Holly Smale - Sunny Side Up

Yes. Obviously I do.

I’ve even got a little plan written out for any spare time we’ve got between shows: Wilbur And Harriet’s Awesome Parisian Fun-time Fashion Week Trip™ . We were going to fit in a visit to Le Cimetière de Chiens (resting place of Rin Tin Tin and a heroic Saint Bernard called Barry) and definitely a trip to Shakespeare & Co, the famous bookshop where Hemingway and Fitzgerald used to hang out.

I’ve even sent the proprietors an email using Google Translate preparing for our arrival.

“N-no,” I lie, flushing hard. “Of course not.”

“My little box of tigers,” Wilbur laughs, picking his phone back up. “I’ve got twelve models to manage this week. April’s got a fitting at Versace in thirteen minutes and Joy needs introducing properly to Chanel because she had flu last week. I’m going to be busier than a fly with proverbial blue buttocks for the next week, or maybe green because blue’s kind of passé this season.”

I can feel myself literally crumple inwards.

I’m way too used to it being just me and Wilbur versus the high priests and priestesses of fashion.

“Although I did get to choose who I travelled with,” he adds with a tiny smile, patting my fingers still clutching the top of the car window next to him, “and I picked my favourite baby-baby panda in the whole world.”

Within seconds I’ve uncrumpled again.

I’m his favourite? Yesssss.

“So what do I do?” I ask, anxiety starting to pulse again. “How will I know what my first job is or where to go or how to get there or—”

“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.