister, and my brothers going through one of their phases of constant bickering that was driving me nuts. There were so many distractions that I couldn't concentrate, and after one horrible day when I hardly got any work done, gut-churning anxiety set in when I went to bed that night and I struggled to fall asleep.
I got up the next morning exhausted but with a plan. First, I messaged Gareth and asked if it was possible to rearrange my shifts so I had a few days off in a row in the middle of the week. Having made up for my earlier absences by doing lots of shifts, I was in his good books, so he agreed. Then I phoned my gran.
"Can I please come and stay with you for a few days so I can study? I really need some peace and quiet to be able to concentrate."
"Oh course you can, my love," said Gran. "It will be lovely to have you here."
"We can't have any Liam Neeson movie marathons," I warned her.
"We'll save them for another time," she said. "Let me know when you want to come and I'll pick you up from the bus station. As long as it is not Monday night. That's my hip hop dance class and we're doing krumping – I don't want to miss it if I can help it."
"There's a bus that gets in at 5.30pm on Tuesday," I said, checking the timetable on my laptop. "Is that okay?"
"That's grand," she said. "See you then."
I told Harry I'd be at Gran's for a few days but still able to Skype him.
"You'll have to put her on so I can talk to her," he said. "She sounds very cool."
During one of our long chats I'd told him all about my gran, Peggy Tremaine, and her incredible life. I adore my gran, and it was lovely when Harry listened attentively as I talked about her.
My gran is Irish, from a small village near Cork, and grew up as the eldest in a very poor family of six kids. She had to leave school at 15 to look after her family when her mum, who worked in a hospital cafeteria, suffered terrible burns when a hot water urn malfunctioned and sprayed boiling water everywhere.
Gran was devastated; a good education was important to her, and she'd been determined to be the first member of her family to go to university. But family had to come first and so for the next two years she stayed home and tended to her injured mum, as well as doing all the cooking and cleaning. When her mother was fully recovered Gran got a job as a typist for a local building firm, and there she met Padraig O'Donnell and fell madly in love. Ireland was going through an economic slump and Paddy barely scraped together a living as a builder's labourer, so the plan was for him to go to England to work there, and send for Gran when he'd saved up enough money for them to get married and buy a house.
Being somewhat impatient, Gran decided after six months she'd had enough of waiting for Paddy to summon her. So off she went to England unannounced, planning on getting a job and help her husband-to-be to save for their future. However, the day after arriving in Leicester, she learned there was no future for them. While they'd been apart Paddy had got himself a "lady friend" who had just informed him she was pregnant. Paddy then got himself a black eye and some very bruised genitalia after breaking the news to Gran.
Mortified at the prospect of going home to Ireland after just a day in England, my gusty gran – who was only 18 – decided to make the best of her situation. She found a job in the office of a large haulage company, and a room in a home owned by a recently separated mother of two. She worked hard and caught the eye of a handsome accounts clerk called Ken Tremaine. He was shy and quiet, she was bubbly and loud, but they discovered a mutual love of ballroom dancing and fell for each other over the quickstep and the cha cha. Two years later they were married, and they lived happily ever after.
Only they didn't.
After 30 years and two children – my mum Krissie and her older brother Adam – life was good until my grand-dad began tripping over his feet on the dance floor. He would also drop things for no obvious reason and struggled to open jar lids. When he started slurring his words, his boss at the logistics company where he then worked as a senior accountant called him into to office and asked if he'd been drinking. Tests showed he had motor neurone disease, an incurable and horribly cruel disease that causes people's bodies to gradually shut down, until they die.
I was two when my grand-dad was diagnosed, and six when he took his last breath. My Gran had given up her job as an executive assistant to be his fulltime carer, and before he lost the ability to speak, he would say to me, "I hope you grow up to be like your gran, Emma my love, because she's the very best woman in the world."
Gran was only 55 when she became a widow and she wasn't one for sitting around drowning in grief. As much as she missed Grand-dad, she had her life to be getting on with. She went back to work, this time as a an office manager for a real estate company, adopted an elderly dog from the local shelter, and enrolled in swing dancing classes. There she met Errol, who became her dance partner and then her partner in life.
On paper, they didn't seem to have much in common. Errol was a big burly electrician, originally from Jamaica, who was 14 years younger than Gran and divorced with five kids. He loved sport (she hates it) and didn't rate Liam Neeson (Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was far better in his opinion). But they hit it off, and when he moved to Northampton for work, Gran quit her job, sold her house and went too. They bought a nice bungalow in a tree-lined street and lived happily ever after.
Only they didn't.
Four years ago, Gran was unpacking the shopping after a trip to Tescos when there was a knock on the door. It was the police, and they had bad news. Errol had been found slumped over the steering wheel of his van on the side of the Towcester Rd. He'd been on his way to fix someone's security lights when it looked like he'd felt unwell, pulled over, and had a massive heart attack. He probably died instantly, the police officer said.
My heart broke for Gran, who'd lost not one, but two loves of her life (three if you count Bruised Balls Paddy). Yet again she was swamped with grief; yet again she had to pick herself up and dust herself off and get on with life.
She could have wallowed in self-pity over all she'd lost, which included her home. She had to sell the nice bungalow in the tree-lined street so Errol's family could have his share of the property, and all she could afford to buy was a tiny terraced house on a slightly dodgy estate.
But my gran doesn't wallow. Peggy Tremaine is one of the strongest, most resilient people I know. At an age where she should have been retiring, she got a part-time job in a theatre box-office. And she enrolled in senior hip hop and tap dancing classes because they were among the dance genres that don't require you to have a partner.
At 69, Gran is still loud and bubbly and still has the hots for Liam Neeson. She has a wicked sense of humour, she is brazen and brave, and she is also a kind soul who would do just about anything for anyone. After my dad walked out on us, she was my mum's rock. Even though she didn't live in the same city, she would make the trip to our place at the drop of a hat if she was needed. If she has a major fault, it is her habit of blurting out whatever she's thinking, whether it is horribly inappropriate or not. My gran was definitely not in line when they were handing out filters; she makes my mother look positively diplomatic and polite by comparison.
But I absolutely love her to bits, and I hoped that if Harry ever got to meet her, he'd adore her too. Unfortunately, I couldn't imagine that happening any time soon. As it happened, I was wrong.
***
My studying was going well and I'd achieved so much in the day after I arrived at Gran's I decided to have a break before dinner and take her dog for a walk. I was in the park down the road, watching her Jack Russell/Yorkshire terrier cross do an inordinately long wee against a rubbish bin when my phone went. It was Harry.
"Hi gorgeous, where are you?" he asked.
"In the park, walking my gran's dog. Are you at home?"
One Direction had had a show in Munich the night before; he'd told me they were flying back to the UK first thing that morning and having a couple of days at home before returning to Europe for more shows over the weekend.
"Actually, I'm at my mum's. We got in quite early this morning and I drove up here to see her and Robin."
"Is everything okay?" There was a serious tone to his voice that had me worried.
"Yep. It's, uh, I'm just having one night here catching up with them and then I'm driving back to London tomorrow afternoon, before we fly out again on Friday morning."
That was quite a lot of driving. It had to be at least three and a half hours from London to Cheshire.
"The thing is Emma... I kind of have to drive straight past Northampton on my way back, and since you're at your gran's, and I'm practically driving past the door... can I come and see you?"
There was a slight imploring tone to his voice that made my pulse race. Harry continued, "I know you said you wanted to concentrate on your studies, and it won't be for very long because I have to get back to London, but I would love to see you, even just for an hour."
He took a breath and paused for a moment. "I miss you."
I wanted to do my happy dance, but a) there were too many people in the park who would think I'd lost the plot and b) it would probably freak the dog out. Instead I stood still, my phone to my ear and the dog straining on the leash, desperate to pee on something else, and I let the happiness wash over me.
"I miss you too, Harry. Of course you can come and see me. I'd love that."
"Oh, that's wonderful, thank you," he said, sounding as if I'd just given him an incredibly generous gift.
I was reading Gran's address out to him when all of a sudden, the dog, bored of standing still, took off, yanking me with him. He was only small, but strong enough to send me flying.
"Stop it!" I yelled as he dragged me down the path.
"Emma! Are you ok?" Harry sounded worried.
"The bloody dog's doing a runner," I panted, tugging on the leash. "Oi, Nigel Latimer, stop!"
"Who the hell is Nigel Latimer?"
"The bloody dog." Thankfully he stopped, having just found a tree to pee on.
"Why is your Gran's dog called Nigel Latimer?" Harry asked.
"It's a long story," I told him.
"I don't mind. Go on."
"Well, it goes back to before she moved to Northampton, when she lived near us. After my grand-dad died she adopted a cute rescue dog called Figaro. Her next-door neighbour was this complete dick who used to complain about the fact Gran would stand on the back door step calling the dog to come in, and belting out, 'Figaro, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro' like she was Pavarotti. So she used to do it even more to annoy him."
"Good for her," chuckled Harry.
"Figaro was pretty old when she got him and sadly he died just a few months later. Gran was heartbroken, but this guy next door was horrible about it. He said to her, 'Thank God you won't stand on the back doorstep screeching out that stupid name'."
"He sounds charming," Harry said.
"He was awful. Gran missed Figaro very much, so she got herself another rescue dog, and when her neighbour saw her arriving home with him, he said, 'At least give it a proper bloody name.' So she called him Nigel Latimer."
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment and then Harry, clearly a smart cookie, cottoned on.
"Let me guess," he said. "Was your Gran's nasty neighbour called Nigel Latimer, by any chance?"
"Yep, well done for working that out. She used to stand on the doorstep, yelling out his name to call the dog. When the dog went through a stage of digging up all her plants, she took great delight in going out in the garden and yelling, 'Nigel Latimer, you're a naughty, naughty boy'."
Harry burst out laughing.
"And every morning she'd open the back door and yell so the whole neighbourhood could hear, 'Go and do a poo in the garden, Nigel Latimer'."
Harry let out a big, hearty guffaw. I loved hearing him laugh.
"Oh my God, your gran is the best."
"When she moved to Northampton and no longer lived next door to the human Nigel Latimer, we thought she should change the dog's name, but he wouldn't answer to anything else. And you have to use his full name. If you just call him Nigel he ignores you, silly mutt. It's pretty embarrassing, taking him to the park and yelling, 'Come here Nigel Latimer!'"
He was still giggling. "I can't wait to meet your gran. And Nigel Latimer... the canine version."
"Big day for you then tomorrow," I said. Little sparks of excitement were starting to fizz in my chest. I was going to see Harry tomorrow. And he was going to meet my gran.
Oh my God. Harry was going to meet my gran.