Paris Crush (8 page)

‘It’s not their act I care about,’ Treacle mutters. ‘It’s their pavements.’

Savannah frowns at her. ‘I
meant
their pavements.’ She’s got tight, crosspatch lips. ‘Tracksuits and dog poo! I really don’t think you are taking this trip
seriously enough.’

Treacle tips her head. ‘Of course we are,’ she says reassuringly. ‘It’s totally the most exciting thing we’ve ever done.’

Savannah snaps the zip shut on her rucksack. ‘Good.’ She pulls a notepad from its front pocket. ‘I’ve made a list of absolutely
must-see
boutiques.’

I picture Madame Papillon’s schedule. ‘I don’t know if there’s going to be much time for shopping.’

‘Then we’ll make time.’ Savannah flips open her notepad. ‘I’m sure I can negotiate with Madame Papillon. The trip to Parc Astérix, for example. Surely
that’s not compulsory?’

Treacle stares at her, mouth open. ‘You don’t want to go to a theme park?’

I’m with Treacle on this one. I’ve been looking forward to riding the rapids and rolling on the coasters. ‘That’s not until Sunday. We’ve got all Saturday afternoon
for “Paris Life and Culture’’.’ I’m quoting from the schedule. ‘That doesn’t have to mean the Louvre. Boutiques count as life and culture, I’m
sure.’

Savannah sighs. ‘I guess.’ Her gaze drifts and she shuts her notebook. ‘Perhaps I should varnish my nails.’ She holds up a hand and stares at it. ‘Just a little
gloss. Nothing tacky.’

‘There isn’t time,’ I warn her. ‘We should try and get some sleep.’ I nudge Ben. ‘You too, Spiderboy.’

Ben looks thoughtful. ‘If you do tread in dog poo, can you put it in a bag and bring it home? I bet no one at school’s seen French dog poo.’

Savannah grabs a pillow and hurls it at him. ‘Go away, you revolting boy!’

Laughing, Ben scrambles for the door. ‘You could just take a photo of some.’

‘No!’ Savannah hurls another pillow. It hits the door as Ben closes it behind him.

I clamber onto my bed and tip Treacle off. ‘Time for beauty sleep!’

‘Hey!’ Treacle slides onto her sleeping bag.

Savannah’s plaiting her hair. ‘I’ve set my alarm for four am,’ she announces. ‘So I can straighten my hair before breakfast.’

Treacle climbs into her sleeping bag. ‘
Four am?
’ she gasps. ‘Even
Gemma’s
hair doesn’t need that much straightening.’

‘Excuse me!’ I nudge her with my foot. ‘My hair has been described as Pre-Raphaelite.’

Savannah drops her plait. ‘What’s this?’

‘Some mystery boy has been commenting on Gemma’s hair,’ Treacle tells her.

‘Who?’ Savannah stiffens like a hunting dog scenting rabbit. ‘Rupert?’

‘Will,’ I confess.

‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed.

‘He was just mocking me,’ I explain. ‘You know what he’s like. He’s got a major superiority complex. He enjoys putting people down so much he should get a job in a
euthanasia clinic.’

‘Still,’ Treacle yawns. ‘Maybe you should work on the Pre-Raphaelite look. I bet Rupert would love it.’

I climb under my duvet. ‘I don’t want Rupert to love anything about me.’

‘Aw, Gemma,’ Savannah pleads. ‘The guy needs a break.’

‘The only thing Rupert needs is a mute button,’ I growl.

‘Perhaps you’ll feel differently in Paris,’ Treacle teases. ‘All that romance and glamour.’

Paris.
In less than eight hours we’ll be boarding the coach for France. I run a mental check: reporter’s notepad, pens, spare pens, spare notepad. They’re all stuffed in
my rucksack along with a camera and a backup throwaway camera just in case. Who cares about clothes, or make-up, or Rupert? This is going to be the trip of a lifetime and I’m going to write a
travel report that Cindy would be nuts not to publish.

It’s strange to be driving through the rain-soaked streets in the dark. Mum’s at the wheel. I’m sitting with Treacle in the back while Savannah’s in the
passenger seat, swapping tourist information with Mum.

‘I’m hoping we get Notre Dame and the Louvre out of the way quickly.’ Savannah’s perfectly straight hair shines as street lights stripe the car. ‘I want to get to
the Rue Meslay. It’s a whole street of shoe shops.’

‘But what about the Left Bank and Sacré Coeur?’ Mum asks.

‘I can go and see those when I’m forty and too old to care about clothes.’

I catch a glimpse of Mum in the rear-view mirror. She’s holding back a smile.

‘That’s very sensible, Savannah,’ she says.

‘Thank you, Jane.’

Treacle looks at me. She’s wearing her travelling tracksuit. Savannah spent five valuable hair-straightening minutes trying to change her mind. But Treacle wouldn’t budge.
‘I’m not travelling five hundred miles trussed up like a Christmas turkey,’ she insisted, folding her arms like a referee making a final decision. With a sigh, Savannah returned
to frying her hair.

In the car, Mum’s making a left turn.

Treacle shifts beside me. ‘I can’t believe we’re on our way. I’ve got butterflies like we’re on our way to the Cup Final. You don’t suppose we got the time
wrong and the coach has left?’

‘I double-checked last night and this morning,’ I tell her. ‘It leaves at six thirty.’ I check my watch:
6.10.
Plenty of time. My heart is dancing in my chest. I
don’t know which bit I’m looking forward to most: travelling under the sea in the Channel Tunnel, driving into Paris, seeing our hotel room, the Eiffel Tower . . .

Suddenly I’m lost in my imagination. I’m walking over silky carpet down a wide hotel corridor. Treacle’s beside me; Savannah’s clasping my arm, speechless. The walls are
framed in gold; statues line our path; chandeliers glitter above our heads. A few paces ahead, a smartly dressed porter is carrying our luggage. ‘I can’t believe we’ve got the
penthouse suite,’ I squeak.

Savannah stares around, breathless. ‘Two ensuite bathrooms and a sitting room, all to ourselves.’

The porter stops outside a wide, golden door and rests our luggage while he unlocks it. He swings it open and waves us inside.

The suite is magnificent. A glossy wooden floor is dotted with silken rugs. Sofas lounge round a glass coffee table and three huge windows stretch to the ceiling, framed by white shutters. I
rush across the room and throw one open. Outside, a warm Paris breeze tousles my hair as I lean over a wrought-iron balcony. Treetops rustle beneath my feet and, far below, I see cars, small as
toys, moving silently along the airy boulevard.

‘Your bedroom is through there.’ The porter points to another golden door. Treacle’s already racing towards it. She flings it open and gasps. ‘Canopies!’ I hurry to
her side to see another huge room. Three beautiful beds are draped by cream taffeta. They shimmer in the sunlight that streams through the tall windows.

‘We’re here!’

‘What?’

Savannah’s squawk jolts me out of my fantasy. The dark shadow of Green Park High looms into view as Mum crosses the traffic lights and swings round a corner. She pulls up in a side
street.

‘Well, girls,’ she says. ‘Are you ready?’ She’s fizzing with as much excitement as me.

Savannah unclicks her seat belt. ‘I was
born
ready.’ She’s out of the car and hopping excitedly from one foot to the other as Mum opens the boot and drags out our
rucksacks.

I shrug mine onto my shoulders. It’s heavy with guidebooks and the extra notepad I shoved in at the last minute.

‘Passports?’ Mum asks.

I check my bumbag. Treacle rifles through her tote and Savannah flips open her satchel. ‘Got it!’ Treacle holds hers up, I nod as I feel mine and Savannah gives the thumbs up.

‘Come on then.’ Mum marches towards the school. I chase after Treacle and Savannah. They’re already running for the gate. A huge coach is parked in the yard, its headlights
pooling brightness round the bike sheds. The rest of the yard is swamped in pre-dawn darkness, but I can hear the excited hubbub of happy students and the growls of teachers fending off
questions.

One side of the coach looks like it’s had its skirt lifted as the driver stows rucksacks into a low-lying storage compartment between the huge wheels. Madame Papillon is standing in the
glow of a headlight with a clipboard. I catch up with Savannah and Treacle as they reach her.

‘We’re here!’ Sav bounces up and down in front of her like a demented kangaroo.

‘Good, good.’ Madame’s eyes are skimming the list on her clipboard. She looks up, takes Treacle and me in with a short sweep of her lashes, then searches the darkness behind
us, looking satisfied when she spots Mum hovering.

‘Are they checked in?’ Mum asks.

Madame makes a final tick on her clipboard then nods. ‘Passports?’

‘Yes,’ Mum tells her. ‘We checked before we left and when we arrived.’

‘
Excellent
.’ She speaks with a French flourish then dismisses Mum with a reassuring smile. ‘We’ll see you when we get back on Monday evening.’

‘Bye, Mum!’ I hug her tight. ‘I promise I’ll send you a postcard and bring you back a present.’ I give her an extra squeeze, my heart bursting with excitement.
‘Thanks SO much for letting me go.’

‘Have fun.’ Mum breaks away and gives me a huge smile. It’s meant to reassure me, but I don’t need reassurance. I know this trip is going to be fantastic.

Waving, Mum turns and disappears into the darkness.

‘Stow your rucksacks.’ Madame waves us towards the driver. He’s bent double beside the gaping hold between the wheels. Mr Chapman and Miss Davis are fluttering beside him like
anxious pigeons, chirping at the students who are crowding the yard.

‘Make sure you’ve got anything you’ll need during the journey in your hand luggage,’ Mr Chapman calls.

‘Did you bring a snack?’ frets Miss Davis. ‘We won’t be stopping until we get to Paris.’

I’ve got a sandwich and a bottle of water. It should last me until midday when we arrive
en Paris
. I’m
way
too excited to eat.

The driver grabs our rucksacks. Savannah winces as he squishes them into the jam-packed space. ‘My LBD is going to look like a bin bag!’

Treacle steers her away. ‘You’ve got a travel iron, remember?’

I take Savannah’s arm. ‘How can you think about clothes when there’s going to be so much stuff to see and do?’ I don’t want to waste a moment looking in a mirror
when I could be soaking up Paris.

‘It’s Sal!’ Treacle spots Sally checking in with Madame Papillon. Ryan’s fidgeting behind her, looking pale.

‘Sally! Ryan!’ Savannah charges towards them. Ryan turns like a startled sheep.

‘What’s up, Ryan?’ I ask. ‘You look like you’re about to hurl.’

‘Why can’t we go on a ferry?’ he asks wanly. ‘A tunnel under the sea is just not natural.’

Sal links her arm through his. ‘We’ll only be in the tunnel for thirty minutes. Sit next to me and I’ll distract you.’

Treacle grins. ‘You don’t get an offer like that every day, Ryan.’

Ryan flushes, looking brighter. ‘I guess it won’t be too bad.’

‘Not once I’ve unloaded the gossip I heard about LJ Kennedy and Bethany,’ Sally promises tantalizingly.

Savannah’s eyes light up. ‘What?’

Sally pretends to zip her lips. ‘Not until we hit the tunnel,’ she says. ‘But I promise it’ll take Ryan’s mind off his claustrophobia.’ Her eyes drift past us
to where Bethany and LJ are standing, stiff as mushrooms, in the middle of a clump of Year Tens.

I spot the webziners among them. Sam and Cindy are comparing passport photos. Will’s giving instructions to the driver about where exactly to cram his rucksack. David and Phil are checking
their smartphones. There’s no sign of Barbara, but Jeff’s heading this way.

He hooks his arm round Treacle’s shoulders as he reaches us. ‘What are the seating arrangements?’ He glances at me and I suddenly realize that he wants to sit next to Treacle
on the coach. I wonder whether to give her up gracefully or insist on my Official BFF Rights.

‘Marcus!’ Savannah spots her boyfriend emerging from the darkness and hares away.

‘Everyone start boarding!’ Madame Papillon signals to Mr Chapman and Miss Davis and, like sheepdogs, they start herding the crowd towards the coach door. I grab Treacle’s arm
as students press round me. Giving in to the jostling, I buffet against her until we’re queuing beside the front of the coach while Year Tens filter up the stairs ahead of us.

Suddenly a bony shoulder jabs me from behind. Unbalanced, I trip, but a hand grabs my arm and steadies me.

‘Sorry.’ It’s Rupert. He’s smiling at me in the half-light, teeth flashing, his hot hand still grasping my arm. ‘I tripped over my bootlace.’

I scowl at him, but it bounces off his happy face.

‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ he grins. ‘I was hoping you’d sit next to me.’ He glances round the sea of faces. ‘I don’t really have anyone . .
.’ He looks back at me hopefully. ‘ . . . Being new and everything.’

I start to object. ‘I was going to sit next to Treacle—’ I stop as I see her boarding the coach beside Jeff. Savannah follows Treacle up the steep steps, hanging off Marcus
like a clinging vine. Would Jessica Jupiter elbow her way between lovebirds?
Never, Star-ling.
Her voice rings in my head. I sigh, defeated. ‘OK, Rupert. Let’s sit
together.’