Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Holly Smale 2016

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com;

Cover typography © Mary Kate McDevitt;

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2016

Holly Smale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008163457

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008165642

Version: 2016-05-26

Some glittering reviews for the books:

“Funny, original and this year’s must-read for teenage girls” Sun

“You won’t be going anywhere until this short-and-sweet book is complete and hugged to your chest” Maximum Pop

“A funny, light-hearted read that teenage girls will relate to” Sunday Independent

“Great … One to snuggle up with and enjoy!” Shout

“A funny, feel-good read for the holidays” The Times

“Smart, sassy and very funny” Bookseller

For Helen, Kate and Lizzie. Without whom none of this would exist.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Geek Girl Books

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

Read on to see Harriet through Nick’s eyes – the very first time they met …

Read More from Geek Girl

Read on for a sneak peek of Head Over Heels …

About the Publisher

Light (noun, adjective, verb)

/1ʌɪt/

1 To make things visible or afford illumination

2 To set on fire

3 Pale or not deep in colour

4 Without weight

ORIGIN From the Old English leoht – light, shining or bright

y name is Harriet Manners and I am hyper.

Genki is a Japanese word that means high energy, full of beans or peppy, and I know it fits me perfectly because I haven’t slept properly in six whole days.

Frankly, I haven’t needed to.

I’m so super-charged, I’m basically a worker ant: grabbing hundreds of tiny minute-long power naps just to keep me performing as normal.

Trust me: I’ve got the data.

Thanks to the awesome new Sleep App on my phone, I’ve been able to track my nocturnal activities in detail. Statistically the average teenager needs 8.5 hours of decent rest per night, but – according to my sleep graphs – my deep sleep states have been dropping steadily for the last 144.3 hours.

Last night, in fact, I officially got no hours of proper sleep at all.

Not a single wink, let alone forty.

So it’s pretty lucky that today I am firing on all cylinders. Giraffes can go weeks without napping, and I can only assume that I must be able to do the same now too.

Seriously: I am buzzing.

“And,” I continue, stabbing a finger at the magazine in front of me, “it says here that the tunnel includes six thousand tonnes of railway tracks, which is the same weight as two thousand elephants! Isn’t that cool?”

I blink at buildings rushing past the window.

“At its deepest point, it runs seventy-five metres below sea level, which is the same as 107 baguettes on top of each other! Crazy, huh?”

Frowning, I click my biro rapidly in and out again with tiny snaps and make a little note next to this fact. “How many fish could you get into that space, do you think? Should I try and calculate it?”

“Oooh!” I add before anyone can answer, pointing at a squat bird on a wire. “French pigeon!”

It’s been a pretty exciting journey already.

Eleven in the morning, having departed London just two hours ago, and I’ve already completed three Sudoku puzzles, learnt three new foreign phrases and filled out my entire crossword book in pen. I didn’t even bother pencilling it in first: that’s how fired-up I’m feeling.

“Plus,” I say, my jiggling leg bumping up and down repeatedly, “did you know that the Channel Tunnel is the longest under-sea tunnel in the world? Doesn’t that just completely blow your—”

“Harriet?” a loud voice says from some way behind me. “Treacle-top, who the fiddlesticks are you talking to?”

I blink a few times.

Then – with a lurch of surprise – I spin round.

My modelling agent Wilbur is standing at the other end of the packed Eurostar train carriage wearing a fluffy green jumper covered in sequins, a pale lilac scarf covered with pink rabbits and neon-yellow trousers.

In one hand is a tray with two hot drinks on it and in the other is an enormous golden croissant.

Blankly, I turn to the seat next to me.

There’s a large purple suitcase with a bright blue fake-fur coat draped over it and a wide-brimmed, orange-feathered hat perched on top.

Oh my God: you have got to be kidding me.

At what precise point in this conversation did Wilbur get up and go to the buffet car without me?

Exactly how long have I been publicly monologuing at a pile of accessories?

Ugh. Up to now, the jellyfish was the largest animal on the planet without a brain.

I think we have a new winner.

“Umm,” I stammer as the young French couple behind me start quietly giggling. Cover your tracks, Harriet. “Hey there, Wilbur. I was just reading this magazine to the … uh … pigeon outside. He looked … lonely.”

“Well of course he does, darling,” Wilbur agrees chirpily, swinging into the spare seat opposite. “They’re the rats of the sky, and who wants to date that?”

Then he holds out one of the coffees from the tray, pauses slightly and swings it back again. “On second thoughts, poodle, I think you’ve had quite enough caffeine for one morning. You’re starting to look like the victim at the start of a horror movie.”

Typical. First you’re given caffeine for the second time in your entire life, and then you’re suddenly being cut off at the source with no explanation at all.

I might be shaking and sweating slightly from the end of my nose, but I am fine.

Wilbur puts a gentle hand on my still-kicking foot until it stops, calmly takes my still-clicking pen off me and puts the Eurostar magazine away, from where I’m now folding and unfolding the corners repeatedly.

“Breathe, possum,” Wilbur smiles, patting my hand and proffering the golden croissant instead. “You’ve got this, munchkin, and you’re not a baby mouse: there’s no need to take in oxygen that fast.”

I swallow and stare out of the train window as we rush past another French station and one more surge of adrenaline, fear, apprehension and excitement blasts through me. I never said what kind of energy I’ve been packed to the brim with all week, did I?

Nervous, mainly.

Include the significant quantities of central nervous system stimulating methylxanthine alkaloid I’ve imbibed this morning (caffeine), and I’m basically powering off raw natural chemicals like a sleep-deprived rocket.

I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine I’m—

“Mesdames et messieurs,” a calm female voice says as the Eurostar begins to pull into the enormous, cathedral-like Gard du Nord. “Je l’espère vous avez eu un voyage agréable. S’il vous plaît que vous prenez vos bagages avec vous. Bienvenue a Paris.”

And that’s the main reason I haven’t been able to sleep solidly for over a hundred and forty hours.

Why I’ve been lying on my back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark galaxy on my ceiling while my brain spins in tight little circles, like a dying neutron star.

Three little words, three long days, one huge city.

Yup.

I’m doing Paris Fashion Week.

ou don’t need to say it, by the way: I know what you’re thinking.

How?

How did Harriet Manners – Destroyer of International Fashion Shows, Knocker-Over of Models, Sitter-Downer on Catwalks and Compiler of Compound Nouns – get selected to participate in Paris Couture Fashion Week: the most prestigious event a young model can possibly attend?

Well, I’m afraid I have no idea either.

Much like life’s other great mysteries – such as how exactly a bicycle works and why yawning is contagious – there appears to be no real scientific answer to that question.

And it’s basically what I’ve spent the last week trying to figure out.

Here are some things I do know:

I definitely checked.

“Darling,” Wilbur laughed when I suggested that my sartorial knowledge might elevate me above the thousands of other models also competing for the same positions, “one of my most well-known models – who shall remain nameless – once put a frozen chicken under the grill. I’m going to pause for a few seconds, to let that sink in.”

There was a long silence while he closed his eyes tightly, bit his bottom lip and grabbed my arm.

“A whole, raw, frozen chicken,” he repeated, slightly more squeakily. “Under the oven grill. And then couldn’t work out why the legs caught fire.”

Another pause.

Then he burst into peals of laughter. “I don’t think intelligence is high on the list of qualities being searched for right now, banana-boo. This is not NASA.”

By this point, Wilbur had been back from New York for just three days and had already swapped me with Stephanie for another one of his models, like Fashion Top Trumps except the opposite.

Let’s just say there wasn’t much of a struggle.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw her punch the air, shout WOOOHOOO then high-five the receptionist on her way out to lunch.

“Are you sure?” I said in dismay. “None of those facts are relevant? Not even the one about how couture seamstresses are called petits mains, which means little hands?”

I’d studied with a very overexcited Nat all night.

The brain only has so much space: I’m positive that at least eight of my most interesting animal facts had been replaced with fashion regulations from the seventeenth century.

“Sure as a seasick sailor on leave,” Wilbur giggled. “Just look angry but polite but distant but vague but smug in an untouchable kind of way and the world of couture is going to love you. Although you might want to switch your brain off for a few hours, pumpkin. Just in case you self-sabotage again like a baby lemming.”

Which – when you’re me – is easier said than done.

But I did my very best.

With a private black car specially booked for me and my Infinity portfolio tucked under one arm, I was driven to twelve different castings in London on one Saturday while my driver waited patiently outside (Wilbur said they were “taking no chances”).

Carefully shepherded to Dior and Balmain and Valentino and Elie Saab; Jean Paul Gaultier and Chanel and Versace.

And with my rebellious brain switched firmly off, I walked up and down enormous, air-conditioned rooms: eyes flat, chin up, shoulders back. Cold and disinterested. Unimpressed and severe: very much like our headmistress just before an assembly about truancy.

Refusing to smile or chatter or ingratiate myself with relevant conversation openers or factual tidbits, and making no attempt to form connections with the people around me at all.

Suffice to say, it was one of my biggest personal challenges of all time.

And it totally worked.

Without my inherent personality, I didn’t just get one high-fashion job for the week: I secured three.

Which was great – if a little hurtful – until last Saturday when I finally had to switch my brain back on and become …

Well, me again.

And then I went into meltdown.

There are 640 muscles in the average human body and not a single one of mine has relaxed in the six days since.

“Darling-pie,” Wilbur squeaks as the train doors whoosh open like a spaceship and he jumps out and spins around with his fluffy blue arms held wide like a gingerbread man, “can’t you just smell it?”

I clamber down after him and inhale.

It’s the end of January, and the Paris air is icy and fresh: underpinned with a faint whiff of train fumes, bread and the coffee Wilbur is guarding like the Crown Jewels.

“Winter?” I offer tentatively. “Odour molecules slow down when they hit a certain temperature, which is why cold air smells cleaner than warm air.”

“Fashion,” Wilbur exhales, before taking in another long, loud breath. “High fashion. Exclusive fashion. None of that high-street, something-for-everyone, we-can-all-be-part-of-it nonsense here.”

He leaps a few steps forward like a fluffy sequined leprechaun and kisses a French bollard. “I’m back, baby,” he sighs happily, wrapping his arms round it. “I’m home.”

Swallowing, I glance at the unusually glamorous people getting off the train behind us – all sunglasses and fur scarves and heels and an aura of sophistication and inevitability – and another lurch of energy fires through me.

I’m trying to stay a paragon of positivity, the embodiment of enthusiasm: a shining example of sunniness in the face of all odds.

But how do I put this?

Wilbur might be home: in his spiritual heartland, at the place of his stylish and chic roots.

I am definitely not.

t least a little bit of normality has followed me here.

Invisibly, in the form of Nat.

My Best Friend, non-kissing-soulmate and owner of a very strong Wi-Fi signal, judging by how many times my phone has vibrated since we emerged from the Channel Tunnel.

The Caribbean White-lipped Frog buzzes so hard it can be felt twenty feet away, and I think Nat has the same natural skill for getting attention.

Beep.

ARE YOU AT PARIS FASHION WEEK YET? What’s it like?! Is it amazing?! PICTURES! Nat xx

Beep.

Have you seen anyone famous? What were they wearing? Did you speak to them? PICTURES! Nat xx

Beep.

Need to see dresses and stages, front AND back. Try and find blueprints so I can copy at home. Nat xx

Beep.

PS PICTURES! :) :) Nat xx

With a small smile, I roll my new panda suitcase out of the station after Wilbur towards the taxi rank (it’s a very subtle panda, by the way: shiny black with little white patches and mini ears by the handles, therefore not childish at all).

We wait in line while he talks on his phone.

Then we climb into a white taxi and start driving through the achingly elegant, taupe-stone streets of Paris: all long sash windows and delicate iron balconies and grey-tiled turrets stuffed full of painters and poets and authors wearing berets and discarding crêpes and starving for the truth of their art.

I’m presuming, anyway.

Finally, my phone beeps again:

Oh yeah, I forgot. Good luck with the job etc! Nat xx

I grin.

Obviously, in her enthusiasm for all things fashion, Nat momentarily forgot why I’ve been sent abroad: for gainful, paid employment in the modelling industry and not as her personal documentary maker.

For the first time ever, I remembered.

Stomach still lurching, I reverse the camera on my phone, take a quick selfie with my eyes crossed and my tongue out, then send it with:

PICTURE Number One! I hereby promise I shall document compulsively ;) Hxx

Then I turn back to Wilbur.

He’s been tapping away on his phone with so much urgency since we got signal again, it looks like he’s playing Whack-A-Mole with his fingers. I’ve never seen him so focused and professional, ever, in fifteen months.

It’s slightly disorientating.

“Et voilà,” the taxi driver says darkly, pulling up outside a small grey, sculpted building with an arched door and HOTEL written subtly on a canopy. “C’est ça.”

“Sar,” Wilbur says without looking up.

The driver glares at him through the rear-view mirror, to absolutely no effect: my agent just keeps jabbing at his phone.

Nervously, I lean forward.

Time to break out my French language skills from school. Except maybe not the bit I remember about the lamp being on the table: I don’t think that’s going to help very much right now.

Or ever, actually.

If there’s a lamp on a table, people can usually see it for themselves.

“Mer-ci,” I say incredibly awkwardly, “pour le –” car lift drive journey … what’s the word? – “uh, vroom vroom.”

Thanks for the vroom vroom.

Approximately 220 million people in the world speak French and, thanks to giving it up in Year Nine, I am not one of them.

“Mercy,” Wilbur agrees distractedly as there’s a loud whoosh from his hand. “Silver plate and whatnot. Comment ally views.”

Clearly neither is Wilbur.

The driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel: obviously waiting for us to get out of his vehicle so he can continue with his normal, French-speaking day.

“Wilbur?” I prompt as the boot pops and – with some difficulty – I manage to clamber out awkwardly and drag my panda suitcase out of the back and on to the street.

Wilbur carries on typing.

“What’s the first thing you want to do?” I peer through his window curiously. “Do you fancy grabbing lunch round the corner? Apparently they do an amazing croque-monsieur, which is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich and means ‘bite-mister’, although I’m not completely sure why. Or whatever you prefer. I’m totally ready for anything.”

That’s kind of the problem.

I’ve been ready for anything for six whole days: in adrenaline-fuelled, fight-or-flight mode for a hundred and forty-four straight hours.

A flash of black flickers in the corner of my eye and – with another bang of fear and nerves – I spin round quickly, but it’s just a cat.

Calm, Harriet.

You’re fine you’re fine you’re fine you’re –

There’s a pause, and then Wilbur finally puts his phone in his lap and glances up.

Then he starts laughing.

“Oh moon-puddle,” he says affectionately, cocking his head to the side, “you don’t think you’re my only model at Paris Fashion Week, do you?”

I blink at him.

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.

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:

Within seconds of stepping out of the car, I’m temporarily blinded. Dozens of white flashes are clicking and fire-working in every direction; people are yelling at me; hands are being waved. And my name is being called, over and over again.

Harriet! Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!

For a brief moment I almost turn round, get back into the taxi and tell the chauffeur to drive 469 kilometres all the way back to London. There are approximately 3,875 models working the catwalks around the world in any given season: why the bat poop am I being recognised?

How do they know who I am?

Then it suddenly hits me. I haven’t been anywhere apart from school since the enormous Yuka Ito campaign ran last autumn, along with the simultaneous Baylee photos and the Vogue adverts. The general person on the street – or in the classroom – may not care who I am, but this is the world of fashion.

And they do, apparently.

Gulping, I take a miniscule step forward and thank every single one of the hundred billion stars in our galaxy that I’m wearing comfortable trainers and not slippery green kitten heels.

Then I brace myself.

This is the best thing that could possibly have happened, and as terrifying as it is I have to make the most of every single second.

“Harriet!” somebody yells as I step on to the carpet and a couple of girls wearing purple walk past me. “Over here! To me, sweetheart!”

Taking another step forward, I turn slightly and stand with one hand on my hip and my shoulders back: my posture as straight and stretched out as possible, the way Nat instructed me.

There’s a series of blinding flashes.

“Baylee girl! This way! Harriet! Harriet!”

Holding my chin up, I swing the other way and try to keep my smile mysterious and relaxed, my eyes enigmatic, my facial expression serene and above it all. As if I’m not shaking with nerves inside.

Another blaze of lights.

“Who are you wearing tonight, Harriet?” somebody shouts as a few more purple-clad guests wander past, pausing to glance over.

I stare at them in horror. Who am I wearing? “I’m pretty sure the silkworms didn’t have names,” I blurt, “but they’re probably from China.”

Now I feel awful.

“Which designer?” somebody else yells. “Who made the outfit?”

Oh. Oh. Whoops.

I hold myself as still and as elegant as possible.

“Tonight,” I amend loudly and clearly, “I am wearing a beautiful haute couture dress by Nat Grey.”

Then I twirl like an emerald hummingbird in the green dress my best friend made especially for me.

We were both optimistic that somebody might – at some point – take a photo of me wearing it, maybe in the background. In our wildest dreams, we couldn’t have hoped for this reaction. Whatever happens – however weird it feels – I have to try and milk it: making this dress took Nat months.

“She’s an up-and-coming British designer,” I add proudly, taking a few more steps towards the journalists and spinning round a little bit more so the skirt flares out. I’m doing it, Nat! “She’s the next Big Thing. HUGE. Bigger than … erm … big. Monolithic.”

Another few flashes.

“And the shoes?” somebody yells as a few more boys and girls cross my path. “Where are the shoes from?”

Sugar cookies.

I take another few steps up the ramp towards the boat. If Nat finds out she’s being blamed for my horrific combination of fluorescent-trainers-and-beautiful-gown, eleven years of friendship are going straight down the toilet.

Again.

“These are … uh …” I pose carefully with my hand on the boat rail while I scrabble for an answer. “A well-known British … high-street brand, who also specialise in many …. uh … other areas. It’s important to mix affordable style with aspirational.”

Tesco. They’re from Tesco.

I got them on our weekly food shop and popped them under the bread rolls and boxes of Pop Tarts.

A few more camera flashes.

Finally, I manage to get to the top of the ad-hoc runway where there’s a big purple backdrop with luxury car logos emblazoned across it in silver. Then I spin confidently to face them. I’m so delighted, I’m starting to buzz and vibrate all over.

Wilbur was right, partying really is a job.

And I am surprisingly good at it.

Flushed with success – mostly Nat’s, but a tiny bit of my own too – I turn and do a final flourish with my hand, a bit like the Queen.

“Thank you!” I call, slightly carried away now. Beaming, I hold the bottom of my skirt out and curtsy to the left. “Merci!” I curtsy to the right. “Merci, my friends!” I hold my arms up in the air. “I’ll be here all ni—”

A hand grabs me from the side.

“What,” a woman hisses as I’m yanked unceremoniously behind the door of the boat, “the hell do you think you’re doing?”

onestly, if I had a penny for every time somebody has asked me What the hell do you think you’re doing? I wouldn’t need to model at all.

I’d have paid for university already, and probably a Masters, PhD and some kind of internship on a professional archaeological dig in Egypt too.

But usually I have some idea of the answer.

This time, however, I’m at a total loss.

A very small, sharp-featured woman with a bleached-white bob, purple crop top and perfect purple lips has dragged me in silent rage into an ominously empty back room of the yacht and is glaring at me intensely. I have literally no idea why.

I arrived on time for once, right?

I didn’t fall over or break anything, did I?

I obeyed Wilbur’s letter to the letter, didn’t I?

Unless … Oh no, is it the spot? Am I in trouble for looking like I have a unicorn horn on my chin again? Can she see I’ve been distractedly prodding it in the car on the way here? Am I in the wrong place?

Whose party is this anyway?

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, trying to cover all bases as I drag my invitation out of my handbag, “the car brought me here and I just got out without checking.” I hold out the card to her, hoping she won’t snap off my arm like a furious French crocodile. “Am I at the wrong event? Is my party on another boat?”

I glance out of the porthole.

There are quite a lot of other water-bound transport options: all shining whitely as they navigate their luxurious way down the second longest river in France.

Then I peer over her shoulder into the main room of this yacht where a party is definitely happening.

There are lots of beautiful people, milling around elegantly with glasses in their hands, all wearing different shades of purple.

Huh. That’s very coordinated.

Although I suppose it is Fashion Week: they probably all discussed it beforehand by group text.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” the woman hisses angrily, narrowing her eyes and batting my invitation away. “You know exactly what you’ve done.”

There are four hundred miles of blood vessel in the average human brain and mine feel like they’re shrinking by the second.

“Um, I really don’t,” I admit, feeling my cheeks start to flush.

“You just happened to put on a dress by another designer, did you? It just happened

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