Sunny Side Up

“Do not fret, little frog-face,” Wilbur laughs. “You’ve got nothing on ’til this evening. And I’ve had detailed instructions sent to your room, so just follow them to the letter, sugar-plum.”

I unwind slightly. Now that I can do.

“I’ll check in sporadicment by text,” he continues with a grin, tapping on the driver’s seat and gesturing forward with a regal flourish. “And don’t worry, trunky-dunky – gallons of other models are staying in this hotel too. In fact, I believe you may even know one of them already.”

He gives me a broad, unsubtle wink.

I open my mouth.

“Alley!” he cries before I can get another word out. “Ooooh reviews, my little ferret!”

And the taxi drives away without me in it.

ccording to perhaps debatable sources on the internet, human fingers are so sensitive, if yours were the size of Earth you’d still be able to tell the difference between a car and a house just by touching them.

It may or may not be true.

But if it is, the rest of me now feels equally responsive.

My whole body is quivering.

Every muscle is tense, my brain is jerking around like a pigeon and anything that moves in my peripheral vision feels like a flashing neon signal: LOOK AT ME!

A man in a big grey army coat crosses the road and my stomach lurches. A girl with dark curls emerges from the corner and I double-glance at her.

A car horn honks and I jump.

I believe you may even know one of them already.

WINK.

What was that supposed to mean?

WHO?

Jittering, I grab my panda suitcase from the kerb and feel my now-sweaty hands slip on the handle. My heart is starting to hammer like a tiny, enthusiastic tap-dancer.

Breathe, Harriet. In and out.

You’ve done it more than 118 million times already this lifetime: a few more can’t be that hard.

With a wobble, I wheel myself through the hotel doors into a small but perfectly neat and glossy reception. There are white lilies in a huge glass vase, marble floors, and candles arranged neatly in groups on shelves.

Flute music is playing in the background through discreet speakers and there’s a cut-glass bowl of white matchsticks on the counter.

It’s calm. Serene. Beautiful.

And its ambience has absolutely no effect on my current mental state whatsoever.

“Hello,” a neatly dressed lady with a short black crop says, smiling politely. “Welcome to L’Hotel Bisou. And how was your trip?” Her accent is fluid and musical, lilting with perfect, clipped Frenchness.

Bisou … Bisou … Bi—

Wait, Hotel Kisses? What kind of horrible romantic name is that for an official place of accommodation?

Then with a frown, I glance down in disappointment at my stripy black and white jumper, thick black tights and blue denim shorts.

I really thought I’d nailed French Casual Chic today, but as the receptionist knew I was English before I even opened my mouth, maybe I shouldn’t have got rid of the jaunty beret Nat told me was overkill after all.

“It was good,” I say, handing her my passport and glancing quickly to the side. A very beautiful tall Japanese girl glides by in flat black pumps, a tight black jumper and skinny black jeans. “Thank you very much.”

There’s a movement in the corner of my eye and I swing to the right. An auburn-haired girl with sharp cheekbones and slanted, cat-like features swings past in a blue dress and flat white trainers.

“I am so glad,” the receptionist says warmly, taking my passport and clicking a few buttons on her computer. “Merci.”

I nod, swinging round again.

An incredibly good-looking boy with a sloping nose and white hair slinks by, talking to an even better looking boy with black skin and pouted lips and a shaved head.

“Thank you,” I say distantly, heart pounding harder.

“And is this your first time in Paris?” the receptionist says, handing back my passport.

“I’ve been here before,” I say distractedly, whizzing round again. A tanned blonde girl has just entered the door behind me. “With my parents. On … holiday.”

Not strictly true: Annabel was here years ago when one of her French clients was going through a divorce, so Dad brought me to visit her for the weekend and we spent forty-eight hours straight consuming sugar in fifteen different forms.

“Ah,” the receptionist nods, glancing at the form that says INFINITY MODELS at the top of the payment slip. “Paris Fashion Week will be very special this year, I think. Your room key, mademoiselle.”

I nod again as she hands over a plain fold of white cardboard with my room number written on it and a plastic key-card inside, then start heading as fast as I can towards the shiny gold elevator.

I don’t think I can handle seeing one more person who I might happen to know all too well right now …

Go go go go go go.

“Thank you!” I call over my shoulder as I hit the button three times in a panic.

Come on come on come on …

“Et aussi, you are in luck!” she calls after me. “Paris Men’s Fashion Week does not end until tomorrow. If you hurry, you will be able to see some of the boys too!”

Ping.

And as the shiny brass doors slide smoothly open, my very worst fear is confirmed.

Because there’s another reason why I haven’t been able to sleep for an entire week.

Or eat or read or focus on my schoolwork.

Since last Saturday afternoon at precisely 2:12pm, when I discovered what Nat had been carefully keeping from me for weeks: that Paris Women’s Couture Fashion Week overlaps with Paris Men’s Fashion Week by two whole days.

And that those two days are now.

Which means that every top male model under the sun is going to be in Paris for the next forty-eight hours.

So it doesn’t matter that Nick Hidaka officially quit the fashion world last autumn and went back to Australia; that I broke my own heart on Brooklyn Bridge so that he could have his freedom back.

It doesn’t matter that I’m pretty sure he hasn’t returned to modelling, even though I haven’t asked or checked because I’m too scared of what I’d find out.

Or that he’s highly unlikely to be in Paris this week.

I’m still like a rabbit caught in the headlights: frantically wondering which way to run.

The odds of getting struck by lightning are one in 700,000, but that still means 24,000 people are killed by it every year.

The chances of winning the lottery are approximately one in fourteen million, and yet ninety-nine per cent of winners continue playing once they’ve hit the jackpot in the hope that they will win again.

And the chances of dating a supermodel are one in 88,000, and yet I somehow beat those odds for over a year.

So I can put the love of my life in a box in my head and push it away as firmly as I like, statistics still know better.

A chance is a chance, however small.

Nick could be in Paris.

And I have absolutely no idea how to lock that fact up.

’m just going to have to try.

Without putting too fine a point on it, I’ve got quite enough to worry about for the next few days without adding ex-boyfriends to the mix.

Especially given that:

Oh and:

This time I really need to focus.

With a surge of extra adrenaline, I check that Nick’s firmly in the box in my head and metaphorically sit on top of the lid, just to make sure.

Then I click open my hotel-room door.

It’s tiny like the lobby downstairs, but so pretty: the bed is pure white, smooth cotton, there are brightly coloured pillows strewn across it in blues and pinks, and the large bedside window looks straight out on to a street unsurprisingly lined with horse chestnut trees (Paris has more trees than any other capital city in Europe).

On the walls hang artfully spaced purple paintings and there’s a small lilac-fringed tapestry directly above the bed.

There’s a flat-screened television on the opposite wall, and a teensy bathroom that’s made almost entirely out of marble and doesn’t have a father, stepmother or baby in it or smashing on its door, asking when you’re going to finish as if you have any kind of control over the timing of body functions.

In other words: it’s all mine.

I give a little squeak of happiness.

Grabbing my phone, I take a quick series of photos of the room.

I ping them all to Nat.

Then I send a quick text to the rest of Team JINTH, now getting on with their Saturday without me. Jasper, serving coffee and sarcasm at the cafe his dad owns. India, driving her purple car around town.

Toby …

Probably constructing some kind of home-made Batmobile out of cereal boxes.

Paris is great! I’VE GOT MY OWN BATHROOM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! Harriet x

Then I grin and fling myself in a wide, floppy star shape on the bed.

It’s very important to focus on the bright side over the next few days. To stay sunny and optimistic, no matter how stressed or anxious I get. After all, I am insanely lucky to even be here in the first place.

In just a minute, I’m going to get up and get on with some of Wilbur And Harriet’s Awesome Parisian Fun-time Fashion Week Trip™: even if I have to go it alone.

I can go to Père-Lachaise, the most visited cemetery in the world, and pay my respects to the graves of Oscar Wilde (for me) and Chopin (for Annabel) and Jim Morrison (for Dad).

I’ll wander around La Cité des Sciences et de L’Industrie, Europe’s largest science museum, and check out the scale model of the Ariane space shuttle: perhaps carefully examine the exhibition of Charles Darwin and the original manuscript of On the Origin of Species.

I can walk through Montmartre, which was occupied by Russian soldiers during the Battle of Paris in 1814 and Jasper says has been filled with many artists through centuries, like Matisse and Picasso and Degas and Dalí.

Painting long-legged elephants and ballerinas and white horses and melting clocks and butterfly ships and heads on sticks and tigers roaring out of the mouth of a fish and –

And swans that turn into elephants that turn into swans that turn into elephants –

And elephants –

And –

awake with a jolt.

For a few seconds, I have no idea where I am. It’s dark, the bed sheets don’t smell of me, there are unfamiliar traffic sounds and no five-month-old sister in the next room, either giggling or screaming the house down.

Then it slowly comes back.

I’m in Paris. I’m in a hotel. I’m fully dressed with my trainers on and my phone in one hand. It’s Couture Fashion Week and I’m …

I’m supposed to be somewhere.

DINGOBATS.

Sitting bolt upright, I flick on the bedside table lamp and blink around the room. There’s a large gilt mirror on the opposite wall and in it I can see that my fringe is standing upwards, my eyelids are pink and crusty, there’s an imprint of lace cushion on my forehead and a big spot erupting on my chin.

Stuck to my left cheek is a large, damp square of cream card, covered in gold writing.

Quickly, I pull it off and read the note hastily scribbled on the back.

Panicking in earnest now, I glance at my watch.

A 2008 Texas University study found that early risers were significantly more likely to get a high grade in class than people who sleep in late.

I have no idea what they discovered about people who get up at dawn and then snooze until 7:45pm in the evening, but I’m hoping it’s good because I am essentially now nocturnal.

Also, at no point in any fairytale did Cinderella have to transform herself into party-worthy appearance.

Adrenaline surging again, I take a quick photo of the invitation and send it to Nat.

Almost immediately, I get a reply from Nat.

So jealous! MAKE SURE YOU WEAR THAT DRESS! :)

I roll my eyes: does she think I’m going to a Paris Fashion Party dressed like this?

I am not a total fashion rookie.

Then I start ripping apart my suitcase.

It’s very much a packing of two halves: like the luggage version of Jekyll and Hyde.

One side looks like a clothing grenade has exploded inside a rainbow and then a rat has tried to reorganise the chaos with its teeth. There are green socks knotted up with yellow leggings tied up with blue-and-purple T-shirts and covered in red jumpers: all of which are so crumpled they’re now unrecognisable as anything a sane person would want to wear.

The other side is beautifully arranged and smells faintly of vanilla. It has a black velvet make-up bag tucked in one corner and a neat package wrapped in soft pale yellow tissue, secured with ribbons.

Nat and I spent all last night packing together.

Guess who did which side.

Quickly, I switch the light on in the bathroom, grab the make-up bag, unzip it and lob the contents into the empty sink.

As fast as I can, I wash off the ink from the invitation from my face and scratch off tiny flakes of gold. I smear some foundation across my nose with my fingers, cover the pulsing zit with an inch of concealer, rub on a little gel blusher and oh-so-slowly apply two layers of mascara (Nat informed me that it’s better to arrive late than blinded by a small furry stick).

I break a L’Hotel Bisou plastic comb in half trying to pull it through my tangled hair, give up and shove my unruly frizz into a very literal top-knot. Speedily, I scrub my teeth with the world’s smallest free hotel toothbrush.

Then I race back to my suitcase, carefully take out the precious tissue package and open it on the bed.

And immediately suck in my breath.

There’s no other way to put it: this dress is magnificent. Spectacular. Majestic. Awe-inspiring. Haute Couture in every possible sense: handmade, hand-cut and hand-sewn, the very Highest of Sewing.

The pale, lime green strapless bodice graduates to a darker, moss green round the waist and then falls to a jagged dark jade colour at my knees. The dress is edged with delicate green lace dyed in subtly different shades, creeping prettily up my throat, along the top of my shoulders and down my back.

It makes me feel a bit like an elegant walking rainforest, in a really good way: all I need now is a panther on my shoulder and a tiny magenta parrot nesting in my hair.

And – as it’s been designed for me, coloured for me and fitted to me – it suits me perfectly.

Without a shadow of a doubt, I am so lucky.

Beaming, I slip out of my travel-weary clothes, tug the Work of Art on as carefully as possible and zip it up. I stand in front of the mirror, take a triumphant photo and send it to Nat, grab the petite beaded green bag Nat thankfully packed for me and sling it over my shoulder.

I turn my phone on silent and throw it to the bottom with my invitation card.

Then I start rummaging through my suitcase for the rest of the outfit.

I rummage a little harder.

Then a bit harder.

Until – as I start desperately hauling out the contents and distributing them around the room like a hamster energetically rearranging its nest – it finally hits me.

No no no no no …

“Don’t forget these,” Nat said last night as I rocketed around the internet, collecting interesting facts about Paris. “Harriet?”

“There is only one STOP sign in the whole of Paris!” I told her, bending over my laptop. “But one thousand seven hundred and eighty-four bakeries! Amazing!”

“Harriet.”

“They have more dogs in Paris than they do children! More than 300,000!”

“Harriet.”

“And France is the most visited country on the planet! I did not know that. Did you know that?”

“HARRIET, LOOK AT ME.”

I blinked and turned round.

My best friend was sitting on the edge of my bed, holding a pair of pale green heels in the air. “What are these?”

I narrowed my eyes. You can do this, Harriet.

“Kitten heels?” I guessed confidently.

Nat’s nose twitched.

“Mary Janes? Cones? Pumps? Wait, I’ve got that list you gave me somewhere.”

“Your shoes, Harriet,” Nat sighed. “Or maybe I should say, The Shoes I’m lending you to wear with that outfit. Put them in your suitcase right now.”

“I will in a minute,” I nodded, turning back to my laptop. “I’ve just got to print these facts out. And maybe laminate them.”

“Now, Harriet.”

“Just shove them in the pile with my hairbrush and toothbrush and deodorant. I’ll have to use them before I leave tomorrow morning, so I definitely won’t forget.”

Nat frowned. “But what if you skip basic hygiene?”

“I’m an international model, Nat,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “How unhygienic do you think I am?”

We have our answer.

My posh shoes are currently over two hundred miles away: next to my bed, along with everything else I didn’t even look at this morning, including dental floss and mouthwash.

Heart sinking, I glance around my tiny hotel room: the only footwear option I have is the shoes I wore here. My bright pink trainers with orange stripes and pale blue laces.

I have to hide them from Nat when she comes round in case she destroys them.

Now I may have to hide me.

Sighing, I tug the trainers on with my beautiful couture dress.

I take my deepest breath and try not to think of what might lie ahead of me.

Or who.

And I prepare to meet my fashion-fate head on.

oosebumps are fascinating.

Believe it or not, they’re an evolutionary hangover from our days as monkeys. Just like most land mammals, humans have tiny muscles round the base of each of our body hairs, and thousands of years ago when we were cold they’d tighten to fluff up our fur coats, trap air and make us warmer.

Likewise, when we were scared or anxious, they’d fluff up to make us look bigger and scarier to any potential predators.

Obviously most of us have much finer and fewer body hairs now (apart from Mr Harper, my physics teacher), but our follicles haven’t registered that yet: they still try to defend us and that’s why when there’s an external threat we get bumps all over.

It’s called horripilation.

Which is quite fitting, because – as the black Citroën I’m in pulls up to the Parisian kerb and I open the door – I’m suddenly both so terrified and cold I’m horripilating all over in tiny, prickly bumps.

Thank goodness I shaved my legs last night.

Or now I’d literally be Mr Tumnus from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

“Merci,” I say politely to the taxi driver, leaning out. I finally remembered the right phrase on the journey: “Pour le journey …”

And that’s it.

Because as my foot touches the ground all speech – in any language – evaporates completely.

Directly in front of me is the Seine.

An inky expanse of black water twists in both directions, glittering with a rainbow of white, yellow, blue and red lights reflected from the banks.

To my left is Le Pont D’Austerlitz: a pale-grey stone bridge with five arches, vaulting its way across the river. In front of me, the bank is lined with spiny, leafless trees from the edge of the Jardin des Plantes and accompanying zoo. If I turn to the right, I can just see Notre Dame, crouched on its island in the middle of the water: lit up and sparkling like a beautiful, domed frog.

A little down the river is the Eiffel Tower: tall and iron, blue-lit and covered in sparkly lights, like the world’s most industrial Christmas tree.

But, as stunning as all of this is, that’s not what’s sucked the French right out of me.

There’s also a boat.

Shiny and white with mahogany flanks and Superbe II written on it in gold scroll, anchored to the pavement directly in front of where my car has stopped. It’s lit from within, violin music is already playing, glamorous people are collecting on the deck and there’s a tinkling of glasses, of cutlery, of heels.

Running up to and over the gangplank is a bright purple carpet and two purple silk ropes.

And on either side of these luxurious barriers are people who look much cosier than me.

Dozens of them: wrapped up in warm puffa jackets, wearing scarves and hats, crammed together in a tight mass of bodies like emperor penguins.

And every single one of them is holding an enormous high-tech camera.

I swallow uncertainly.

It takes twelve hours for the body to fully digest food, and I have a feeling I’m going to see my Eurostar croissant again sooner than I thought.

What the— Who the—

“Harriet!” one shouts, suddenly whipping round.

Another spins. “Harriet from Baylee! Over here, Harriet!”

“Yuka Ito girl! Look this way! HARRIET!”

And – in a flash of glare and sound – the crowd goes bonkers.

ll over the world, Paris is known as The City of Lights.

This is for two key reasons:

Apparently most people also find all the electricity and candles of Paris very romantic, but that’s more anecdotal than factual so I’m discarding that bit of received wisdom, thank you very much.

I can now add a third reason to the list: