“Why haven’t you tweeted Niall for
his birthday? Did you text him?” Harry demands.
Zayn leans over and snubs out his
joint on the ashtray beside the pool. His alligator floaty is creeping across
the surface of the water like a proper gator. He’s tried to film it a couple
times to send to Safaa but it keeps coming out wrong. Too slow, like. Too
fake-looking, like the gloss spread all over Los Angeles like a layer of
grease. Or suntan oil, maybe. “Okay, Mum,” Zayn says. “I’ll get right on it.”