Читать книгу Sunny Side Up - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 10

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.