LITMIR.BIZ

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nailed French Casual Chic today, but as the receptionist knew I was English before I even opened my mouth, maybe I shouldn’t have got rid of the jaunty beret Nat told me was overkill after all.

      “It was good,” I say, handing her my passport and glancing quickly to the side. A very beautiful tall Japanese girl glides by in flat black pumps, a tight black jumper and skinny black jeans. “Thank you very much.”

      There’s a movement in the corner of my eye and I swing to the right. An auburn-haired girl with sharp cheekbones and slanted, cat-like features swings past in a blue dress and flat white trainers.

      “I am so glad,” the receptionist says warmly, taking my passport and clicking a few buttons on her computer. “Merci.”

      I nod, swinging round again.

      An incredibly good-looking boy with a sloping nose and white hair slinks by, talking to an even better looking boy with black skin and pouted lips and a shaved head.

      “Thank you,” I say distantly, heart pounding harder.

      “And is this your first time in Paris?” the receptionist says, handing back my passport.

      “I’ve been here before,” I say distractedly, whizzing round again. A tanned blonde girl has just entered the door behind me. “With my parents. On … holiday.”

      Not strictly true: Annabel was here years ago when one of her French clients was going through a divorce, so Dad brought me to visit her for the weekend and we spent forty-eight hours straight consuming sugar in fifteen different forms.

      “Ah,” the receptionist nods, glancing at the form that says INFINITY MODELS at the top of the payment slip. “Paris Fashion Week will be very special this year, I think. Your room key, mademoiselle.”

      I nod again as she hands over a plain fold of white cardboard with my room number written on it and a plastic key-card inside, then start heading as fast as I can towards the shiny gold elevator.

      I don’t think I can handle seeing one more person who I might happen to know all too well right now …

      Go go go go go go.

      “Thank you!” I call over my shoulder as I hit the button three times in a panic.

       Come on come on come on …

      “Et aussi, you are in luck!” she calls after me. “Paris Men’s Fashion Week does not end until tomorrow. If you hurry, you will be able to see some of the boys too!”

       Ping.

      And as the shiny brass doors slide smoothly open, my very worst fear is confirmed.

      Because there’s another reason why I haven’t been able to sleep for an entire week.

      Or eat or read or focus on my schoolwork.

      Since last Saturday afternoon at precisely 2:12pm, when I discovered what Nat had been carefully keeping from me for weeks: that Paris Women’s Couture Fashion Week overlaps with Paris Men’s Fashion Week by two whole days.

      And that those two days are now.

      Which means that every top male model under the sun is going to be in Paris for the next forty-eight hours.

      So it doesn’t matter that Nick Hidaka officially quit the fashion world last autumn and went back to Australia; that I broke my own heart on Brooklyn Bridge so that he could have his freedom back.

      It doesn’t matter that I’m pretty sure he hasn’t returned to modelling, even though I haven’t asked or checked because I’m too scared of what I’d find out.

      Or that he’s highly unlikely to be in Paris this week.

      I’m still like a rabbit caught in the headlights: frantically wondering which way to run.

      The odds of getting struck by lightning are one in 700,000, but that still means 24,000 people are killed by it every year.

      The chances of winning the lottery are approximately one in fourteen million, and yet ninety-nine per cent of winners continue playing once they’ve hit the jackpot in the hope that they will win again.

      And the chances of dating a supermodel are one in 88,000, and yet I somehow beat those odds for over a year.

      So I can put the love of my life in a box in my head and push it away as firmly as I like, statistics still know better.

      A chance is a chance, however small.

      Nick could be in Paris.

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

      

      ’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

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