Blondetourage (11 page)

There's a moment's pause where Ashleigh's
pen hovers above her paper. And then her head
snaps up. Her eyes meet mine and seem to size
me up. There's a second or two where I think she
might even say yes to a macaroon – yes to being
friends, even ... before it happens. The eyes turn
sharp again and her hair flicks in that way that's
becoming very familiar to me. 'I told you I didn't
want one, didn't I? So, no. No, thanks.' And with
that, she gets back to work, blocking me out. Like
she blocks everyone out.

But me, I keep right on looking at her. What
is it with that girl? But she doesn't raise her head
again, so, with a shrug, I stand upright once more.
'Well, I might go see if Melinda wants another
one. George, can you give me a hand?'

'Okaaaaay,' George drawls. 'I'd better. I mean,
the box is pretty heavy, after all.'

Ugh. Thanks. I thought I'd got away with the
blushing thing before, but if I don't get away from
all these books soon, I'm sure my cheeks will start
a paper fire in here. 'Let's go,' I hiss once more. A
little more urgently this time.

Outside the study, George stretches. 'I take it
you wanted to get out of there.'

'No. Really? You're a genius.'

George laughs. 'You're so ... sweet.'

'Shut up!' I give her a whack on the arm.

'Maybe I could tutor you, sugar.'

'He never said that!'

'Or maybe he just wants to roll you in sugar
and eat you up?' She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

'George!'

George just pokes her tongue out at me. 'Want
to head out onto the balcony for a minute? I need
to see if my legs still work.'

'Sounds good. I need to get you away from any
place you can embarrass me.'

George laughs. 'Well, you'll need all your
Geography skills to find that place, because I don't
think it exists!'

$$$

Out on the balcony, we jump up and down and
rub our arms to keep warm. It's getting cold, but
the cold is worth it to see the view. The twinkling
lights of Paris stretch out before us – the Eiffel
Tower twinkling the brightest of all.

'I can't believe how beautiful it is. And that
we're doing lessons. We could be eating in bistros,
strolling the streets ...'

'Getting locked in romantic embraces?' George
tries and I have to hit her on the arm again. 'Newsflash:
we're not going to be doing any of those
things.'

I groan. 'I'm beginning to realise that.'

George rubs her lips with one finger and then
fishes around in her pockets. 'Have you got any lip
balm? I've got to remember to start lathering it on.
I get the worst chapped lips in the cold.'

'Um ...' I hunt around in my own pockets.
'Here you go,' I find mine in my jeans pocket and
pass it over to her.

'Thanks!' George starts lathering and then
brings the tube up to her nose for a deep sniff.
'That stuff is so good. What's it called again?'

Mesmerised by the city lights, I barely even
register her question. 'It's cocoa butter ...' I start
and, as I say the words, this image pops into my
head of someone else entirely.
'Cocoa butter from
Ghana, beeswax from northwest Zambia and olive oil
from Italy,'
the person says.

Still staring at the lights, I freeze, the cold night
air sticking in my throat as I take a large gulp.

Oh. Oh, wow. That's it.

THAT'S IT!

I almost yell out over the rooftops at my
discovery, then remember how the reaction to JJ's
over-exuberance in Ladurée today hadn't exactly
been favourable.

'Hello? Earth to Elli?' George says loudly and I
realise then that she may have already tried to get
my attention more than once.

'Huh?' I shake my head and finally look over at
her.

'Your lip balm.'

'Oh, thanks,' I take it from her, still in a daze.

'Hey, are you okay?' George looks at me a little
more closely. 'Your eyes have gone all ... goggly.'

I try to unfreeze. 'Mmm. Fine. Just a bit ...
frozen, I think.'

'Yeah, we'd better go in before Melinda sends
out a search party.'

'Okay,' I nod, still off with the pixies, and follow
George mindlessly as she opens the balcony door
and we head inside. I might look like a zombie on
the outside, but inside ... inside I'm screaming.

This is it! This is so, so it! How could I be so
stupid? Romy has a talent that's super-easy to spot
– her amazing sense of smell. Since the first day
I met her and we had that cocoa butter moment,
her one true passion has been right in front of
my face. Or my nose, I should say. I've seen her
correctly pick the perfume people are wearing
time and time again. Not just run of the mill stuff,
either, but scents that the owners have gone on to
say have been discontinued and that they've had
to hunt down, or oils that they've had specially
blended together. Then there was the time I'd
been at the park and she could smell fresh-cut
grass on me. Oh ... and so many other things,
too. Like the other day, when JJ made muffins
and Romy was convinced she could detect vanilla
in them. JJ had sworn she hadn't included any and
had only remembered afterwards that she'd had
a vanilla bean nestled in the bottom of the jar of
sugar she'd used in the muffin mixture.

As we make our way down the hallway, I frown
as I wonder what Romy can do with her talent now
that I've found what it is. I guess the obvious thing
to do would be to release a perfume. A number
of big name celebrities have recently released their
own scents and I'm sure Romy's name would sell
more than a few bottles. But that's so boring, isn't
it? Still, I wonder ... what if Romy were to do
the same kind of thing, but better? Something she
researched and really put her heart and soul into?
With Romy's nose, I'm sure it'd be amazing and
not just another dumb star stink.

'Hey!' George turns to look at me. She's stopped
in the doorway to the study and, lost in thought,
I've run right into her back.

'Sorry!' I tell her, grabbing the doorframe before
I fall over.

'You're really out of it, aren't you? Better go to
bed early tonight.'

'Mmm,' I say, and she gives me a weird look
before she heads into the room itself.

Going to sleep early? Not likely. Because I've
just remembered something. One of JJ's friends
from Vienna is married to a perfumer, I think. And
from what I can remember, they're now living in
London. I hope I can find her email address and
that she's got some good contacts, because that's
where we're headed next. Still spaced out, I wander
on into the study and take my seat beside George.

Thankfully, our next lesson is French, so I don't
have to concentrate as hard as I need to in subjects
like Geography. After our forty-five minutes is
up, it's already 9 pm and I make my excuses and
tell everyone I'm going to bed early. I'm not really
lying, because within fifteen minutes I
am
in bed.
With my laptop, that is. And with JJ still busy in
the kitchen, I find her friend Marcel's email address
and his wife's name (Veronique, as it turns out),
then start Googling to see if I can find a direct
email address for her. It takes me eight minutes all
up. Nice work. As it turns out, Veronique has quite
the nose herself and, through her website, I find
out what she specialises in. Basically, she blends
fragrances for customers so they have their own
unique scent, copies perfumes that are no longer
available but that a few customers must have and
takes commissions for special projects (scents made
as gifts for corporate use and so on). She sounds
like a perfect start. I email her through her website
asking for some help – mainly contacts, phone
numbers and advice for Romy (though I don't say
exactly who I need help for). Just as I hit send, I
notice someone hovering in the doorway. Busted!
I close my laptop with a snap.

And just in time, too. It's Ashleigh. Still, that
could be useful right now, considering I need
information that she may very well have.

'Melinda just wanted me to tell you that we've
got an eight o'clock start tomorrow morning,'
Ashleigh says, then spins on her heel in order to
leave.

'Thanks! But, um, Ashleigh, wait ...'

'What?' Ashleigh turns back suspiciously.

'Is there, um, a kind of itinerary of the girls'
routine?'

Now she looks even more suspicious. 'Why?
Why would you want to know that?'

'Because, er ...' quick, Elli, think. Quick!
'Because I need to know when I can fit a few extra
lessons in with Melinda. You know, to catch up.
On Geography and stuff.'

Ashleigh immediately loses her suspicious frown.
'Oh, right. Well, you definitely need to do that,
don't you?'

'Thanks,' I deadpan.

Ashleigh looks down onto my lap at my laptop
for a second, then fishes something out of her
jacket pocket. 'I've got the latest copy here on my
memory stick.' She comes over to sit on my bed
and puts her hand out like I should pass her my
laptop. When I don't, she takes it from me anyway
and flips it open. 'I have a password on it, so I'll
put it on your desktop,' she says.

'Um, okay ...'

'What's your password?' she looks up from the
screen to meet my eyes momentarily.

'Um ...' I pause, not knowing what to say.

Now, she sighs. 'It's okay. You can change it
after I go.'

Fine. 'It's "vets rock",' I say, reluctantly.

'Nice,' Ashleigh replies, with one raised eyebrow.
'Sophisticated.'

Hmpf. I'd like to know what her password is.
'Upstart', maybe? Or, perhaps, 'try-hard'?

'All done,' she disconnects her memory stick
and pulls it out. I look at it distastefully, hoping
it hasn't given my sweet little iBook any nasty
diseases. Like Ashleigh-itis. She closes the laptop
and places it safely on top of my doona.

'Thanks,' I tell her and she gets up off my bed
again.

'Oh, you're more than welcome,' she says sarcastically
as she leaves.

I watch her go, not quite knowing what to make
of that interaction. One thing's for sure, though,
I'm changing my password. So, with Ashleigh
gone, I reopen my laptop once more. Wondering
what sophisticated word to change my password
to, I click on the new file on my desktop – the
Rich Girls
itinerary. It's Thursday today and we're
supposed to be leaving for London tomorrow
night. That much I already know. I check out
the days following and see something interesting.
Anouschka has a whole afternoon booked in at the
hairdresser's on Monday, when Romy isn't doing
anything (she can't film without Anouschka and
she doesn't get her hair dyed, so I'm guessing that
means she's free). That could work out well. Really
well, in fact. I then change my password and am
about to click my laptop shut when I remember
one last thing I should do. Quickly, I click onto
Steph's MySpace page and post a comment so she
knows I'm still thinking about her. Again, I'm
about to shut my laptop when I remember one last,
last thing. I've been meaning to check for ages to
see whether George has a MySpace page.

She does.

Though, when I locate it, I almost think I've got
the wrong person. Her page hasn't been updated
for aeons and the George I'm presented with ...
well, it's a different George from the one I know,
that's for sure. MySpace George isn't wearing a
scrap of black and has the coolest retro 80s clothes
I've ever seen. And there are other pictures where
she's wearing other clothes. Vintage 50s dresses, a
maxi dress, the tiniest mini-skirt ever made – all
sorts of things. And the most amazing accessories,
too. There's a purse that looks like a rolled-up
magazine, an evening bag that looks like a fan.
Weird stuff. Wonderful stuff. I sit there and stare.

What happened to her?

When did George go all emo? And why? She
obviously adored fashion and had a real eye for it.
Why did she suddenly chuck it all in and go 'I'm
above thinking about my wardrobe' black?

Hmmm.

I know better than to ask George about it,
though. I'll just have to do some investigating
on that front as well. And then, too tired to give
anything any further thought, I really do click my
laptop closed, place it on my bedside table and fall
asleep within thirty seconds flat.

'I
've just dropped you know who, you know
where,' Romy whispers so quietly I can
barely hear her over the phone.

I press my cell closer to my ear. 'Great. You
head off to your two appointments and I'll meet
you at the Dorchester at two o'clock.'

'Perfect. And Elli ...'

'Mmm hmm?'

'Thanks so much for this. I really appreciate it.'

'That's okay. My pleasure. I'll see you this afternoon,'
I close my phone and try not to freak out at
how on earth I'm going to manage this.

The thing is, over the past couple of days, I've
been a little, let's say ... underhanded. I've spent a
lot of time online and on the phone pretending to
be Romy's PA and setting up appointments for her
with the contacts Veronique was kind enough to
give me. This, of course, is on top of having to pack
up and move countries, unpack at our destination
and continue with lessons at the same time. I'm also
still kind of reeling at the difference between our old
digs in Paris and our new set-up in London's Kensington. The Paris apartment had been so modern
and sleek and we're now in a three-storeyed townhouse.
A very tall, upright building that won't take
any nonsense from anyone living inside it. We're
in a long row of adjoining townhouses, each painted
a slightly different colour (though not garish, of
course, no one would stand for that!). Outside, black
English cabs scuttle by like beetles and across the
way, everyone gets on very politely, 'good morning'
and 'good afternoon'ing in the shared garden.

Inside, it actually feels very much like I've been
swallowed by a rose garden. Everything is pouffy
and white and pink and dotted with full-blown
roses. Even the carpet! And the beds – it's kind
of scary lying down in them. You feel like you're
being swallowed up. Don't get me wrong, it's still
extremely flash, but I'm finding all this change
hard to get used to. It must be so strange to live
out of a suitcase all the time in places you've never
seen before you're dropped off at the front door.
Still there is one bonus – this place is
much
bigger.
There are three bathrooms for a start, and the study
is gigantic. In fact, it's more like a boardroom. I
think I'd faint if someone told me what it cost to
rent it per week.

But back to my underhandedness.

What's really got me shaking in my new Pumas
is the fact that I have truly taken things a bit far
today. In order to meet Romy at the Dorchester
at two o'clock, I have gone all out and actually
faked a toothache. A dentist appointment has
been made for me at 2 pm and I'll be dispatched
from here in a cab in order to get to it. Naughty
me will then ditch the cab at the Dorchester (with
a mighty big tip as the Dorchester is just around
the corner), I'll meet with Romy at an exclusive
perfumery, then move on to meet Madame
Morel, a hugely famous perfumer she has an
appointment with, for afternoon tea and then leg
it back here. Clutching my jaw like I've just had
a filling, that is.

I'm really very disappointed in my behaviour.
And kind of excited at the same time.

During our morning's lessons, I have to
remember to intermittently groan and rub my face
and when Melinda catches me zoning out a few
times, thinking about the fun that's coming my
way, I tell everyone that the codeine in my painkillers
is making me woozy (the codeine kind of
got flushed down the toilet after it was dosed out
to me). When it starts raining at 1 pm, Melinda
glances outside uncertainly. 'Maybe we'd better
send you off a bit early. It's a fifteen-minute cab
ride, but you can kiss all the cabs goodbye the
minute it starts raining. Better you wait at the
dentist's than be late. We don't want you to miss
your appointment with that tooth.'

I nod, feeling more than a little bit guilty.

Melinda calls me a cab and by 1.15 pm, I've
ditched it (and most of my fare with the driver),
outside the Dorchester's impressive façade with
its striped awnings. I tear my eyes away from the
gorgeous greenery of Hyde Park and call Romy
to see if she's nearby. She is and starts to give me
directions before she remembers she has a car
with her and tells me that it will be easier if she
sends it around. The car turns up in less than three
minutes and the driver negotiates the traffic until
he stops to let me out on the footpath only about
three streets away. It sounds stupid, but I can see
why Romy sent the car. I never would have found
the tiny little hole-in-the-wall of a shop that I'm
now in front of if I'd tried to walk here. I've been
to London a few times before and know it can be
weird like that – you can get lost in a studio apartment
if you're not careful. There's just something
about London that just doesn't make sense – it's
kind of like a constantly manipulated Rubik's cube.
Still, that's part of what I love about it. London is
so all or nothing. Stately and common. Grey and
glittery. Staid and exciting.

I walk up the two steps that lead inside the shop, let
the door tinkle closed behind me and take in a deep
breath. Wow. I don't know what that heady scent is
filling my nostrils, but it's pretty good. The inside
of the shop is filled from floor to ceiling three sides
around with dark wooden shelves. Each shelf contains
a row of solid glass bottles. I count the bottles on one
shelf and do some quick totting up in my head. There
must be over three hundred bottles in here.

'Hey, Romy!' She's standing at a counter next to
a simply gigantic decorative amber-coloured glass
bottle talking to a young man, her crutches resting
beside her. I walk over to her and see instantly that
she isn't having a great time.

'Um, hi, Elli!' she turns to me as the guy turns
away to put a couple of bottles back up on a high
shelf. When he's moved a few steps back, I lean in
towards her.

'Is everything okay?' I ask.

Romy looks despondent. 'Not really. Everyone's
been a bit ... I don't know ... mean. For want of a
better word.'

'Mean?' I whisper.

'You know,' she shrugs. 'They just think I'm
stupid. That I'm wasting their time. That I just
want to come in and sniff a few bottles and say
something dumb and then I'll be off.'

'Oh,' I say. 'Like TV Romy.'

Romy sighs. 'Yes. Like her.'

I bite my lip for a second and try to think how
I can help out here. 'Okay,' I say. 'I know what
might work.'

Romy's face brightens a bit.

Finally, the guy (who we'll now call Mr Snooty)
returns. 'Is there anything else I can help you
with?' he asks us in his best Mr Snooty of Snootsville voice.

'Yes,' I nod, decisively. 'Those ten bottles. On
that shelf there. Could you bring them all down
and put them on the counter with the labels facing
you?'

I get a snootster sniff. 'All ten of them?'

'Yes. And if you're lucky, we might even buy
something. Something expensive.'

He brightens a little with this. 'Of course.' And
with the promise of hard cash (or at least hard
plastic) he turns around again and starts fetching
and carrying.

Which is when I get a little scared. 'You are
going to buy something, aren't you?' I lean in and
say to Romy.

'I guess I am now!' she laughs back.

In a couple of minutes, the bottles are lined up,
just as I've asked – so Romy can't see the labels.

'So, test her out,' I say to the guy. 'See if she can
guess them all. I bet she can.'

The guy's eyes run over all the labels facing him.
'Some of them are a little obscure. You did choose
random ones, after all.'

I shrug. 'Doesn't matter. She's brilliant. She'll
do it.'

Romy beams at me when I say this. It's kind of
sad, really. Like no one ever says these things to
her. I guess I've been lucky – I've had JJ and Nan
and Pop and Steph and all kinds of people believing
in me my whole life and it isn't until now that
I've come to realise some people don't have that
kind of support.

'I don't know about that,' she says. 'But I'll have
a go.'

'Try the first one,' I look over at the guy and
he reaches forward and tugs out the heavy glass
stopper on the bottle and holds it out under Romy's
nose.

Romy frowns and, for a second, my heart drops.
She doesn't know!

'A little easy. Vanilla.'

'That's corr ...' the guys starts.

'Tahitian, to be precise.'

Now he pauses, stopper in hand. 'That
is
correct.' He eyes Romy curiously for a second and
then puts the stopper back and tugs out the next
one in line.

When she pauses, both the guy and I lean
forward slightly. But then Romy smiles again.
'Moroccan Myrrh.'

The guy takes things a little faster then, wanting
to test Romy out properly.

'Sudanese Frankincense.'

'Mauritian Patchouli.'

'Nag Champa.'

'Luxor Sandalwood.'

'Tunisian Honey.'

'Oriental Kush.'

'Egyptian Lotus Blossom.'

'Black Coconut.'

The guy holds out his hand after replacing the
glass stopper in the Black Coconut bottle. 'Giles.
How do you do.'

'Romy,' she shakes his hand. 'Very well,
thanks.'

'I had no idea you, er ... studied.'

Romy shakes her milk-chocolate tresses,
looking a little proud of herself, as she should be.
'I haven't.'

Giles kind of sucks his breath in at this. 'You're
a natural, then. Did you know it's extremely rare
to have such a good nose? You really must consider
studying.'

Romy blushes now and glances down at me. 'I
kind of am.'

'Excellent news. Oh ...' Giles starts, then holds
one finger up. 'Wait one second. This just came
in this morning ...' he heads out the back of the
store for a second and returns holding something
very carefully – not a large jar this time, but a very
small vial. 'We've been waiting on this for quite
some time.'

Very, very carefully, he unscrews the lid, then removes
two other seals besides. Whatever is contained
within the glass is an extremely precious liquid.
Finally, he holds the vial out for Romy to smell.

'Oh!' Romy almost jumps when she smells it,
then leans in further. 'Oh ... it's lovely. Just lovely.'
She closes her eyes and takes another sniff. 'And so
rare.' She opens her eyes again as she pulls back. 'It
is snow rose?'

Giles nods. 'We're very fortunate to have
sourced some. Our clients have been waiting for
some time.'

I'm getting kind of interested in this snow rose
thing now. 'Um, can I ...?' I look at the vial hopefully.

'Oh, yes. You have to smell it, Elli. It's
gorgeous.'

Giles holds the vial out for me and I take a deep
whiff. It smells like ... um ... roses. I mean, it
smells nice and everything, but it still just smells
like roses. And I think both Romy and Giles can
see this unimpressed look on my face, because
they then shoot each other a look. A kind of 'some
people and their inferior sense of smell!' look. I
even start to get worried, because my deodorant
ran out this morning and I only had enough left
for one armpit. They probably think I stink! And
I'm sorry to break up their highly perfumed little
love affair, but it's almost time for our appointment.
I have to get Romy and my stinky pits out
of here, so I cough and look at my watch.

Romy gets my drift. 'Yes, we must get going,'
she holds out her hand. 'Lovely to meet you,
Giles.'

'The pleasure is all mine,' he extends his hand
over the counter. 'If we can do anything for you
while you are in London, just let us know. Is there
anything special we can make you? Any products
you might be interested in?'

Romy pauses. 'I was quite taken with that
Egyptian Lotus Blossom. Perhaps I will have something
made up. Okay, off the top of my head – how
about a heart of the Egyptian Lotus Blossom, a
base of patchouli and sandalwood and a top note
of rose and orange blossom? Something simple and
light, but refreshing.'

Giles jots this down. 'That sounds lovely.'

'Here's my address,' Romy takes the notepad
from Giles and writes it down. As she hands it back,
she looks him straight in the eye. 'If you could be
discreet, that would be very helpful.'

'Of course. It won't be an issue.'

'Thank you,' Romy says, graciously.

Giles hands her something – a card. 'Please, do
drop in whenever you are in London.'

'I will! Thanks!' Romy takes my arm and we
both turn to leave. 'We'd better run. We don't want
to be late,' she says, then laughs. 'Or maybe I should
say, we should hop fast. I don't think I'll be running
anywhere for a while.' I help her get her crutches
back under her arms and we're off. The door tinkles
shut behind us and we're in the still-waiting car
within a minute. 'Back to the Dorchester, thanks,
Henry,' Romy tells the driver and we're off.

$$$

'I still can't believe you know Madame Morel,'
Romy looks at me in disbelief as we sit in the
scarily ornate marble and gilded promenade of
the Dorchester. A pianist tinkles away in the background
and it's all extremely posh. In fact, it's so
posh even the carpet is upper-crust – we'd practically
had to wade our way through it to get to
our little setting of a couch, a wing chair and
an oversize, plush ottoman. In front of me, the
china and cutlery look so expensive I'm afraid to
touch them. All up, I'm way out of my depth –
I'm sure they're going to throw me out of here at
any moment and I'm suddenly very, very grateful
JJ and I made that trip to buy some new clothes.
Imagine if I was sitting here in those disgusting old
stained jeans? Opposite me, Romy looks amazing,
as per usual. Today she's wearing a fitted white
shirt, a kind of tailored denim wrap jacket, a floaty,
layered green skirt and her trademark ballet flats
(well, one anyway, because of her cast). It sounds
hideous, but looks amazing. I think Romy could
put anything on and look amazing, really. She's
just that kind of person.