Girl Online (29 page)

By the time I manage to crawl into bed, it's gone 4 a.m. The four hours of fitful sleep I have are barely enough to reduce the bags under my eyes, which are the size of small balloons.

Even though I'm excited about going home, I can't help but keep checking my phone, desperately wishing for a text from Noah to pop up, telling me he was wrong to assume I was lying and that he doesn't want us to split up. But there's nothing.

I rush around my room, quickly tossing all my belongings into my suitcase. My stomach clenches when I remember I left my bag with my camera in it somewhere outside Blake's room—but I can't worry about that now. I'll ask down at reception if anyone has handed it in. According to my phone, it will only take ten minutes to get to Gare du Nord in a taxi, so I have a little bit of time.

I sit back down on the bed and tear a piece of paper from a notepad. I've never written a goodbye letter before, and I never expected I would have to write one to Noah. I don't
quite know where or how to start. I scribble down my thoughts numerous times, but everything I write sounds wrong. I scrunch up the rejected letters and toss them towards the bin (which I had cleaned out to avoid the room smelling bad all evening).

Finally, I feel happy with what I've written.

Noah,

I don't really know where to begin. There are a lot of things I want to say, but all I need to say is that I've gone home.

I'm sorry that all this happened, but I feel like I'm in your way here. Hopefully now you can experience everything that fame has to offer, and you won't have me dragging you down.

I can't hide that I'm hurt and upset. I put everything I had into this relationship, and you threw it all back in my face. I'm hoping one day you'll realize I never lied to you and that all I wanted was to make you happy.

You'll always be my Inciting Incident, but maybe Inciting Incidents always lead to The End?

Penny x

PS Please don't contact me. I need some time to clear my head.

I place the letter next to my phone, which I check one more time. There's still nothing from Noah. I probably don't need to tell him not to contact me; he most likely doesn't intend to anyway.

I do one last check of the hotel room, then drag my suitcase out into the hallway. It's more than a little bit of a struggle—this is the first time I've had to move my suitcase myself, without anyone to help me, and I've collected a lot of
souvenirs to take home, including at least twenty miniature bottles of shampoo and body lotion from all the hotels.

When I get down to the lobby, I hear my name. “Penny?”

In that split second my heart leaps, thinking that it might be Noah. Maybe he's going to apologize? I turn and see a shiny, bald head and a cheery smile.

“Larry!” I smile at him and hope that my sunglasses are doing a good job of hiding my puffy eyes.

“I've been looking for you everywhere. I thought you might want this back.” He hands me my bag, with my camera still inside. I can't help it: I throw my arms round his waist. Larry seems to be the only person on this tour who has always looked out for me. My head barely reaches his chin, and he chuckles.

“Thanks, Larry,” I say, sniffling, and eventually I let him go.

“Glad I caught you! But where are you off to, miss? Would you like a hand with that?” He takes the suitcase off me and carries it out to the front of the hotel.

“Actually . . . I'm going home.” I look down the road, searching for anything that remotely resembles a taxi I can flag down to take me to the station.

He frowns. “But—”

“Please don't ask, Larry.” I can feel my bottom lip starting to tremble, but I refuse to cry; I've done enough of that. I pray for a taxi to come. One seems to be free, but it whips past me and stops at the feet of an effortlessly glamorous woman carrying a poodle. Looking down at my button-up shirt and black leggings, I'm frustrated. I didn't realize you had to look chic in Paris just for the taxis to stop for you.

“Does Noah know?” Larry asks gently.

“Of course he does,” I say. It's not a complete lie—he'll know as soon as he sees the letter.

“Well, then he wouldn't want you to go to the station on your own. At least let me drive you.”

He might not care what happens to me
, I think, but I know I'm being petty. And a ride wouldn't hurt. Larry gestures towards the blacked-out Mercedes sitting just along from us and I look back at the traffic on the road.

“OK. Thanks, Larry.” It's enough that I've just broken up with my boyfriend; the last thing I need is to get lost in Paris with a heavy suitcase in tow. “I appreciate it.”

Larry is kind enough to just make small talk in the car, telling me all about the trip he took to Notre Dame yesterday. Once we arrive at the station, Larry helps me with my suitcase and wishes me luck, and I thank him for everything he has done for me on the tour.

“You're welcome, Penny. And don't worry—Noah will come back to his senses,” he says with a friendly wink.

I smile weakly and nod. Then I spin round and face the imposing entrance to the station. I take a deep breath and walk in as confidently as I can.

Once I'm inside, I let the facade drop. I also realize that I'm not entirely sure what I have to do. In hindsight, I should have asked Elliot for a little more detail, but at 4 a.m., after one of the worst nights of my life, I wasn't exactly asking the right questions. All Elliot said was that I had to be here for 9:30 a.m. I look up at the departures board and see there isn't a train leaving for London until 11:30 a.m. Maybe Elliot wanted to give me plenty of time? I start looking around for any signs that may have my name on them, with no luck.

Breathe, Penny
, I tell myself.
What would Wiki do?
I try to put on my most sensible, logical head—which is difficult, because that part of my brain seems to be lurking underneath a cloud of emotional fog.

“Excusez-moi  ?”
I stare at the small woman in the glass-fronted ticket booth and she smiles at me politely. She has a petite face and her eyes are framed with round glasses. She has overdrawn her red lipstick.
“Parlez-vous anglais?”
I ask, hoping I'm not mangling my French too much. When she nods at me, I smile with relief. “I need to get to England. My name is Penny Porter. I don't suppose you have a ticket for me?”

The lady looks at me with slight confusion on her face. “
Pardon?
My English is not very good. You have a reservation?”

“Yes! Maybe?” I hand over my passport. She smiles as she turns to her computer and starts tapping away.

She frowns. “I do not see anything here for you.”

“No, sorry. I think my friend may have booked me a ticket. Elliot Wentworth?” I realize how dramatically I'm using my hands to express myself and I turn tomato red. Clearly this lady will not understand who Elliot is based on hand gestures.

“
Mademoiselle?
You need a new ticket?” She points at her computer and then to a train, smiling like she's just won the lottery.

I smile back at her just as sweetly and shake my head. “Never mind. It's OK. Thank you.
Merci.
”

I lug my bright pink suitcase back over to the departure boards. What on earth am I thinking, trying to make my own way home? It doesn't matter that Elliot has somehow arranged plans for me; I am clearly an absolute liability, an
accident waiting to happen. I sit down on my suitcase and call Elliot to ask what exactly I'm supposed to be doing, but his phone goes through to voicemail. I mutter at the screen. “Not now, Elliot, you complete and utter—”

“Pen-face! You're here!”

I spin round and see Elliot standing there in his checked trousers and red loafers. His brown hair is styled to perfection and his crisp white shirt and black bow tie look perfect with his tortoise shell-rimmed glasses. I run at him and jump up, wrapping my legs round his waist in an elaborate movie-style hug.

“OK, calm down! This isn't
Dirty Dancing  
! I'm not built for this type of affection,” Elliot says.

He drops me and I just about land on my feet.

“Sorry, but I'm so excited to see you! Are you really here? Was this your plan all along?”

“Yes. I considered bringing you home for about a millisecond, then I thought,
We're going to be heartbroken, sad losers. Do I want to be a sad loser in my bedroom in Brighton? Or a sad loser in Paris?
New York pulled you out of a slump, so I thought maybe Paris could do the same for me. It felt like fate: I had days off from
CHIC
; I used the credit card that Dad gave me for emergencies to buy the tickets; and I had just enough time to head to London to get the Eurostar this morning. I've had NO sleep. I need a shower though, because I feel so gross.”

“Elliot, you're the best. What's the plan?”

“I have a hotel booked in the fifteenth arrondissement.”

I love Elliot so much! “What's that?” I ask.

“It's an area of Paris—did you know there are twenty
arrondissements in Paris in total?” Elliot takes my arm and we walk out to find a taxi.

Even though sadness hovers over me like a rain cloud, it's as though a few of the grey clouds have parted slightly and this big beautiful rainbow has appeared to take away some of the gloom. I feel so different now I have Elliot with me.

“I did not know that! Elliot, you look amazing considering you've had no sleep. You should see my eyes under these sunglasses.”

He pulls up my glasses and peers at me with a look of concern on his face. “What designer are they?” he asks, still looking.

“The sunglasses? Oh, they're not designer. I bought them at Topshop two years ago.”

He laughs as he puts the sunglasses back over my eyes. “No, the bags,
daaaahling
.” Elliot bursts into a cackle of laughter and drags me over to a taxi. I muster up a little giggle as I jump into the car next to him.

The taxi begins to pull away from the station when I spot a head of messy brown hair and a familiar silhouette. I can't work out if it's shock or undeniable delight that pulses through my body. Noah's come for me.

“Stop the taxi!” I shout.

Chapter Forty-Three

Except it's not Noah. When the guy turns round, he doesn't look anything like Noah. It's just my desperate imagination playing tricks on me.

The taxi driver harrumphs as I slump down into my seat, and Elliot pats my hand gently.

Thankfully, the ride isn't too long, but when we pull up outside the hotel that Elliot's booked I can't help but be dubious. It's a far cry from the hotels I've been staying in on tour—the exterior is shabby and the walls are covered in graffiti.

Elliot shrugs. “It's all I could find at the last minute. It has a good rating on TripAdvisor though!”

I squeeze Elliot's hand and we walk into the hotel. Just the fact that he's here is something no amount of money could ever buy, and I'd be happy to stay in a cardboard box as long as we are together.

Even though it's early, the receptionist hands us the room key, and we lug my suitcase up three flights of stairs to our room. We are in fits of laughter trying to drag the heavy suitcase up each step and I can barely breathe. The combination
of being unfit (I definitely shouldn't have skipped as many PE lessons as I have) and our giggling is making this task a lot more difficult.

The exterior isn't the only thing that's different about this hotel: it is also a lot more cramped. The two single beds in our room are pushed up against one another and the ends of the beds pretty much touch the wall. There is a tiny window, but no hope of a view of the Eiffel Tower—instead, I'm greeted with the sight of a brick wall and a fire escape. There's graffiti on the outside wall that reads:
L'AMOUR EST MORT
. Elliot translates it: “Love is dead.” I know how that person feels. In the bathroom, the showerhead hovers over the toilet, and I have to hunch my shoulders to fit in.