Sunny Side Up

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 hopedfor 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 atit.

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?”

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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