"Et merde. I'm going to be late." Marinette grabbed her phone from her bed, checked the time, and groaned. "Not going to be. I am late. Alya's going to incinerate me."
She checked her reflection once more in the mirror, trying to quell the simmering mess of nerves and anticipation in her stomach. This is nothing special, she reminded herself firmly. Just a coffee with some old friends.
Mon Dieu, I'm going to be sick.
A pair of anxious blue eyes stared back at her. She had spent far longer than necessary applying meticulous makeup, ensuring that her winged eyeliner was perfect and carefully using a makeup wipe to remove the smudges that her shaking hand had made as she put on mascara. The effect was to make already large eyes even larger, and she decided irritably that she looked exactly like a terrified fawn. Not a good start. Why hadn't she taken Alya's advice? Alya had told her that if she wanted to look professional she should go for a dark red lipstick, the faintest hint of blush, and a light touch of mascara with perhaps some carefully shaded eyeshadow. Marinette had dismissed that as taking far too long and had instead just upped her usual eyeliner. She now regretted this.
Her dark hair was pulled up into a high bun, and she made a face at it and pulled at a few silky strands so they fell forward to frame her face, the much longer remnants of the fringe she had had years ago. Buns were supposed to look chic and sophisticated, but somehow on Marinette they always just looked messy and rushed. Well, it was too late to do anything else. She would just have to look like a stupid, untidy deer child.
"Marinette," said a small, worried voice that emanated from the cute handbag Marinette was wearing, "shouldn't you be going?"
"I'm just leaving, Tikki," Marinette promised her, showing no signs of moving. She checked her outfit for the millionth time. After hours of agonising, she had finally caved and put on the pretty summer dress with the thin straps and short, flared skirt that Alya called her 'flirty dress' because of the way its sweetheart neckline perfectly straddled the line between modesty and seduction. It had a pattern of red roses all over it and Marinette considered it one of the most successful clothing items she had ever made. That didn't stop it looking silly now, though. "The skirt is too short!" she moaned. "If there's any wind at all the whole street will see my underwear." (She'd put some nice ones on – just in case.) "What if he thinks I'm trying too hard to be attractive? Maybe I should change into jeans."
Tikki popped her head out of the handbag, a resigned expression on her tiny face. "You look lovely," she said firmly. "Now go, before Alya calls you and breathes fire down the phone."
"Good point." Marinette cast one last, longing look at the reflection and then left the room, grabbing her keys on the way. She'd locked herself out of her flat enough times (and been rescued by Tikki's ability to fly through doors) that she'd started leaving herself notes to remember them. Though she needed the keys for her car, she'd only had it for a couple of months now and she still wasn't used to using it.
Having spent most of her life using public transport, she had baulked at the idea of learning to drive – it seemed a recipe for disaster, given her notorious clumsiness. Unfortunately, her tiny, cosy flat was on the outskirts of Paris, and realistically buying train or bus tickets to get to work every day was just far too expensive. Marinette had gloomily accepted the need to pass her driving test, and had been gifted her cute little red Fiat Punto as a reward by her parents when she did. She was rapidly becoming attached to it, in spite of her initial fears, and enjoyed the feeling of independence it gave her – though nothing could compare to swinging through the skies with a magic yo-yo.
Deciding that the stairs were the quicker option, she ignored the lift and clattered loudly down them, almost breaking her ankle in her wedge sandals once or twice as she swung round corners. She checked her phone again. Oh man, she really was late. This was going to be so embarrassing – now she'd be making an entrance, not arriving unobtrusively as she had hoped.
She threw her bag and jacket onto the front seat, conscientiously checked her mirrors, and started the car. She was still a little nervous while driving, and hated feeling rushed, as it tended to panic her. Calm down, calm down, she chanted to herself as she pulled out of the tucked-away carpark and onto the side road that led to her block of flats. Tikki flew out of the handbag and took her accustomed perch on the rear-view mirror – she liked to keep an eye on the other traffic and warn Marinette of any potential problems.
Ed Sheeran's latest single began to play on the radio, and Marinette relaxed into her drive, singing along to the English words with an accent so atrocious it would have given her collège English teacher a heart attack. She made surprisingly good time into the centre, given that it was a weekend, and began to hope that she would only be awkwardly late instead of disastrously so.
It happened when she was only five minutes from her destination. She was on a busy main road, paying attention mostly to the sugary Katy Perry song that was now playing, when Tikki suddenly squealed, "Look out!" A white BMW had seemingly appeared from nowhere and pulled out onto the road in front of her, just metres away.
Marinette's heart gave an enormous thump in her chest and she gasped and slammed the brakes on. The Punto screeched to a halt with seconds to spare, and a shock of adrenaline rushed through her system as she realised quite how close it had been. The BMW driver, seemingly unbothered by his rude and dangerous action, accelerated away without so much as a hesitation, driving at what Marinette was pretty sure was a good twenty kilometres per hour over the speed limit. Her hands on the wheel shook as she began to move again, a mixture of fury and fright keeping her heart pounding.
"I'm sorry, Marinette," said Tikki contritely. "I didn't see him until it was too late."
"It's not your fault," Marinette reassured her. "That was entirely on him. If I could give that driver a piece of my mind…" Her brain played a pleasing series of images, starting with the scathing tirade of words she would unleash at the unsuspecting, self-entitled, pompous pig of a driver, passing through the mess of tears and apologies she would reduce him to, and ending with the terrified man promising her endless riches and rewards if she would forgive him. Then she threw in a couple of slaps, just for good measure.
She was so shaken by this incident that she forgot all about her previous nervousness, and only remembered it when she had parked and turned off the engine.
Oh, crap.
"Are you okay?" asked Tikki, watching her.
"I honestly think I'd rather have a thousand cars pull out in front of me than see Adrien Agreste for the first time in five years," confessed Marinette.
"It will be fine! Won't it be nice to have you all together again?"
"Yeah… I guess. It just feels so strange. He was such a big part of my life when I was at school, but I haven't seen him or spoken to him for so long! What if he's forgotten me? What if he remembers me?"
"Which one do you want?" Tikki queried, puzzled.
"I don't know!" Marinette wailed, clutching her hair and completely ruining her hairstyle in the process.
"Well, sitting here and talking about it won't help anything," the kwami pointed out.
"You'd better hide, then." Marinette opened the car door, trying to convince herself that it really was just going to be fine – a casual hang-out with the gang.
The gang and famous millionaire supermodel, Adrien Agreste.
Yeah, this was going to be a disaster.
The café Alya had chosen for their reunion was one of Marinette's favourites – it was the only one in Paris that sold pastries that even came close to rivalling those of the Dupain-Cheng bakery – but she couldn't even summon up a flicker of excitement at the pretty macarons in a rainbow of pastel shades in the window. She felt sick to her stomach.
Clutching her bag to her for some kind of reassurance, she scanned the busy tables, looking for Alya. After a few seconds of agonising tension she spotted her, sitting in one of the quieter corners and waving to get Marinette's attention. Next to her was her fiancé, Nino, and – Marinette's heart gave a second great thump that rivalled the earlier one – a tall, blonde figure. Somehow, she wove through the tables and chairs, unsure as to how her feet were actually working when they felt like blocks of lead.
"Hey, girl, you finally made it!" Alya jumped to her feet to greet her best friend, a mixture of accusation and relief in her voice.
"Sorry I was late," muttered Marinette to the ground, unable to meet anyone's gaze. Especially not Adrien's.
"It's cool – you weren't the only one." Alya pulled out a chair beside her for Marinette, then paused and looked closer at her friend. "Woah, are you okay? You look a bit pale."
Marinette took refuge in righteous anger. She knew Alya would sympathise with her road rage. More confidently, she said: "It was the drive – some dick in a white BMW pulled out in front of me. I could have murdered him."
Instead of the horrified exclamations of commiseration she had expected, she was greeted by an awkward silence. Looking from Alya, who seemed to be suppressing laughter, to Nino, whose lips were twitching at the corners, she began to panic. "What? What's so funny?"
Nino jerked his head towards Adrien, and Marinette finally looked at him. This time she was pretty sure her heart actually stopped. The photos that were widely circulated by the media and Adrien's hordes of adoring fans (not that she ever actively looked for photos – no, she just happened to see them) and the billboards across the entirety of France (and probably a host of other countries) had not done him justice. Adrien, who had been good-looking at fourteen, was at twenty-four terrifyingly gorgeous. His jawline and cheekbones had hardened, giving him a chiselled look that sat very well with those famous green eyes and the trademark blonde locks. They were longer than he'd worn them in school, though still kept neat. He was also considerably taller – Marinette thought dazedly that he must have a good foot or so on her height. She had never seen anyone who she would actually have described as beautiful, and meant it. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him – an old daydream left over from the days of her crush on him that had abruptly acquired all sorts of adult upgrades.
She suddenly realised, to her utmost horror, that Adrien had said something to her.
"Er, what?" she squeaked, her cheeks flooding crimson.
"Where did the car pull out?"
She told him, confused. Alya let out a snort, and Marinette turned to her, still bemused. "What?"
Adrien, his mouth pulling up at one side, pointed a thumb at himself. "Dick in a white BMW," he said. "Nice to see you again, Marinette."