Читать книгу Sunny Side Up - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 11

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.