LITMIR.BIZ

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going to help very much right now.

      Or ever, actually.

      If there’s a lamp on a table, people can usually see it for themselves.

      “Mer-ci,” I say incredibly awkwardly, “pour le –” car lift drive journey … what’s the word? – “uh, vroom vroom.”

       Thanks for the vroom vroom.

      Approximately 220 million people in the world speak French and, thanks to giving it up in Year Nine, I am not one of them.

      “Mercy,” Wilbur agrees distractedly as there’s a loud whoosh from his hand. “Silver plate and whatnot. Comment ally views.”

      Clearly neither is Wilbur.

      The driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel: obviously waiting for us to get out of his vehicle so he can continue with his normal, French-speaking day.

      “Wilbur?” I prompt as the boot pops and – with some difficulty – I manage to clamber out awkwardly and drag my panda suitcase out of the back and on to the street.

      Wilbur carries on typing.

      “What’s the first thing you want to do?” I peer through his window curiously. “Do you fancy grabbing lunch round the corner? Apparently they do an amazing croque-monsieur, which is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich and means ‘bite-mister’, although I’m not completely sure why. Or whatever you prefer. I’m totally ready for anything.”

      That’s kind of the problem.

      I’ve been ready for anything for six whole days: in adrenaline-fuelled, fight-or-flight mode for a hundred and forty-four straight hours.

      A flash of black flickers in the corner of my eye and – with another bang of fear and nerves – I spin round quickly, but it’s just a cat.

       Calm, Harriet.

       You’re fine you’re fine you’re fine you’re –

      There’s a pause, and then Wilbur finally puts his phone in his lap and glances up.

      Then he starts laughing.

      “Oh moon-puddle,” he says affectionately, cocking his head to the side, “you don’t think you’re my only model at Paris Fashion Week, do you?”

      I blink at him.

      Yes. Obviously I do.

      I’ve even got a little plan written out for any spare time we’ve got between shows: Wilbur And Harriet’s Awesome Parisian Fun-time Fashion Week Trip™. We were going to fit in a visit to Le Cimetière de Chiens (resting place of Rin Tin Tin and a heroic Saint Bernard called Barry) and definitely a trip to Shakespeare & Co, the famous bookshop where Hemingway and Fitzgerald used to hang out.

      I’ve even sent the proprietors an email using Google Translate preparing for our arrival.

      “N-no,” I lie, flushing hard. “Of course not.”

      “My little box of tigers,” Wilbur laughs, picking his phone back up. “I’ve got twelve models to manage this week. April’s got a fitting at Versace in thirteen minutes and Joy needs introducing properly to Chanel because she had flu last week. I’m going to be busier than a fly with proverbial blue buttocks for the next week, or maybe green because blue’s kind of passé this season.”

      I can feel myself literally crumple inwards.

      I’m way too used to it being just me and Wilbur versus the high priests and priestesses of fashion.

      “Although I did get to choose who I travelled with,” he adds with a tiny smile, patting my fingers still clutching the top of the car window next to him, “and I picked my favourite baby-baby panda in the whole world.”

      Within seconds I’ve uncrumpled again.

      I’m his favourite? Yesssss.

      “So what do I do?” I ask, anxiety starting to pulse again. “How will I know what my first job is or where to go or how to get there or—”

      “Do not fret, little frog-face,” Wilbur laughs. “You’ve got nothing on ’til this evening. And I’ve had detailed instructions sent to your room, so just follow them to the letter, sugar-plum.”

      I unwind slightly. Now that I can do.

      “I’ll check in sporadicment by text,” he continues with a grin, tapping on the driver’s seat and gesturing forward with a regal flourish. “And don’t worry, trunky-dunky – gallons of other models are staying in this hotel too. In fact, I believe you may even know one of them already.”

      He gives me a broad, unsubtle wink.

      I open my mouth.

      “Alley!” he cries before I can get another word out. “Ooooh reviews, my little ferret!”

      And the taxi drives away without me in it.

      

      ccording to perhaps debatable sources on the internet, human fingers are so sensitive, if yours were the size of Earth you’d still be able to tell the difference between a car and a house just by touching them.

      It may or may not be true.

      But if it is, the rest of me now feels equally responsive.

      My whole body is quivering.

      Every muscle is tense, my brain is jerking around like a pigeon and anything that moves in my peripheral vision feels like a flashing neon signal: LOOK AT ME!

      A man in a big grey army coat crosses the road and my stomach lurches. A girl with dark curls emerges from the corner and I double-glance at her.

      A car horn honks and I jump.

       I believe you may even know one of them already.

       WINK.

      What was that supposed to mean?

       WHO?

      Jittering, I grab my panda suitcase from the kerb and feel my now-sweaty hands slip on the handle. My heart is starting to hammer like a tiny, enthusiastic tap-dancer.

       Breathe, Harriet. In and out.

      You’ve done it more than 118 million times already this lifetime: a few more can’t be that hard.

      With a wobble, I wheel myself through the hotel doors into a small but perfectly neat and glossy reception. There are white lilies in a huge glass vase, marble floors, and candles arranged neatly in groups on shelves.

      Flute music is playing in the background through discreet speakers and there’s a cut-glass bowl of white matchsticks on the counter.

      It’s calm. Serene. Beautiful.

      And its ambience has absolutely no effect on my current mental state whatsoever.

      “Hello,” a neatly dressed lady with a short black crop says, smiling politely. “Welcome to L’Hotel Bisou. And how was your trip?” Her accent is fluid and musical, lilting with perfect, clipped Frenchness.

       Bisou … Bisou … Bi—

      Wait, Hotel Kisses? What kind of horrible romantic name is that for an official place of accommodation?

      Then with a frown, I glance down in disappointment at my stripy

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