by Melody James
I clamber onto my bed and tip Treacle off. ‘Time for beauty sleep!’
‘Hey!’ Treacle slides onto her sleeping bag.
Savannah’s plaiting her hair. ‘I’ve set my alarm for four am,’ she announces. ‘So I can straighten my hair before breakfast.’
Treacle climbs into her sleeping bag. ‘Four am?’ she gasps. ‘Even Gemma’s hair doesn’t need that much straightening.’
‘Excuse me!’ I nudge her with my foot. ‘My hair has been described as Pre-Raphaelite.’
Savannah drops her plait. ‘What’s this?’
‘Some mystery boy has been commenting on Gemma’s hair,’ Treacle tells her.
‘Who?’ Savannah stiffens like a hunting dog scenting rabbit. ‘Rupert?’
‘Will,’ I confess.
‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed.
‘He was just mocking me,’ I explain. ‘You know what he’s like. He’s got a major superiority complex. He enjoys putting people down so much he should get a job in a euthanasia clinic.’
‘Still,’ Treacle yawns. ‘Maybe you should work on the Pre-Raphaelite look. I bet Rupert would love it.’
I climb under my duvet. ‘I don’t want Rupert to love anything about me.’
‘Aw, Gemma,’ Savannah pleads. ‘The guy needs a break.’
‘The only thing Rupert needs is a mute button,’ I growl.
‘Perhaps you’ll feel differently in Paris,’ Treacle teases. ‘All that romance and glamour.’
Paris. In less than eight hours we’ll be boarding the coach for France. I run a mental check: reporter’s notepad, pens, spare pens, spare notepad. They’re all stuffed in my rucksack along with a camera and a backup throwaway camera just in case. Who cares about clothes, or make-up, or Rupert? This is going to be the trip of a lifetime and I’m going to write a travel report that Cindy would be nuts not to publish.
It’s strange to be driving through the rain-soaked streets in the dark. Mum’s at the wheel. I’m sitting with Treacle in the back while Savannah’s in the passenger seat, swapping tourist information with Mum.
‘I’m hoping we get Notre Dame and the Louvre out of the way quickly.’ Savannah’s perfectly straight hair shines as street lights stripe the car. ‘I want to get to the Rue Meslay. It’s a whole street of shoe shops.’
‘But what about the Left Bank and Sacré Coeur?’ Mum asks.
‘I can go and see those when I’m forty and too old to care about clothes.’
I catch a glimpse of Mum in the rear-view mirror. She’s holding back a smile.
‘That’s very sensible, Savannah,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Jane.’
Treacle looks at me. She’s wearing her travelling tracksuit. Savannah spent five valuable hair-straightening minutes trying to change her mind. But Treacle wouldn’t budge. ‘I’m not travelling five hundred miles trussed up like a Christmas turkey,’ she insisted, folding her arms like a referee making a final decision. With a sigh, Savannah returned to frying her hair.
In the car, Mum’s making a left turn.
Treacle shifts beside me. ‘I can’t believe we’re on our way. I’ve got butterflies like we’re on our way to the Cup Final. You don’t suppose we got the time wrong and the coach has left?’
‘I double-checked last night and this morning,’ I tell her. ‘It leaves at six thirty.’ I check my watch: 6.10. Plenty of time. My heart is dancing in my chest. I don’t know which bit I’m looking forward to most: travelling under the sea in the Channel Tunnel, driving into Paris, seeing our hotel room, the Eiffel Tower . . .
Suddenly I’m lost in my imagination. I’m walking over silky carpet down a wide hotel corridor. Treacle’s beside me; Savannah’s clasping my arm, speechless. The walls are framed in gold; statues line our path; chandeliers glitter above our heads. A few paces ahead, a smartly dressed porter is carrying our luggage. ‘I can’t believe we’ve got the penthouse suite,’ I squeak.
Savannah stares around, breathless. ‘Two ensuite bathrooms and a sitting room, all to ourselves.’
The porter stops outside a wide, golden door and rests our luggage while he unlocks it. He swings it open and waves us inside.
The suite is magnificent. A glossy wooden floor is dotted with silken rugs. Sofas lounge round a glass coffee table and three huge windows stretch to the ceiling, framed by white shutters. I rush across the room and throw one open. Outside, a warm Paris breeze tousles my hair as I lean over a wrought-iron balcony. Treetops rustle beneath my feet and, far below, I see cars, small as toys, moving silently along the airy boulevard.
‘Your bedroom is through there.’ The porter points to another golden door. Treacle’s already racing towards it. She flings it open and gasps. ‘Canopies!’ I hurry to her side to see another huge room. Three beautiful beds are draped by cream taffeta. They shimmer in the sunlight that streams through the tall windows.
‘We’re here!’
‘What?’
Savannah’s squawk jolts me out of my fantasy. The dark shadow of Green Park High looms into view as Mum crosses the traffic lights and swings round a corner. She pulls up in a side street.
‘Well, girls,’ she says. ‘Are you ready?’ She’s fizzing with as much excitement as me.
Savannah unclicks her seat belt. ‘I was born ready.’ She’s out of the car and hopping excitedly from one foot to the other as Mum opens the boot and drags out our rucksacks.
I shrug mine onto my shoulders. It’s heavy with guidebooks and the extra notepad I shoved in at the last minute.
‘Passports?’ Mum asks.
I check my bumbag. Treacle rifles through her tote and Savannah flips open her satchel. ‘Got it!’ Treacle holds hers up, I nod as I feel mine and Savannah gives the thumbs up.
‘Come on then.’ Mum marches towards the school. I chase after Treacle and Savannah. They’re already running for the gate. A huge coach is parked in the yard, its headlights pooling brightness round the bike sheds. The rest of the yard is swamped in pre-dawn darkness, but I can hear the excited hubbub of happy students and the growls of teachers fending off questions.
One side of the coach looks like it’s had its skirt lifted as the driver stows rucksacks into a low-lying storage compartment between the huge wheels. Madame Papillon is standing in the glow of a headlight with a clipboard. I catch up with Savannah and Treacle as they reach her.
‘We’re here!’ Sav bounces up and down in front of her like a demented kangaroo.
‘Good, good.’ Madame’s eyes are skimming the list on her clipboard. She looks up, takes Treacle and me in with a short sweep of her lashes, then searches the darkness behind us, looking satisfied when she spots Mum hovering.
‘Are they checked in?’ Mum asks.
Madame makes a final tick on her clipboard then nods. ‘Passports?’
‘Yes,’ Mum tells her. ‘We checked before we left and when we arrived.’
‘Excellent.’ She speaks with a French flourish then dismisses Mum with a reassuring smile. ‘We’ll see you when we get back on Monday evening.’
‘Bye, Mum!’ I hug her tight. ‘I promise I’ll send you a postcard and bring you back a present.’ I give her an extra squeeze, my heart bursting with excitement. ‘Thanks SO much for letting me go.’
‘Have fun.’ Mum breaks away and gives me a huge smile. It’s meant to reassure me, but I don’t need reassurance. I know this trip is going to be fantastic.
Waving, Mum turns and disappears into the darkness.
‘Stow your rucksacks.’ Madame waves us towards the driver. He’s bent double beside the gaping hold between the wheels. Mr Chapman and Miss Davis are fluttering beside him like anxious pigeons, chirping at the students who are crowding the yard.
‘Make sure you’ve got anything you’ll need during the journey in your hand luggage,’ Mr Chapman calls.
‘Did you bring a snack?’ frets Miss Davis. ‘We won’t be stopping until we get to Paris.’
I’ve got a sandwich and a bottle of water.
It should last me until midday when we arrive en Paris. I’m way too excited to eat.
The driver grabs our rucksacks. Savannah winces as he squishes them into the jam-packed space. ‘My LBD is going to look like a bin bag!’
Treacle steers her away. ‘You’ve got a travel iron, remember?’
I take Savannah’s arm. ‘How can you think about clothes when there’s going to be so much stuff to see and do?’ I don’t want to waste a moment looking in a mirror when I could be soaking up Paris.
‘It’s Sal!’ Treacle spots Sally checking in with Madame Papillon. Ryan’s fidgeting behind her, looking pale.
‘Sally! Ryan!’ Savannah charges towards them. Ryan turns like a startled sheep.
‘What’s up, Ryan?’ I ask. ‘You look like you’re about to hurl.’
‘Why can’t we go on a ferry?’ he asks wanly. ‘A tunnel under the sea is just not natural.’
Sal links her arm through his. ‘We’ll only be in the tunnel for thirty minutes. Sit next to me and I’ll distract you.’
Treacle grins. ‘You don’t get an offer like that every day, Ryan.’
Ryan flushes, looking brighter. ‘I guess it won’t be too bad.’
‘Not once I’ve unloaded the gossip I heard about LJ Kennedy and Bethany,’ Sally promises tantalizingly.
Savannah’s eyes light up. ‘What?’
Sally pretends to zip her lips. ‘Not until we hit the tunnel,’ she says. ‘But I promise it’ll take Ryan’s mind off his claustrophobia.’ Her eyes drift past us to where Bethany and LJ are standing, stiff as mushrooms, in the middle of a clump of Year Tens.
I spot the webziners among them. Sam and Cindy are comparing passport photos. Will’s giving instructions to the driver about where exactly to cram his rucksack. David and Phil are checking their smartphones. There’s no sign of Barbara, but Jeff’s heading this way.
He hooks his arm round Treacle’s shoulders as he reaches us. ‘What are the seating arrangements?’ He glances at me and I suddenly realize that he wants to sit next to Treacle on the coach. I wonder whether to give her up gracefully or insist on my Official BFF Rights.
‘Marcus!’ Savannah spots her boyfriend emerging from the darkness and hares away.
‘Everyone start boarding!’ Madame Papillon signals to Mr Chapman and Miss Davis and, like sheepdogs, they start herding the crowd towards the coach door. I grab Treacle’s arm as students press round me. Giving in to the jostling, I buffet against her until we’re queuing beside the front of the coach while Year Tens filter up the stairs ahead of us.
Suddenly a bony shoulder jabs me from behind. Unbalanced, I trip, but a hand grabs my arm and steadies me.
‘Sorry.’ It’s Rupert. He’s smiling at me in the half-light, teeth flashing, his hot hand still grasping my arm. ‘I tripped over my bootlace.’
I scowl at him, but it bounces off his happy face.
‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ he grins. ‘I was hoping you’d sit next to me.’ He glances round the sea of faces. ‘I don’t really have anyone . . .’ He looks back at me hopefully. ‘ . . . Being new and everything.’
I start to object. ‘I was going to sit next to Treacle—’ I stop as I see her boarding the coach beside Jeff. Savannah follows Treacle up the steep steps, hanging off Marcus like a clinging vine. Would Jessica Jupiter elbow her way between lovebirds? Never, Star-ling. Her voice rings in my head. I sigh, defeated. ‘OK, Rupert. Let’s sit together.’
He lights up. ‘Really?’
‘Sure.’ A twinge of doubt pricks me as I board the coach, but I ignore it.
Rupert follows me and we squeeze down the aisle together. I grab the seat behind Savannah and he slides in next to me. Treacle’s firmly planted beside Jeff a few rows back. When she spots me next to Rupert, she gives the thumbs up.
‘Ooh, Gem!’ Savannah kneels on her seat and hooks her chin over her headrest. ‘You’ve bagged Rupert!’
Rupert looks pleased. I send her death rays. She ducks as Bethany drags her hefty handbag past. Wearing more make-up than clothes, the Year Ten princess is hanging onto LJ’s hood like a desperate poodle.
They push their way to the back and I watch the rest of the Year Tens board. A flash of perfect blonde hair catches my eye. Cindy’s weaving her way up the coach. She takes a row near ours, on the opposite side of the aisle, and puts her Louis Vuitton on the seat next to her. Then she starts repelling boarders with the ferocity of a pirate.
‘Sorry, seat taken.’ She flaps Will away. ‘I’m saving it for someone.’ Her icy glare is on fast-freeze.
‘Saving it for Sam, I suppose.’ Will sniffs and heads away up the aisle.
Sam’s breezing along the aisle towards her. I wait for Cindy to signal him in like an air traffic controller. But her gaze doesn’t reach him. I strain to see who she’s staring at, my eyes widening with surprise. In the dim overhead lights of the coach, I catch a glimpse of a face that looks familiar, yet strange.
Barbara?
Her frizzed hair has been smoothed into gentle waves and frames her face, like hands cupping a kitten. Her eyes are smoky, her lashes dark and thick beneath perfectly shaped eyebrows. A hint of colour shapes her mouth into a perfect kiss. Wowed, I force my mouth shut. She’s had the makeover to end all makeovers. Who knew she was so pretty?
‘Barbie!’ Cindy whips her Vuitton out of the way and pats the seat excitedly. ‘I thought you were going to miss the coach.’
‘Sorry, Cindy.’ Barbara flumps into the seat beside her. ‘I needed the loo.’ She touches her face with a perfectly manicured finger. ‘Have I smudged anything?’
Cindy looks her over with an expert eye. ‘No, still perfect.’
Sam lets out a whistle as he passes. ‘Looking good, Barbara,’ he says with genuine admiration as he slots himself into the seat behind Rupert and me.
Barbara turns traffic-light red, so Cindy accepts the compliment for her. ‘She’s decided it’s time to unleash her inner goddess.’
I recognize Jessica’s advice and feel a burst of happiness. Where’s David? He’s got to see this magical transformation. I scan the advancing stream of students and spot him following Phil along the aisle.
I watch, breathless. Will he be as impressed as Sam? Barbara’s watching him too, her smoky eyes hopeful, but he doesn’t even look her way. Instead, he slides into a seat beside Phil, his eyes fixed on his smartphone. Barbara drops her gaze into her lap.
Cindy squeezes her hand. ‘I can’t wait until the Parisian sunshine hits you,’ she tells Barbara cheerfully. ‘You’re going to look even more amazing.’
Parisian sunshine. The words hit me in a rush. I can’t wait to get there. Already I’m imagining blue sky back-dropping the Eiffel Tower.
‘I can’t believe we’ll be in Paris in six hours.’ I beam at Rupert. ‘Did you say you’d been before?’
‘Yeah.’ Rupert’s smile droops. ‘I only remember it raining.’
‘I hope it’s sunny for us.’
‘If not . . .’ His familiar grin returns. ‘ . . . We could always get a parapluie for two-ee.’
The coach engine rumbles into life.
‘Is everyone in their seats?’ Madame Papillon’s standing at the front of the coach counting heads. Mr Chapman and Miss Davis have settled down behind the driver while everyone fidgets themselves comfortable.
With a jolt, the coach starts to move and Madame Papillon collapses into a seat.
We’re off!
‘What do you get when you toss a hand grenade into a kitchen in France?’ Rupert asks randomly.
I’m gazing out of the window. Blue dawn light is competing with the sulphur yellow of the street lights. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘What do you get when you toss a hand grenade into a kitchen in France?’
‘Linoleum blown-apart.’
The journey to Dover takes three hours. In Rupert-time, that’s about six and a half days. By the time we see a white cliff, I’ve heard every French joke that’s ever been invented.
> I’m close to sticking my fingers in my ears and la-la-ing the rest of the way to Paris. Then Rupert spots the Eurotunnel terminus. ‘It’s a good job the digging teams met in the middle, or we’d have two tunnels.’
I wonder how many tunnel jokes he knows.
He starts to demonstrate. ‘Passengers are informed that due to recent budget cuts, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off.’
‘Rupert.’ I turn and face him, teeth clenched.
He blinks back at me, clueless. ‘What?’
‘Can you shut up for just five minutes?’
He blinks again. ‘What?’
‘You’ve been talking non-stop since we left,’ I snap. ‘You’re like a tap I can’t turn off. I’m drowning!’
He looks like I just hit him in the face with a frying pan.
‘You’re a nice guy, Rupert,’ I babble guiltily. ‘But you don’t have to talk all the time to prove it.’
He flaps his mouth, wordless as a beached guppy.
‘Why do you have to talk so much?’ I ask.
‘That’s what she said I should do.’ His brown eyes are hazelnuts, round and blank.
‘Who?’ Has someone bribed him to bore me to death? Perhaps it was Chelsea’s parting gift.
He looks embarrassed. ‘Just . . . just someone.’ A blush is creeping up from his collar. ‘She said girls like to be wooed with words.’ He looks at the headrest in front of him and acts as if he’s not fluorescing like a pink jellyfish.
‘Wooed with words?’ I echo limply. There’s a light blazing at the edge of my thoughts, like a forest fire approaching. ‘What birth sign are you, Rupert?’
‘Gemini.’
The same as David.
Woo her with words.
I run Jessica’s email to ‘David’ through my head. Don’t let shyness stop you. If she works on a webzine, she must long to be a writer. So woo her with words. How could she resist when the stars are on your side?
I close my eyes and let the rumble of the coach drown my thoughts.
I’ve love-bombed myself.
David didn’t write the email. Rupert did! And Barbara wasn’t the apple he was hoping to pick. I’m his pomme d’or!
