Читать книгу Sunny Side Up - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 15

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?”