Behind the Scenes

She was the best actress in her age that Hollywood had to offer. She wasn't in movies because they were good, movies were good because she was in them.

When her only living family member, her father, passed away, she didn't know what to do. Sure, she had money, she had fame, but what did she have to live for?

Her depression gained the sympathy of her fans and other people. With this, her PR came to her with news.

"You're going to have a fake boyfriend."

Why?

Because apparently, the story of a grief-stricken actress finding happiness in the form of a certain curly-haired pop singer appealed to the interests of the media.



Harry/OCF/little bit of Louis in the side

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1. Secrets

Secrets. What purpose do they serve? To protect someone - either yourself, someone else, or a some combination of persons. People need secrets because they need assurance that there is something left to discover. It's not that secrets make them small, but it does make the world seem bigger. It awakens feelings such as uncertainty and unpredictability.

There are two different kinds of secrets: benign and malignant.

Benign secrets, they're more about protecting someone else than your own. You think that his beard looks ridiculous. You think her dress makes her bum look fat. Your friend isn't really that pretty. Maybe he's not really a good artist.

Malignant secrets are the exact opposite of benign. They can pose a threat to your relationship with someone when revealed. They're mostly about protecting your own interests. They unfairly withhold information that some people should know. You're cheating on her with someone else. You accidentally killed someone. You stole something of value.

There are countless ways you can lie about something, or rather, keep a secret about. But perhaps the worse is when you lie about who you are. You might be attempting to manipulate other people to see you in the way you want them to see you. Lying to the extent that you're presenting a false image of yourself.

Publicity. What purpose does it serve? To gain public interest - either good or bad. Some people, most of the time celebrities, need this to be more well-known. It's the act of attracting attention of the media and the public. Effective publicity can increase sales, bring more customers into a store.

In this case, the product is number one boyband, One Direction.

"What?!" I screamed, standing up from my chair. Though I sat back down quickly because the she-devil was sending me a glare, pouting.

She gave me a look, repeating, "You're going to have a fake boyfriend."

"But whyyy?" I whined.

"Everybody knows about what happened with your father," she sympathetically patted my shoulder.

"So?" I was so tired of everyone acting like I was some glass figurine that need to be handled with extreme care. "What's that gotta do with this fake dating thing?"

"While the news of your father's death is still fresh, we need you to fake date someone."

"But why?" I repeated, a frown on my face. "And who?"

She laced her fingers together, cradling her face, "With your movie being released in just a few months, we need all the attention you could get. The story of you, a depressed orphan -"

I cut in, "I'm not really an orphan since I'm already nineteen."

She ignored me, making all sorts of hand gestures, "- finding love and happiness again will appeal to the public. As for who..."

She looked at me eye to eye. She just stared at me for a minute before I nearly screamed in my head internally for the suspense. "Harry Styles."

"Harry who?"

"You don't know who Harry Styles is?" Sharon gasped in shock, a hand to her heart.

"If I knew who he is, would I be asking?" I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest as I leaned back on my comfy chair.

"Does One Direction ring any bell?"

Slowly, realization came over me, "Ohh, that teen boyband?"

"Yup," she said, popping the p.

I opened my mouth, my head on my palm, "Why Harry Styles? Isn't he viewed as the womanizer? How would this help my image?"

"I've already talked this over with their management team," she said, "If you have a relationship with Harry -"

"Fake relationship, you mean," I corrected.

"- that goes on for, I don't know, a year or so? It'll make it seem like Harry is over his playboy ways. The media will eat it all up. It's a win-win," she clapped her hands together once.

Meanwhile, I contemplated on this, my hand stroking my imaginary beard. Why not? Both my parents were gone, I had no siblings, had nothing to do - what could go wrong?

"Okay fine," I finally agreed.

"Great!"

What did I sign myself up for?

 

I flicked through my magazine as I walked down the busy streets of London - what did Harry Styles look like again?

Dang, Lindsay Lohan did what?

Perhaps I was too engrossed in what scandal I was reading that I didn't see a tall brunette in my way. Before I knew what was happening, my magazine flew out of my hands, my sunglasses fell from my face, and my bum came in contact with the pavement.

"I'm so sorry!" The person fretted, quickly helping me up.

"It's fine, it's fine," I tried to assure her.

She smiled in relief, but then her smile and eyes widened when she recognized me, "Oh my God! You're Adel Watson!"

"Yes, I am," I smiled at her, "Do you want a picture?"

She pulled out her phone, looking at me in the eyes pleadingly, "If that's not too much of a hassle!"

A few photos and an autograph later. She smiled to me, excitement still in her eyes, saying in her posh accent as she shook my hand, "It was very nice to meet you!"

"It was nice to meet you too, Eleanor," I smiled politely. She had told me her name when she asked for the autograph.

We bid adieus, going in the opposite directions. When I looked back at her, I could see she was nearly hyperventilating as she went her way. It still amazed me that people recognized me for my talent.

I arranged the beanie on my head and placed my sunglasses back on. A quick look in my watch told me I was gonna be late for our meeting if I don't hurry up. I rolled up my magazine and hid it in my bag.

Today was the day when I meet my boyfriend.

I didn't leave under a rock, of course I knew who One Direction was. I just didn't know who their members were.

When I stepped in the building, the first thing I noticed was the receptionist who annoyingly popped her gum.

"Excuse me?" I tried to get her attention.

"Do you have an appointment?" She asked in a bored tone, not even looking up from her phone. How rude.

"Yes, actually," my smile twitched, "I'm here to meet One Direction and their publicity team."

When she looked up, I could see she was a little starstuck, "Oh, Ms. Watson! Of course, just go down the hall and..."

I listened aptly as she told me the directions. With a quick 'thank you', I was off.

I knocked on the door politely before I turned the knob and popped my head in, "Excuse me?"

A bald man with slight wrinkles on his face, stepped forward to me, ushering me in, "Ah, Ms. Watson. Welcome, welcome."

We were in a studio. Across the room, I could see a group of five boys talking with one another. I assumed they were One Direction. One in particular caught my eye, looking at me as if I knew him or was about to.

I conversed with their management about all the details Sharon left out. Outside, I looked completely focused. But in my head, I could not get those bright emerald eyes out of my mind.

Half an hour later, I had signed the contract and it was official. I was Harry Styles' girlfriend.

Before I left, I decided to introduce myself to the band, as to avoid awkwardness in the future. They seemed like in their own little world, but then the one with blond hair finally noticed me standing there, "Hey."

The other four boys lifted their heads up when they realized they had company, muttering their own greetings.

"So..." I said hesitantly, rocking on the heels of my feet, "Hi, my name's Adel."

They introduced themselves and the last one was the curly-haired one who I made eye contact with earlier, "So you're Harry..." I hummed in, looking him over. He wasn't bad. He was fit. Really fit.

Maybe this thing isn't so bad after all.

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