It was a hot evening in central London, and the air in the Newsnight green room was heavy. Zayn Malik stood beneath the air-conditioning shaft, trying to cool down. The door opened, and he quickly rebuttoned his shirt. “So sorry about the heat, Zayn,” whispered a shy assistant, blushing. “They’re trying to fix it.” It was all Zayn could do not to snap, but five years of being shepherded through these grey corridors and blank press conferences had taught him the benefits of being polite to the little people. “Thank you, Annabel,” he smiled. “And could you fetch me that Diet Coke I asked for 20 minutes ago?” At the sound of his kind attempt at her name, Alison visibly retched with passion.
Alone once more, Zayn inserted his earbuds and did some mindfulness. Was he making the biggest mistake of his life? His thoughts raced. Was he really going to come out on live TV? For once Taylor Swift’s words didn’t have the desired power. He sung along, as if in a trance: “The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…” “…Baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake.” Zayn started. He turned, ripping the buds from his ears to see who had entered the room. Amused, the man, removing his cap to reveal a head of hair as soft as a candyfloss, finished the chorus. “I shake it off, I shake it off.”
There was a pause. To Zayn, looking into these unfamiliar azure eyes, it seemed to last for ever. Clearing his throat, he put out his hand: “Zayn.” “Corbyn,” the man replied. “Call me Jeremy.” His handshake was firm. It felt like a hug.
“Warm in here, isn’t it?” There were 15 minutes before Zayn was due on set; plenty of time, Jeremy said, to fix the air conditioning themselves. Before he quite knew what was happening, he was perched on Jeremy’s shoulders, gripping on to the ceiling unit. “Yank it, Zayn!” With one almighty pull, he fell toppling to the floor, where he landed on Jeremy in a tangled mess of beard and limbs. Laughing, they rolled apart and revelled, sweating, in the breeze. “Why are you here?” Jeremy asked.
“I’m meant to be telling the world the real reason One D split,” sighed Zayn. “But my break-up with Liam isn’t anyone’s business but ours.”
“I know how you feel, comrade,” said Jeremy. “I don’t want to be here either.” Zayn raised his eyebrow inquisitively, and Jeremy saw his skin crinkle like velvet. He suddenly felt like he wanted to stroke it, to smooth his troubles. “It’s nothing, really. I mooted the idea of getting men to wear ‘Potential Rapist’ badges. Murdoch’s lot are insisting I apologise.”
Zayn grasped his arm. “Jeremy. What if we escaped?” Jeremy felt his breath quicken. Sitting up on the carpet, he leaned in close. “From all these cameras, this explaining.”
“All this…” Corbyn gestured at the bottle of Perrier water, at the plate of Paul croissants “…bourgeoisie.” Zayn leapt to his feet. Holding out his hand, he waited. “Are you with me?”
Zayn peered down the corridor, his heart racing. Together they dashed past the red “On Air” light. Zayn’s iPhone started buzzing – within seconds Jeremy’s Nokia was ringing, too. Gasping, Zayn pulled Jeremy through a door marked “Cleaning” and pulled it shut behind them. Giggling, he threw their phones into a bucket of bleach and gazed at him, eyes wild. “Free!” he whispered. Outside the door, voices were heard.
Jeremy threatened to laugh, but Zayn put his hand over his mouth. He felt the sharp tickle of a well-kept moustache. In that tight dark space, the distance between them felt electric. As the voices grew fainter, Zayn’s hand moved slowly away from his mouth and gently caressed his soft collar. “It’s funny,” he whispered. “For the first time, I understand the lyrics I used to sing.” He paused, shy. “If this room was burnin’,” he growled. “I wouldn’t even notice. ’Cause you’ve been taking up my mind.” “Shh,” Jeremy replied. “Kiss me.”
Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman
