volunteered to drive us to school at 5.30 am. ‘Are you all packed?’ She glances at my bedroom floor.
The usual landscape of books and clothes has been replaced with bedrolls and sleeping bags. Rucksacks crowd the gaps in between.
‘Everything but our toothbrushes,’ I reassure her.
We’re already in our pyjamas, washed and ready for bed. Stars are showing through the gap in the curtains, but I wonder how we’ll ever get to sleep. Butterflies whirl in my
stomach.
‘I’ll see you for breakfast at five.’ Mum clicks the door shut.
Savannah steps across her sleeping bag and reaches for her rucksack. ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t bring proper suitcases,’ she sniffs as she unzips it. ‘Creases
are going to be a nightmare. I just hope there’s somewhere to plug in my travel iron.’ She pulls out a pale blue sweater, followed by a red checked miniskirt. ‘This is my daywear
for Saturday.’ She holds the sweater and skirt against her. The soft baby blue of the sweater transforms her into an angel while the red mini hints at wickedness. ‘And
this—’ she hooks out something black and silky and drapes it against her, ‘—is for eveningwear.’ The sheen of the slinky dress makes her hair look like spun gold.
Treacle lets out a long whistle. ‘I hope you didn’t show that to your dad,’ she says.
‘Yeah, right,’ Savannah scoffs. ‘If he knew I was wearing this, he’d freak.’ She drags a sad-looking pair of jeans from her bag and a sweatshirt that’s seen
better days. ‘This is what I modelled for him. He actually thinks I’m going to visit the most glamorous city in the world dressed as Homer Simpson.’ She drifts into an indulgent
smile. ‘Poor Dad. He’s such a worrier.’
I glance at the black dress. ‘He may be right to worry.’
‘Oh,
per-leeease
.’ Savannah rolls her eyes. ‘I can take care of myself.’
Treacle nudges my shoulder with her foot. ‘She’s got us looking out for her, don’t forget.’
Savannah’s dragging more clothes from her rucksack. It’s a shame packing’s not an Olympic sport. Savannah would be a gold medallist. ‘If it’s windy, I’ve got
a selection of scarves. That billowy look is always so flattering. And if it rains—’ She shakes out a shiny blue mac. ‘I’ve got this.’ She slides it over her pyjamas.
Its short, full skirt and cinched waist turn her into a bright blue egg timer. Then she slides a pair of shades from the pocket, slips them on and she becomes a glamorous spy.
‘I hope it’s not too much. Neutrals are absolutely key in Paris, so I’m not going heavy on make-up. A glowing complexion is an absolute necessity.’
I run my fingers over my forehead, checking for spots. It’s fairly clear. Just a cluster above my right eye. With any luck, my freckles will distract passers-by from the danger zone.
‘I hope you’ve done your fashion homework.’ Savannah’s staring at us, serious as a bishop.
Here comes a sermon on style
. By the intense look on her face, I can
tell she’s three commandments away from a PowerPoint presentation. ‘No trainers; no bling; no hair gel,’ she orders. ‘Always accessorize, but remember – quality over
quantity, and always,
always
keep your
ensemble
understated. When it comes to make-up, simplicity is key. Choose either strong eyeshadow
or
killer lipstick. Absolutely
never
both at the same time.’
Treacle puts her hands behind her head. ‘How do Parisians feel about blusher?’ I can tell she’s teasing, but Savannah stays solemn.
‘On a young face like yours, it’s best to let your natural freshness make the statement.’ She whisks round and takes another look at herself in the mirror. ‘I hope I can
pull it off.’
‘You’re going to look great, Savannah,’ I tell her, wondering if it’s too late to stuff just one dress into my luggage.
She lifts her shades and peeks out. ‘Do you really think so?’ Her eyes are round with worry.
Treacle sits up and
The usual landscape of books and clothes has been replaced with bedrolls and sleeping bags. Rucksacks crowd the gaps in between.
‘Everything but our toothbrushes,’ I reassure her.
We’re already in our pyjamas, washed and ready for bed. Stars are showing through the gap in the curtains, but I wonder how we’ll ever get to sleep. Butterflies whirl in my
stomach.
‘I’ll see you for breakfast at five.’ Mum clicks the door shut.
Savannah steps across her sleeping bag and reaches for her rucksack. ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t bring proper suitcases,’ she sniffs as she unzips it. ‘Creases
are going to be a nightmare. I just hope there’s somewhere to plug in my travel iron.’ She pulls out a pale blue sweater, followed by a red checked miniskirt. ‘This is my daywear
for Saturday.’ She holds the sweater and skirt against her. The soft baby blue of the sweater transforms her into an angel while the red mini hints at wickedness. ‘And
this—’ she hooks out something black and silky and drapes it against her, ‘—is for eveningwear.’ The sheen of the slinky dress makes her hair look like spun gold.
Treacle lets out a long whistle. ‘I hope you didn’t show that to your dad,’ she says.
‘Yeah, right,’ Savannah scoffs. ‘If he knew I was wearing this, he’d freak.’ She drags a sad-looking pair of jeans from her bag and a sweatshirt that’s seen
better days. ‘This is what I modelled for him. He actually thinks I’m going to visit the most glamorous city in the world dressed as Homer Simpson.’ She drifts into an indulgent
smile. ‘Poor Dad. He’s such a worrier.’
I glance at the black dress. ‘He may be right to worry.’
‘Oh,
per-leeease
.’ Savannah rolls her eyes. ‘I can take care of myself.’
Treacle nudges my shoulder with her foot. ‘She’s got us looking out for her, don’t forget.’
Savannah’s dragging more clothes from her rucksack. It’s a shame packing’s not an Olympic sport. Savannah would be a gold medallist. ‘If it’s windy, I’ve got
a selection of scarves. That billowy look is always so flattering. And if it rains—’ She shakes out a shiny blue mac. ‘I’ve got this.’ She slides it over her pyjamas.
Its short, full skirt and cinched waist turn her into a bright blue egg timer. Then she slides a pair of shades from the pocket, slips them on and she becomes a glamorous spy.
‘I hope it’s not too much. Neutrals are absolutely key in Paris, so I’m not going heavy on make-up. A glowing complexion is an absolute necessity.’
I run my fingers over my forehead, checking for spots. It’s fairly clear. Just a cluster above my right eye. With any luck, my freckles will distract passers-by from the danger zone.
‘I hope you’ve done your fashion homework.’ Savannah’s staring at us, serious as a bishop.
Here comes a sermon on style
. By the intense look on her face, I can
tell she’s three commandments away from a PowerPoint presentation. ‘No trainers; no bling; no hair gel,’ she orders. ‘Always accessorize, but remember – quality over
quantity, and always,
always
keep your
ensemble
understated. When it comes to make-up, simplicity is key. Choose either strong eyeshadow
or
killer lipstick. Absolutely
never
both at the same time.’
Treacle puts her hands behind her head. ‘How do Parisians feel about blusher?’ I can tell she’s teasing, but Savannah stays solemn.
‘On a young face like yours, it’s best to let your natural freshness make the statement.’ She whisks round and takes another look at herself in the mirror. ‘I hope I can
pull it off.’
‘You’re going to look great, Savannah,’ I tell her, wondering if it’s too late to stuff just one dress into my luggage.
She lifts her shades and peeks out. ‘Do you really think so?’ Her eyes are round with worry.
Treacle sits up and
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