Sunny Side Up

by Holly Smale

  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 to be the wrong colour and worn with neon trainers to ensure maximum press coverage? You just happened to prance down the purple carpet like some kind of royal fairy? What exactly am I paying your agency thousands for?”

  I blink down at my green frock. Huh?

  Paying my … what?

  “I thought this was just a fashion party,” I stammer, starting to shake again. “I wore my nicest dress especially. My best friend made it.”

  There’s a loud crunching sound and the floor suddenly shifts slightly.

  A cheer goes up from the party behind us.

  The woman in front of me scowls even more deeply and looks at the ceiling.

  “Just a fashion … For the love of … You were supposed to wear THE PURPLE DRESS. THAT IS THE ENTIRE POINT OF YOU BEING HERE. THAT WAS YOUR JOB.”

  I open my mouth.

  Oh my God: this party was one of my actual, paid jobs?

  But where was …?

  The lilac-fringed tapestry hanging over my bed. It wasn’t ornamental decoration or part of the hotel’s interior design decisions, was it.

  That was my outfit for this evening.

  A wave of embarrassment rushes over me at the exact moment that I realise I’m not only shaking with shame.

  I’m literally, physically vibrating too.

  My phone has been ringing on silent against my hip for the last ten minutes.

  “Well, it’s too late now,” the designer huffs in resignation as I stare at her with round eyes. “The boat has cast off. You’re stuck in that thing for the rest of the night.” Then she turns her back on me and starts walking into the party. “Models. So criminally stupid.”

  And as I grab
the phone from my handbag and see fifteen missed calls from Nat, I can’t help thinking that as a broad stroke that’s an incredibly unfair statement.

  But in this case she has a valid point.

  ccording to tests I’ve completed on the internet, I have got more than 143 IQ points.

  I have really got to start spending them better.

  “Harriet?” Nat blurts the second after I hit the green button and walk out on to the deck so I can look at the dark, cold river and maybe think about jumping in it. “Is that you?”

  “For now,” I say glumly. “I’m going to be researching scientifically unapproved body-swap options just as soon as I’m off this yacht.”

  “You’re on a yacht?”

  I turn the webcam on and hold my phone in the air so that Nat can witness my shame, as well as the fact that my face is now basically the same colour as the party.

  The main room is bright and shiny, full of purple vinyl chairs, ostentatious lilac shaggy rugs, eye-wateringly purple drinks and huge, shiny, lilac-flower-covered mirrors. Even the snacks are garishly purple: they’ve got tiny muffins with violets on top.

  India would basically disappear here.

  “Yup, this is definitely a yacht. A fashion yacht.”

  I can’t see many professional fishermen sailing out in this: they’d get laughed off the ocean.

  “That looks amazing,” Nat breathes as I spin the camera back to face me. “So swanky.” Then her face twists guiltily. “Harriet, I’m sorry. You wore the wrong dress, didn’t you?”

  I stare at her in amazement. “How do you know that?”

  “The invitation. Wilbur meant a specific dress, not mine,” she sighs, rubbing a hand on her face. “Did you not see that expensive one hanging over your bed and the purple shoes on the windowsill? I tried to tell you, but it was waaaaay too vague given it’s … well. You.”

  I frown.

  MAKE SURE YOU WEAR THAT DRESS!

  Nat didn’t mean hers at all: she meant Wilbur’s.

  Whoops.

  Also I missed the shoes too?

  I can’t believe my best friend saw what was going on more clearly than I did and she was two hundred miles away.