Sunny Side Up

Nick could be in Paris.

And I have absolutely no idea how to lock that fact up.

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’m just going to have to try.

Without putting too fine a point on it, I’ve got quite enough to worry about for the next few days without adding ex-boyfriends to the mix.

Especially given that:

Oh and:

This time I really need to focus.

With a surge of extra adrenaline, I check that Nick’s firmly in the box in my head and metaphorically sit on top of the lid, just to make sure.

Then I click open my hotel-room door.

It’s tiny like the lobby downstairs, but so pretty: the bed is pure white, smooth cotton, there are brightly coloured pillows strewn across it in blues and pinks, and the large bedside window looks straight out on to a street unsurprisingly lined with horse chestnut trees (Paris has more trees than any other capital city in Europe).

On the walls hang artfully spaced purple paintings and there’s a small lilac-fringed tapestry directly above the bed.

There’s a flat-screened television on the opposite wall, and a teensy bathroom that’s made almost entirely out of marble and doesn’t have a father, stepmother or baby in it or smashing on its door, asking when you’re going to finish as if you have any kind of control over the timing of body functions.

In other words: it’s all mine.

I give a little squeak of happiness.

Grabbing my phone, I take a quick series of photos of the room.

I ping them all to Nat.

Then I send a quick text to the rest of Team JINTH, now getting on with their Saturday without me. Jasper, serving coffee and sarcasm at the cafe his dad owns. India, driving her purple car around town.

Toby …

Probably constructing some kind of home-made Batmobile out of cereal boxes.

Paris is great! I’VE GOT MY OWN BATHROOM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! Harriet x

Then I grin and fling myself in a wide, floppy star shape on the bed.

It’s very important to focus on the bright side over the next few days. To stay sunny and optimistic, no matter how stressed or anxious I get. After all, I am insanely lucky to even be here in the first place.

In just a minute, I’m going to get up and get on with some of Wilbur And Harriet’s Awesome Parisian Fun-time Fashion Week Trip™:even if I have to go it alone.

I can go to Père-Lachaise, the most visited cemetery in the world, and pay my respects to the graves of Oscar Wilde (for me) and Chopin (for Annabel) and Jim Morrison (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 theOrigin 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 –

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awake with a jolt.

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.