Sunny Side Up. Holly Smale
(for Dad).
I’ll wander around La Cité des Sciences et de L’Industrie, Europe’s largest science museum, and check out the scale model of the Ariane space shuttle: perhaps carefully examine the exhibition of Charles Darwin and the original manuscript of On the Origin of Species.
I can walk through Montmartre, which was occupied by Russian soldiers during the Battle of Paris in 1814 and Jasper says has been filled with many artists through centuries, like Matisse and Picasso and Degas and Dalí.
Painting long-legged elephants and ballerinas and white horses and melting clocks and butterfly ships and heads on sticks and tigers roaring out of the mouth of a fish and –
And swans that turn into elephants that turn into swans that turn into elephants –
And elephants –
And –
For a few seconds, I have no idea where I am. It’s dark, the bed sheets don’t smell of me, there are unfamiliar traffic sounds and no five-month-old sister in the next room, either giggling or screaming the house down.
Then it slowly comes back.
I’m in Paris. I’m in a hotel. I’m fully dressed with my trainers on and my phone in one hand. It’s Couture Fashion Week and I’m …
I’m supposed to be somewhere.
DINGOBATS.
Sitting bolt upright, I flick on the bedside table lamp and blink around the room. There’s a large gilt mirror on the opposite wall and in it I can see that my fringe is standing upwards, my eyelids are pink and crusty, there’s an imprint of lace cushion on my forehead and a big spot erupting on my chin.
Stuck to my left cheek is a large, damp square of cream card, covered in gold writing.
Quickly, I pull it off and read the note hastily scribbled on the back.
Panicking in earnest now, I glance at my watch.
A 2008 Texas University study found that early risers were significantly more likely to get a high grade in class than people who sleep in late.
I have no idea what they discovered about people who get up at dawn and then snooze until 7:45pm in the evening, but I’m hoping it’s good because I am essentially now nocturnal.
Also, at no point in any fairytale did Cinderella have to transform herself into party-worthy appearance.
Adrenaline surging again, I take a quick photo of the invitation and send it to Nat.
Almost immediately, I get a reply from Nat.
So jealous! MAKE SURE YOU WEAR THAT DRESS! :)
I roll my eyes: does she think I’m going to a Paris Fashion Party dressed like this?
I am not a total fashion rookie.
Then I start ripping apart my suitcase.
It’s very much a packing of two halves: like the luggage version of Jekyll and Hyde.
One side looks like a clothing grenade has exploded inside a rainbow and then a rat has tried to reorganise the chaos with its teeth. There are green socks knotted up with yellow leggings tied up with blue-and-purple T-shirts and covered in red jumpers: all of which are so crumpled they’re now unrecognisable as anything a sane person would want to wear.
The other side is beautifully arranged and smells faintly of vanilla. It has a black velvet make-up bag tucked in one corner and a neat package wrapped in soft pale yellow tissue, secured with ribbons.
Nat and I spent all last night packing together.
Guess who did which side.
Quickly, I switch the light on in the bathroom, grab the make-up bag, unzip it and lob the contents into the empty sink.
As fast as I can, I wash off the ink from the invitation from my face and scratch off tiny flakes of gold. I smear some foundation across my nose with my fingers, cover the pulsing zit with an inch of concealer, rub on a little gel blusher and oh-so-slowly apply two layers of mascara (Nat informed me that it’s better to arrive late than blinded by a small furry stick).
I break a L’Hotel Bisou plastic comb in half trying to pull it through my tangled hair, give up and shove my unruly frizz into a very literal top-knot. Speedily, I scrub my teeth with the world’s smallest free hotel toothbrush.
Then I race back to my suitcase, carefully take out the precious tissue package and open it on the bed.
And immediately suck in my breath.
There’s no other way to put it: this dress is magnificent. Spectacular. Majestic. Awe-inspiring. Haute Couture in every possible sense: handmade, hand-cut and hand-sewn, the very Highest of Sewing.
The pale, lime green strapless bodice graduates to a darker, moss green round the waist and then falls to a jagged dark jade colour at my knees. The dress is edged with delicate green lace dyed in subtly different shades, creeping prettily up my throat, along the top of my shoulders and down my back.
It makes me feel a bit like an elegant walking rainforest, in a really good way: all I need now is a panther on my shoulder and a tiny magenta parrot nesting in my hair.
And – as it’s been designed for me, coloured for me and fitted to me – it suits me perfectly.
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.