Holly Smale - Sunny Side Up

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.