Sunny Side Up

And I prepare to meet my fashion-fate head on.

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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 istheSeine.

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.

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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 wayback 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.