Paris Crush (10 page)

‘
Mes enfants!
’ She claps her hands. She’s high on Parisian petrol fumes, her cheeks flushed, her dark hair wild. ‘We’ve reached our hotel. I want you to make
sure you’ve got
all
your belongings then file off the coach in a quiet and orderly fashion.’

There’s silence for a second, then the riot starts.

Bags and elbows buffet our seat. Everyone’s getting up at once and piling off the coach, as though they’ve arrived at Wembley five minutes after kick-off.

I stay where I am. Rupert looks at me. ‘I hope someone’s phoned ahead to warn Paris we’re coming.’ He ducks as a heavily buckled handbag sweeps over his headrest. Bethany
is trying to push past Ryan and Sally.

Sally puts up a fight, digging her kitten heels into the floor of the coach and puffing herself up like a cat defending its territory. ‘Excuse me.’ She glares at Bethany, holding her
back with electric eyes while Ryan makes a dash for the coach door. When he’s safely at the stairs, Sally turns on her heel and follows him, stately as a duchess.

Bethany growls under her breath as she passes us, her nails scraping the headrests like scissors. LJ follows a few steps behind, with the look of a virgin who’s just realized they’re
dating a vampire.

Once the crowd has passed, Rupert gets up and waits while I slide out and head down the aisle. Savannah and Treacle are already outside as I climb down the steep coach steps. They’re
holding hands and bouncing, their faces glowing as they stare in delight at a beautiful hotel. The coach has parked outside its glass and gold doors.

I stop beside Treacle and gawp. ‘Is this where we’re staying?’

Treacle beams. ‘It must be!’

A maroon awning shelters the stone steps that sweep down to the pavement. Inside, a marbled floor reflects a thousand chandeliers.

I prepare myself for the Persian rugs and silken canopies I’d imagined. Tomorrow morning I shall throw open floor-to-ceiling windows and lean from a wrought-iron balcony, breathing in
Paris.

‘
Our
hotel is this way.’ Madame Papillon picks up her suitcase and marches away from the gold and glass palace. She turns left and disappears into a shadowy gap between
buildings.

‘Are we using the back entrance?’ Savannah whispers to me.

Mr Chapman interrupts. ‘Grab your rucksacks, everyone, and follow Madame Papillon.’

We wait while the driver throws rucksacks at us. Savannah’s bag bounces past her and she crouches beside it, panicked. ‘Oh, I hope my Givenchy isn’t smashed!’ She sniffs
at it, eyes bright with fear.

Treacle heaves her pack onto her back. ‘At least all your clothes will smell nice.’

As my rucksack rolls past, I reach for it.

Crack!

A head thumps mine. Pain flares and I grab my skull to check for splits. It feels whole.

‘Sorry.’ I recognize the
sorry.

Rupert!
I force my eyes open and stare through the pain.

‘I was just trying to help.’ Rupert is cupping his nose in his hands. Blood is dripping between his fingers.

‘Are you OK?’ I rub my throbbing head.

‘Just a dosebleed,’ he squawks. ‘I’ll be fide. Happeds all the tibe.’

‘Gemma?’ Barbara fights her way through the crowd of rucksack-catchers. ‘What happened?’ She holds Rupert’s head gently.

‘We kind of crashed,’ I explain.

She’s hardly listening. ‘Tilt your head forwards,’ she tells Rupert. She guides him back towards the steps of the gold and glass hotel and sits him down. Shaking out a
handkerchief, she presses it against his nose. She waves gawkers away. ‘It’s all right. I’m in St John’s Ambulance. Nothing to see.’

I hover uncertainly. ‘Can I help?’

Barbara smiles at me. ‘He’ll be fine.’ She glances towards Savannah and Treacle. They’re beckoning me wildly.

‘Hurry up, Gem!’ Treacle calls.

‘You go,’ Barbara urges. ‘I’ll stay with Rupert.’

Jeff pops out of the crowd. ‘Come on, Gemma.’ He hurries after Treacle.

‘Sorry, Rupert!’ I wave lamely as I follow Jeff.

He slows as he reaches the shadowy gap where Madame Papillon disappeared. It’s an alleyway lined with dustbins. Rotting fruit spills from the shady cobbles out onto the sunlit
pavement.

‘Come on!’ Marcus dashes past us.

‘Why don’t we use the front door?’ I gaze longingly back at the awning-covered entrance of the gold and glass palace, and then peer down the dark alley.

Madame Papillon has stopped outside a doorway fifty metres ahead. There’s no awning, no glass, no gold. Just a dirty front door, with a battered sign hanging over it.

H
OTEL DE
N
EVERS

I step over a squashed orange and follow Jeff into the gloom. Behind us I can hear dismayed muttering from my schoolmates as they begin to crowd down the alley.

Jeff chivvies me along. ‘Come on,’ he urges. ‘If we get there ahead of the crowd, we might get a half-decent room.’

‘If there is one.’ I stop outside the hotel door. The glass is smudged with fingerprints, the paint chipped.

Treacle stares at me mournfully. ‘This must be the crummiest hotel in Paris.’

Savannah’s face is stiff with horror. ‘We’re not actually going to
sleep
in there, are we?’

Madame Papillon is undaunted. ‘You will have a true Parisian experience here,’ she chirrups, and ushers us inside.

The reception hall’s no bigger than a classroom, and just about as glamorous. Chipped green lino covers the floor, dark at the edges where the mop clearly never reaches. Green walls shine
with grease and hundred-year-old paint. A wooden counter is lit by a single dusty lamp. The only spark of romance comes from the wrought-iron lift at one end. There’s a notice on it.

E
N PANNE

I decide it must be broken. A narrow wooden staircase wraps itself round the lift and disappears up to the next floor.

Suddenly a plump lady in a flowery dress, and an apron, pops up behind the counter. ‘Nasty chee-ldren to mess up my ’otel!’ She grasps the sides of her head as though
she’s witnessing an accident. ‘
Sacré bleu
, ’ow many more?’ She peers behind me as Ryan, Sal, LJ, Bethany, Will, Sam and countless more kids crowd noisily
through the entrance until the lobby is heaving. Everyone’s chattering. It’s like rush hour in Mumbai. I’m pressed against Savannah and Treacle. Jeff and Marcus are crushing me
from behind.

Madame Sacré Bleu starts hammering a bell on the counter and everyone falls silent. Eyebrows knitted with despair, she taps her guest book with a pen. ‘
Personne ne m’a dit
qu’il y aurait autant!
’

Savannah translates (a lifetime of skiing holidays has given her a head start on hotel chitchat). ‘I think she wasn’t expecting so many of us.’

Madame Sacré Bleu crosses her arms. ‘You will all ’ave to share.’

‘Of course.’ Savannah smiles at her. ‘Shall we sign your book?’ As she reaches for a pen, Madame Papillon squeezes past and starts unloading a pile of documents from her
bag. ‘Here’s our ID.’ She litters Madame Sacré Bleu’s counter and then turns to us. ‘Go and find your rooms,
mes enfants
. I’ll take care of the
formalities.’

There’s a stampede for the staircase. Cindy heads the charge, hauling Barbara after her. A dozen Year Tens are hot on her heels as she climbs the narrow staircase two at a time.

Treacle holds us back. ‘Let’s wait.’

Savannah gasps. ‘But we need to grab the best rooms.’

Jeff grunts. ‘I don’t think this hotel has any best rooms.’

I watch the staircase creak and shiver as Green Park students fight their way to the first floor. It’s like a re-enactment of D-Day without the beach. Behind us, the front door
squeals.

Mr Chapman staggers in. He’s laden like a camel with roughly three hundred rucksacks. ‘Is anyone missing their luggage?’ he calls to the students, as they disappear upstairs.
No one answers.

Miss Davis totters in after him, four rucksacks on her back. She stares wearily at Madame Papillon. ‘Are we all checked in?’

Madame Papillon holds up a hand. She’s poring over forms with Madame Sacré Bleu.

‘Come on!’ Savannah’s staring at the empty staircase. She heads across the chipped lino, dragging Marcus by the sleeve, and races upstairs.

Treacle glances at me. ‘Ready?’

I grin. ‘Let’s find a room.’ We chase after Savannah, Jeff following. By the time we’ve climbed the first flight, Savannah’s at the top and is peering along a
narrow corridor. Weak light bulbs illuminate dingy yellow wallpaper.

Cindy is patrolling the hallway, opening and closing doors as she inspects rooms. ‘It’s a little cramped,’ she sniffs.

Will leans out of a doorway at the end. ‘You should have this room, Cinders.’ He stares pointedly at her bulging rucksack. ‘The wardrobe’s huge.’

Sam squeezes out past him. ‘It’s bigger than the rest of the room.’ He spots me. ‘Try a few floors up,’ he calls. ‘The only view on this level is the
billboard across the street.’

Treacle grabs my hand and drags me up the next flight of stairs. Bethany and LJ are disappearing round the corner above us. They’re already bagging rooms by the time we catch up.

‘Hey, Gem! Treacle!’ Sally Moore’s voice calls from the top of the next staircase. She’s beckoning wildly.

Savannah slides past us excitedly. ‘What?’

‘There are empty rooms in the attic and you can see over the rooftops!’

We’re after her in a flash as she winds round and round the wrought-iron lift shaft, following the stairs to the top of the hotel. The paint’s bubbling on the wall and great damp
patches are spreading down from the ceiling as we reach the top floor. A single bulb lights the hallway.

‘Marcus!’ Savannah presses her face against the lift shaft and shouts down through the fretwork. ‘There’s space up here.’

I hear footsteps and he appears with Ryan and Rupert. Sam’s behind them. I blink at him in surprise. ‘I thought you were sharing with Will?’ I step out of the way as he reaches
the top.

‘I am,’ he answers. ‘I just wanted to make sure you got a room.’

He starts opening doors. ‘This one isn’t bad.’

I look in. The wallpaper’s peeling and the two single beds are lumpy and covered with quilts that look like they survived World War Two. The walls slope where the roof presses in, but
there’s a tall window at the end of the room and I can see rooftops and sky through it.

‘Wow!’ I head towards it and stare out. Beyond the chimneys and tiles, the city reaches on for miles, crowded with buildings. I can see the Eiffel Tower way off in the distance.

I’m suddenly aware of Sam standing behind me, staring over my shoulder. He reaches forward, flicks open the window catch and then pulls it open. Cool air blasts my face. I smell food and
petrol and dust.

‘You have to have this room,’ Sam says. ‘The view is great.’

I turn. ‘But you found it.’

He shrugs. ‘So?’

Treacle and Savannah rush in. ‘Wow!’ Treacle crowds me at the window.

Savannah slides in beside me. ‘Cool.’ She glances back at the twin beds, her nose wrinkling as she catches sight of the World War Two quilts. ‘Do you mind if I share with
Sal?’ Sally’s peering through the doorway. ‘There’s a huge mirror in her room.’

Treacle laughs. ‘You’ve hit the jackpot!’

Savannah shoves her indignantly. ‘Some of us care how we look.’ She gives Treacle’s tracksuit a withering look. ‘I still can’t believe you actually wore it. I
thought you were joking.’

I look down at my own jeans and white shirt and feel a flash of guilt. Have we let Savannah down? Seeing Paris spread out like a gingerbread city – roofs gleaming in the sunshine, windows
flashing, parks spread like green blankets between the bustling streets – I wish I’d packed more romantic clothes. I suddenly feel like I owe it to Paris to return its beauty.

‘I’ll leave you girls to it.’ Sam’s voice cuts into my thoughts. He’s heading for the door. ‘I promised Cindy I’d help move her bed. Apparently,
it’s in a draught.’

I remind myself that I’m not in Paris for romance – not for me anyway. I’m here to write an article that’s so good Cindy
has
to publish it.

Jessica interrupts.
And while you’re writing tourist tripe, Star-ling, I can concentrate on making my horoscopes come true. If darling Barbara keeps blossoming, it’ll be as easy
as mixing a Martini; with Paris whispering sweet nothings in his ear, how will David possibly resist plucking such a pretty flower?

I imagine them dining by candlelight, heady on the mouth-watering aromas wafting from the kitchen. David reaches out and touches Barbara’s silky cheek. Her eyes shine as she returns his
affectionate gaze. An old waiter quietly spoons soup into their dishes, trying not to break the spell that enfolds them, his Gallic heart touched by the sight of young love budding.

Then a shadow crosses my sunny dream world. Is Jessica Jupiter reaching for stars beyond her grasp? Barbara’s eyelashes might be curled, but she’s still the girl who wrote
Love
vs. Homework: Ten Reasons Why Coursework Beats Dating.
And David’s still more geek than chic; will he ever look up from his smartphone long enough to notice that Barbara’s turned
into a super-babe? I shake the thoughts away and stare out over Paris. This is the city of love; what could possibly go wrong?