by Holly Smale
And when I take them away again, the space is empty.
Yuka has gone.
ou see?
This is what happens when you let your guard down and relax too much: you take your eye off the ball and someone kicks it straight into your face.
There are six million dead bodies down here already.
From the ice-cold expression on Yuka’s face, I think I just narrowly avoided becoming another one.
Still shaking so hard I must look like a giant raven in a bird bath, I manage to change position as enigmatically as possible another four times while wishing I had the internal water-holding capacity of an elephant, instead of a field mouse.
“You know, I think she’s one of my favourites,” a blonde woman in a white lace top and white trousers says, again inches away from my face. “I feel like she’s really giving this show an additional level of emotion.”
“Absolutely,” her assistant agrees, scribbling notes on a pad. “Just look at the concentration on her face.”
“Although I think she might be slightly too short for my show. Write that down too.”
“Too short,” the assistant murmurs, nodding.
As if I’m not standing directly in front of them, capable of understanding this entire conversation.
Gradually, the crowds start to thin out until all I can see is the gloomy bone-lined tunnel stretching away from my enclave on either side.
Finally there’s another loud clapping sound.
“OK, girls!” the creative director calls, her voice bouncing through the tunnels. “Good job! That went perfectly! You can all start making your way—”
I don’t wait to hear anything else.
Within milliseconds, I’m waddling urgently and crabbily in my priceless gown back down the passage: into the darkness again, squidging past the seventeen models standing between me and the exit.
“Excuse me,” I say, shuffling against the wall and trying not to snag my trailing wingtips on bricks or bones or nose cavities. “Sorry. Pardonez-moi. Excusez-moi. Sorry sorry sorry. Excuse me, please. S’il vous plaît.”
Disorientated, I scuttle through the darkness and burst sideways into the light, blinking as my face jewels kaleidoscope spangles of sunshine around me. Trying to look aloof, I scoot past the photographers waiting on the outside for any ad-hoc opportunities.
“I have another job to get to,” I blurt out, waddling past like a posh penguin. “It’s … uh … very important and glamorous and urgent and totally fashion-related.”
They take a few snaps that I fervently hope don’t make it on to the internet.
Then I hurl myself into the backstage tent.
“Out,” I whimper, grabbing wide-eyed Sylvie and Léonie. “Out out out. Please help me out of this dress.”
Nodding, they quickly unstitch and un-wing me.
“Well, at least the dress survived,” Sylvie says as I pull a random giant T-shirt over my head and leg it to the separate tiny tent outside.
Oh God oh God oh God –
Thank you thank you thank you thank you.
Because I think it’s fair to say I’ve learnt a lot of things about fashion in the last fourteen months. I’ve learnt that the first pair of Doc Martens was made from old tyres, and denim has existed for 7,000 years.
I’ve learnt that Mark Twain – author of Huckleberry Finn – invented and patented the bra-clasp, and the Quakers had a “modesty tunnel” so that they could get across the beach in their swimsuits without being seen.
I’ve even learnt that in the 18th century toddlers wore high heels and probably still walked more elegantly in them than I do.
But of all the things I’ve learnt, have a wee before a fashion show is right at the top of the list and now committed by the fires of the underworld to my long-term memory.
It’s definitely not a lesson I’ll need to learn again.
recover surprisingly quickly.
By the time Wilbur has turned up, thirty minutes later, I’m back in my normal clothes with a clean face, no feathers or jewels attached anywhere to my person and with a strong desire to never drink water again.
“Hello, wombat,” my agent grins as I grab my bag, say goodbye to the French model (her name is Camille) and Sneezy Girl (an American called Joy) and leave the backstage tent. “I saw you, bunny-button! You were a thing of wonder, my little artfully frayed jumper.”
Huh. Maybe I did get away with it, after all.
“But I didn’t see you,” I beam in pleased confusion. “Were you down there too?”
“That’s probably because you had your paws across your face like the kitten I have on a fridge magnet,” Wilbur giggles. “It was like you were playing hide-and-seek, muffin, and I didn’t want to spoil the fun in case you found yourself.”
Ah.
OK: that wasn’t one of my strongest ever poses.
“So what’s next?” I say, glancing in anticipation around at the sunny street. The black carpets are already being rolled away: fashion waits for no man or woman, apparently. “I’ve got another show now, right?”
There’s a silence while Wilbur stares at his phone.
“Right?” I say again.
Another silence.
“Wilbur?” I prompt, nudging him. “Hello?”
He blinks upwards. “Hello? We did that bit already, didn’t we?”
Then his mobile buzzes again and he frowns at it.
“Are you OK?” I say as he scrolls through another message. “Has something happened?”
Wilbur shakes his head, then nods.
“Jocasta has twisted her ankle,” he says quickly, bashing at the screen again. “She can’t walk, Versace starts in eighteen minutes, and I’m trying to get hold of Kiko in the neighbouring marquee but she is almost definitely snoggalogging with her boyfriend and won’t answer.”
I screw my nose up.
Snoggalogging is not a real word and I won’t be sending it off to the Oxford English Dictionary committee at any point in the near future either.
They’ve already got fifteen of my applications.
“Wilbur,” I say as he holds the phone up to his face, “you need to go. If you leave now you can find Kiko in person.”
He studies my face. “May non, dandelion-breath. I pledged to stay with you and I’ve already had one little detour.”
But he looks really anxious.
I’ve already lost him one client this week: I can’t be responsible for another.
Maybe I can kind of make up for it now.
“Go,” I say, pushing him with my hand and summoning up all my positive vibes. “Wilbur, I can do this. You sent me all of the details this morning and I am really good at following a comprehensive itinerary. It’s kind of a natural life skill. Trust me.”
He doesn’t look like he trusts me in the slightest.
I don’t screw up that frequently, do I?
“But –” he objects, looking around the street at the other models climbing into their pre-booked taxis – “all the cars are already taken, possum. By the time I’ve got on the Métro …”
“Then take our car,” I interrupt, pointing at the familiar black Citroën waiting for us on the kerb. “My next show isn’t for –” I glance at my watch – “two hours and twelve minutes. I’ve got plenty of time to get to the Molitor.”
There may even be time to pop into the Monet Museum, which is basically next door, and pick a postcard of blobby lilies for Jasper: he really likes them.
Wilbur wavers for a few seconds.
“Baby monkey-face,” he says dubiously, “you are the light bulb in my lamp and whatnot, but we all know what normally happens when you are left to your own devices. It’s like leaving a lamb made of ice cream out in the sun.”
Ouch.
“Don’t be silly!” I laugh, guiding him gently towards the car. “I’ve been to Paris plenty of times before and I know my way around. I’ll be fine.”
He pauses again. “Are you sure?”
&nb
sp; Grinning, I pull a huge and well-prepared map out of my satchel and open it up. “Wilbur, I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but I am an expert orienteer. I got my Orienteering Guide badge twice. I led the Year 7 Geography trip. I officially know my way around a city.”
I also got my Out And About Brownie badge, but nobody seems to take that as seriously. Maybe because you need a responsible adult with you at all times.
Also, it’s primrose yellow. That doesn’t help.
“If you’re certainment,” Wilbur says, taking another tentative step towards the taxi. “Because if I swoop in like Batman for Versace they might give me another free handbag. And they are fabulous and make me look scrummy.”
“Go,” I smile affectionately.
I mean, I’ve been underground already once today: one more time can’t hurt. At least this time there should be ninety-nine per cent fewer bones around me and they’ll hopefully be supporting living bodies.
Plus, I’ve already screwed up twice in the last twenty-four hours.
And I know my statistics.
What’s the chance of me screwing up again?
ere are some interesting facts about the French underground:
I’ve successfully navigated Moscow, New York, Tokyo, Marrakech, London and a field in Surrey three years ago.
This should be a doddle.
According to my map, Denfert-Rochereau métro station is the closest to the Catacombs gateway, and sure enough: as I wave Wilbur off and watch him disappear down the road towards Le Louvre, I can see it looming straight ahead of me.
Grinning, I bounce over to the entrance.
Feeling a little bit smug, I hop down the stone stairs under the pretty, intricately carved sign arching over my head and into the small station.
I buy my ticket with a triumphant “un ticket s’il vous plaît” and decide that maybe Year 9 French is all you really need anyway.
Then I bob over to the Métro map.
According to my print-out I need to get to Porte d’Auteuil, which is on line ten somewhere, and then I’m basically done.
Target Independent Fashion Model: achieved.
Smiling, I wait patiently while tourists with not as many orienteering guide badges as me stand in front of the Métro map for ages.
Then I make my way to the front.
Porte d’Auteuil. Porte d’Auteuil …
Huh.
This isn’t exactly what I was expecting.
The Paris Métro map doesn’t look like any underground train system I’ve ever seen before. (And I’ve studied quite a few – even if I’ve no current plans to visit the cities they’re in. You cannot be too prepared when it comes to maps.)
There are about a billion different stations scattered over an entire rainbow of randomly wiggly lines: pink, light green, dark green, yellow, mustard, light blue, dark blue. All diving and weaving in and out of each other in a chaotic tapestry, as if somebody just snatched up the London Underground and, like a ball of multicoloured string, dropped it from a great height and now it’s rolled everywhere.
Blinking, I get a bit closer.
OK, maybe I just need to work out where I am now first. Figure out my strategy moving forward from that point on, rationally.
Denfert Rochereau. Denfert Rochereau …
Scanning the hundreds of tiny words, I have no idea where the station I’m in is either. There isn’t even a little sticker that says YOU ARE HERE in any language whatsoever.
Frowning, I thrust my nose forward until I’m about two inches from the map. It’s all Saint and Sevres and Alma and Porte and words I don’t understand.
So I step back to take in the overall picture.
Now it just looks like brightly cooked spaghetti, recently thrown against the wall.
Second by second, I can feel alarm starting to pulse through me.
What is wrong with the French Métro system?
Swallowing, I grab my phone, connect to the internet, find the Paris Route Planner and plug in where I am and where I want to go.
Then I stare at the results.
There’s a green, and a six, and a mustard, and a ten.
Charles de Gaulle-étoile and Boulogne Pont de Saint-Cloud are involved somehow too, but nobody is really explaining why or where.
Alarm pulses a little bit stronger. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to boot Wilbur off my case.
And I definitely should have taken the car.
Swallowing, I consider asking somebody for help and then realise that I don’t have the language skills to do that. I try to remember what Guides and Brownies taught me and realise I don’t have a compass or dots helpfully indicating scattered trees or forested areas, and I can’t use the stars for navigation.
Which means Nat was right: they are not transferable skills at all.
Then – with a sigh of frustration and an inward curse at the Brown Owl who invented the useless ‘Out and About’ badge – I give up and head towards the barriers with my useless map flapping.
It’ll start making sense at some point, I’m absolutely sure of it.
Sooner or later it has to, right?
Everything will land sunny side up: all I need to do is stay positive.
Here’s what I learnt in Year 7 physics:
In any atom, there is a nucleus containing protons and neutrons, and a number of electrons spiralling around the outside. If the atom gains electrons, the atom becomes negatively charged, and if it loses electrons it becomes positively charged.
Therefore positive attracts negative, and vice versa.
Which explains why the next hour unravels so quickly.
I’m drawing all the bad luck in the entire Northern Hemisphere to me with my hopeful, sunny vibes.
Sweating, I run like a rabid mouse around the Métro.
Round and round; hopping on trains and off again, going up and down escalators, peering at maps and the fronts of trains and the faces of other commuters, panic rising by the minute and probably – although I don’t have time to check – frothing slightly at the mouth.
Stopping to have a nibble of a chocolate bar on the way because it’s important to keep my blood sugar levels stable when my adrenaline is spiking uncontrollably.
And also because French chocolate is really nice.
But it’s no good.
I am thoroughly and comprehensively lost.
“Excusez-moi,” I finally say after two hours and ten minutes, pulling urgently on the arm of a ticket inspector, now back at my original station, “Où est la Porte d’Auteuil?”
I’ve asked six people so far, and my French accent is apparently so horrible I got sent to Porte De Montreuil, which is on totally the other side of Paris.
I can’t believe I spent five years studying German.
“Eh?” he says, staring at the map I’m desperately flapping in his face. “La Porte d’Auteuil?”
“Mmmm,” I blurt, face red and flustered. “S’il vous plaît, pardon. Quickly, s’il vous plaît. Pardon.”
I’m so agitated now that the only words I can remember in French are please and sorry: the two cornerstones of my everyday vocabulary.
I glance at my watch.
It’s six-thirty, and I was told to be at my second fashion show at six o’ clock, on the dot. I’m not sure how big a dot is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not thirty minutes.
“Marchez,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.
I stare at him with round eyes. March?
“It’s January,” I say in slight frustration. “And I don’t want to be rude, but I really don’t think a conversation about the seasons right now is very helpful.”
“Marchez,” he says again, pointing to the ceiling and making little walking leg motions with his fingers. “Vous pouvez y aller à pied.”
À pied. Foot? Feet.
Oh my God, you have got to be kidding me: I can walk there on foot?
“How long will it take?” I say, grabbing my map, turning it round and looking at it
again. I think maybe I’ve been holding it upside down this whole time. “Umm, combien?”
“Neuf minutes,” he says in quite clear amusement. “Mais cinq minutes …” He wiggles his little walking-man fingers very quickly.
Five minutes.
I can be there in five minutes.
And I start running.
K, just for fun I’m going to ask my question again.
What’s the chance of me screwing up three times in twenty-four hours?
Answer: a hundred per cent.
According to statistics, there’s a 96 per cent chance of surviving a plane crash, a 99 per cent chance of recovering from a bite by a poisonous spider and a 99.9999999999 per cent chance of getting through a train crash if you’re sitting at the back.
Whereas the chance of Harriet Manners not making a big mistake while on a modelling trip at any given opportunity appears to be zero.
And I’d really like to stay sunny and positive at all times: bright in the face of trials, hopeful when confronted with tribulations.
But that is not reassuring maths.
Breathing hard, six minutes later I run up the road towards a bright yellow and black building as swarms of people begin to enter the front doors and take their seats.
“Excuse me,” a lady in a gigantic electric-blue fur coat says crossly as I burst past her, muttering sorry sorry sorry for the millionth time today. “Do you know what a queue is?”
“Of course,” I say politely over my shoulder, panting. “It’s a line or sequence of people, and etymologically it derives from the old French word cue or coe, which means tail.”
I mean, we’re in France.
You’d think she’d already know that.
Then I push through the crowd a little harder, still saying sorry sorry sorry as quickly as I can.
“Harriet Manners,” I blurt urgently to the man standing in the reception as my face heats up to boiling point. “I’m one of the models and I’m late. There was a …” I pause, wondering how to explain that I’ve spent the entire day so far underground, like a mole. “I’m just late,” I finish weakly. “Sorry.”