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 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;
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