Blondetourage (3 page)

Up the front of the room, Melinda continues
stacking her notes quickly and efficiently, like she's
done this a million times before. 'Hmmm? Milan?
No, I don't think so. Not this time.'

My heart sinks. Bummer. Milan had sounded
fun. I'd always wanted to go to Italy. All those
amazing ruins and the art and ...

'No, not Milan. Just Paris, London and LA this
time.'

'F
luffy! Ow!' I reach up and unhook Fluffy's
claws one by one from my hoodie (including the claw that happens to have worked its way
through the fabric and is now embedded painfully
in my neck). This accomplished, I then bring him
down onto my lap, hoping that he'll behave himself
and sit quietly so I can keep on typing. Of course,
he doesn't. As soon as I release him, he springs
up again and starts padding up and down on my
legs, his claws now hooking and unhooking in and
out of my thighs, right through my jeans. 'Hey!'
I reach down and lift his chin so he's looking up
at me. 'When we get to the apartment, you're so
getting those weapons of pussy-cat mass destruction
clipped, buddy.'

'Mrow.' There's one more hook and unhook
before he sits down, compliantly.

'Thank you,' I sigh, my legs suddenly pain-free. And Fluffy's probably feeling twice the relief
I am, considering he has twice as many legs. I'm
guessing that while his owner flew first class, he
didn't have the same luxuries in the plane's hold.
At least he didn't have to spend ages in quarantine,
because he has a kitty passport. (Who knew pets
could have passports? Not me. I'm so behind the
times ...) Sitting next to me, George shakes her
head as she keeps right on typing, super-fast, on
the keyboard of one of the plush business lounge's
many computer terminals.

'I can't believe how that cat has fallen for you
in less than twenty-four hours. It's weird. Usually
he hates everybody. You always have to make sure
you keep your bedroom door closed because he
has this nasty little habit of...'

I raise one eyebrow, knowing exactly what she's
going to say.

'What?' George asks me.

'Well, if you moved house every second day,
you'd probably want to mark some territory as
your own as well.'

I get a snort in return. 'I do move house every
second day, remember? Right along with him.
I haven't felt the urge to pee on anyone's duvet
because of it.'

I laugh at the thought of George squatting
over everyone's duvets, doonas, bedspreads, quilts
... whatever you want to call them. 'Just try to
remember it's not personal.'

I glance at my screen again in the hope that,
over the other side of the world, Steph is up and
has IMed me back. Nope. Not yet, anyway. Oh,
well. I look back over at George once more. She's
already told me she's IMing a cousin she hasn't
caught up with in ages who's a fashion stylist in
Milan. I can't believe these people have such cool
relatives. Typical. I have no idea how I'm going
to explain Stinky Jack to them. Fluffy re-positions
himself in my lap once more and purrs contentedly.
I reach down and play with his ears again.
'You know, I don't mind if he has doona issues. I
think he's sweet.'

George gives another snort. 'Sweet! Fluffy?
Yeah, right. Here, watch this.' She ceases typing for
a second and reaches her hand slowly out towards
Fluffy. He eyes her off until she gets just that bit
too close, then he hisses and takes a swipe at her
with those razor-sharp claws of his.

'See?' George brings her hand back in again to
keep on typing. 'He hates me.'

'He doesn't hate you. He just knows you're not
that into him. Don't you like cats?'

George shrugs. 'I like dogs better than cats, but
that doesn't mean I don't like cats. I'm also a cat
person. Non bed-wetting cats, preferably, but I'm
still a cat person. It's only Fluffy that doesn't think
so. In this case, I think it's personal.'

I run one finger down Fluffy's nose, which I've
already worked out he loves. 'Who knows what's
going on in there?' I bring my finger up again to
tap his forehead.

'Not much, is my guess,' George answers,
shoving another mini croissant in her mouth. 'Apart
from hunting for fresh bed linen to use as kitty
litter. Wow. These croissants are great. Though I
guess they should be, seeing as we're in Paris and
all. Hey, look. You've got an answer,' she points at
my screen.

I whip my attention around to my own computer
once more. Steph.

'Um,
Fishkiller?
' I hear George ask.

I laugh as I start typing. 'Let's just say Steph will
be a large animals vet. Anything smaller than a horse
isn't exactly safe where Steph is concerned. Especially
animals as small as goldfish, as it turns out.'

'Gotcha,' George says, before she goes back to
her speedy IMing.

Fishkiller: Hey! Where r u?
Vet2be: Paris! Can u believe it?
Fishkiller: What? Ooh la la! What's it like?
Vet2be: Beats me. Been here 4 hrs and only seen CDG
so far.

Fishkiller: CDG?

Vet2be: Charles de Gaulle, darling. Airport.

Fishkiller: Why 4 hrs? Security?

Vet2be: No. Anouschka. Duty free shopping.

Fishkiller: DFS 4 hours? Ooohhh. Swap lives with u
now.

Vet2be: Ha! Sounds good. Remember, it was
Anouschka who shopped 4 hrs. I waited in business
lounge. Surviving on mini croissants and juice.
Hang on. Moving. Gotta run.

Fishkiller: Okay. Talk soon. Hate u and ur fun life.

Vet2be: Charming. Miss u too.

'Grrr. That is so ... Anouschka. Right when
we're settled in. You ready?' George asks, standing
beside me, ready to go in seconds flat after seeing
the crew member who's arrived to fetch us.

'Sort of,' I quickly jump up and grab Fluffy's
Louis Vuitton carrier from beneath my seat (I have
to admit it looks kind of strange against my jeans
and, no, I still haven't managed to get that mustard
stain out of them entirely).

'Girls! I'm waiting. Let's go!' crew guy claps his
hands, hurrying us up.

I glance up at him apologetically. 'Sorry! I'm
coming! I just have to ... come
on
Fluffy. I'll take
you out again as soon as I can. I promise.' And,
with one final push on his rump, the cat's in the
bag. Literally. I zip him up as fast as I can, get a
firm grip on the bag and then run to the door.

'You're really going to have to move faster
when we're on the road, kid, or you'll get left
behind,' crew guy says as I pass him by. 'Now let's
move it. Go. That way. Go, go, go, go, go. Catch
up to the others and make it snappy. Romy and
Anouschka are waiting out front and you know
how Anouschka feels about waiting.'

I can just imagine, I think to myself. Outside the
business lounge now, I catch a glimpse of a group
of familiar-looking fast-moving people making
their way hurriedly towards a large exit sign and
I follow George, who's started jogging after them.
As I go, I hug Fluffy's carrier to my chest so he
doesn't jiggle around too much (he hates that, or
so he tells me).

'Come on, already,' crew guy runs past me. 'The
cars are waiting. The
girls
are waiting.'

With a huff and a puff I try to run faster, George
easily taking the lead (I guess after a few seasons
on the road, she's used to this). As we keep on
running, she somehow manages to disentangle my
backpack off my back and take it from me, lightening my load.

'Thanks,' I try to say, but it comes out as more of
a grunt than anything. It's only now that I notice
how tiny she is. Tiny, but still faster than me.

'Waiting
!' Crew guy looks back from where he's
gaining ground steadily in front of us.

George snorts her trademark snort. 'Waiting,
huh? Like we've been waiting, I guess. For almost
five hours
.'

It's taking all my concentration to run, so I can't
answer, not even to bag the Rich Girls. Slap, slap,
slap, George's and my sneakered feet pound the
tiles beneath us. Slap, slap, slap. 'Wait till I get my
hands on Anouschka. I'll ... I'll ...'

I look over Fluffy's carrier, unable to resist.
'You'll what?' I croak, hoping it's something
good.

Another snort. 'Yeah, okay. I'll probably smile
sweetly and tell her those thighs of hers look
remarkably thin today. But don't worry. I'll get her
back for making us run. One day.'

'O
oohhh ...' I breathe out slowly, totally
forgetting not to look impressed.

'Not too shabby, huh?' JJ grins back at me, still
holding the bathroom door open. She'd brought
me in here specifically to see the view.

Yes. The view. From the
bathroom.

And, believe me, it's nothing like the view from
the bathroom I'd shared with JJ in Sydney over
our recent break (which was of Nan and Pop's red
brick garage, two wheelie bins and often a present
that Stinky Jack had left behind).

I cough, remembering myself. It's just a view. It's
not all that great. (Well, only about ninety-eight
per cent. I mean, where's the sauna and masseuse?)
'I guess it'll do. At least there aren't any rats,' I try,
but I'm sure I'm completely transparent. I can't take
my eyes off it. It. The Eiffel Tower.

Wow.

I can't believe my bathroom (okay, okay, the
Rich Girls' bathroom) has a view of the Eiffel
Tower. Do people really live like this? Huh.
I guess so. Pity they don't appreciate it. Romy and
Anouschka probably think it's a decorative French
cell phone tower they're looking at every time they
glance out the window.

Still, I guess I should just be thankful I'm here
viewing it, even if I do have to put up with the two
stupidest girls on Earth. As I may never have such
a bathroom available to me ever again (judging by
the quick succession of chefs around here), I decide
to make use of the facilities before they disappear.
Slowly, I cross the hardwood floor to the creamcoloured
left-hand-side wash basin, turn the tap
on, squirt some delicious-smelling grapefruit-
scented soap into my palm and begin washing my
hands as I keep right on staring out the window.
Who knows how quickly this could be snatched
away from me? I should take my hand-washing
opportunities as they come. When I'm done, I
wash them over again, just in case.

'Are you all right there?' JJ asks me after a while,
making me jump. Mesmerised by the view, I'd
forgotten she was even there.

'Um, sure. Just ... dirty. You know, from the
airport.'

'That's some dirt ...' JJ starts, but is cut off by a
piercing Anouschka screech. 'And that would be my
cue. I think the vultures may be hungry. If you can
unpack a few things, that'd be a great help, sweetie.'

'Sure,' I nod, Eiffel-transfixed again. 'Unpack
things. I can do that.'

'When you're done washing your oh-so-dirty
hands, of course,' JJ says with a laugh, making me
look up and around before she trots off down the
corridor to the 'vultures', or make that 'vulture'.

Right. Where was I? I guess washing my hands
three times would probably be bordering on
obsessive, whatever the view. Almost reluctantly,
I dry off on a fluffy white handtowel and make
my way into the corridor and across the hall to
the bedroom JJ and I are sharing. It's small and
obviously a kid's room, with an extra twin bed
squished in, but I'm not complaining. After all,
I'm not planning on spending a lot of time in here
doing anything other than sleeping. I'm hoping to
be out and about on the streets of Paris, seeing
the sights, breathing in the culture and gourmet
dining, rather than label-shopping till I drop (the
true
anti-Rich Girls
experience). And when I am
actually in the apartment, I'll probably be hanging
out in the gorgeous cream-sofaed living room
with its view of the Seine, luxuriating in the media
room catching up on some classic French films or
... washing my hands as I gape at the Eiffel Tower.
(Yes,
again.
Like I said, I have very dirty hands.
Taking in culture on the gritty Parisian streets does
tend to make a girl's hands filthy, you know.)

And wait till I tell Steph about all of this. About
the apartment. And the view of the Seine
and
the
Eiffel Tower and ... um ... all the other stuff.

I've kind of been wondering how much I
should
tell her, actually. I mean, it's probably going to be
more trouble than it's worth. Because something's
telling me Steph will be all 'I told you so' if I let on
that things haven't been terribly, awfully, shockingly
bad so far. The thing is, and I hate to admit it,
but it's sort of been okay following the Rich Girls
around. Sure, it's been less than forty-eight hours so
far and it's mostly been sitting around on my butt,
punctuated by running to make planes, driving
through the night in black tinted SUVs and people
staring at our huge group and Anouschka's even
huger luggage collection (especially if the cameras
are around), but I have to admit the attention has
been kind of fun, or at least different, which I'm
starting to realise is going to make it difficult to
keep emailing/IMing Steph. Like I said, it'll be
all, 'I told you so, I told you so' (Steph never seems
to be able to say anything just once).

That said, I stand by my convictions – of course
the whole show is completely superficial and ridiculous.
The only reason it's been even slightly fun so
far is because it's a novelty to me. And I'm sure it's
going to change soon and I'll hate it with a passion.
After all, running all over the world shopping and
partying can't be fun
all
the time. Can it? I pause
for second with this thought. No. No, of course it
can't. There has to be more to life than shopping
and partying. Not to mention spending hours a
day being groomed. You'd die of boredom if that's
all there was to do all day every day, wouldn't you?
There's got to be more. There's just
got
to be. It's
like ice-cream (stick with me here). It's yummy
and you love it, but you hardly want to eat it for
every meal. Anyway, I'll have to think a bit harder
about the Steph thing. Right now, however, I'd
rather think about Paris things.

Like all the fantastic sightseeing I have to fit in,
all the
pain au chocolat
I can cram in my mouth
and all of my bad French phrases that I have to try
out. I've got a doozy I've been saving up for some
time:

Les Mets de cette saison ne sont pas très bons
(This
year's Mets aren't so hot).

This one came from JJ's employer before last
– an American baseball team manager living in
Tokyo who hated Japanese food (JJ cooked a lot of
burgers that year). I'd been hoping this job would
be a little more illuminating on the knowledge
front, but with Romy and Anouschka heading up
the show, my next French phrase is more likely
to be, 'I'll take one in every colour and make it
snappy, you Gallic peasant.'

Getting down to business, I unzip JJ's and my
suitcases, pull out our toiletry bags and then hang
the very few things we've brought with us that
require any kind of ironing. We'd been given a
short set of rules to pack by – hard, trolley-style,
carry-on luggage, plus one small backpack. All
to be re-packed in ten minutes or less. Romy and
Anouschka were allowed to check their luggage, of
course. Matching. Louis Vuitton. And plenty of it.
Just an hour or so ago, as we were sitting in our car
outside the airport waiting to leave, George had
pointed the vast sea of it out to me. We watched
it through the car window, being loaded, case by
heavy case (it had to be counted three times before
we left – Anouschka, it seems, trusts no one).

George had shaken her head as she watched the
never-ending cases pass us by. 'There are people
starving all over the world and their luggage gets
its own car.'

Unfortunately, Ashleigh had been listening in
from her seat in front of us. 'If the starving owned
fifty gs worth of luggage, they'd probably make
sure they got an extra car for it too,' she'd whirled
around in her seat in front of us and snapped.

On one side of her, Toby groaned. On the other
side, Melinda simply sighed. 'Remind me we're
behind on Geography tomorrow. Very behind. It
isn't quite what we should be studying, but perhaps
we should take a close look at the reasons behind
the rise of poverty in Africa.'

Now, absentmindedly folding a few bits and
pieces that have moved around in JJ's and my bags,
I think about Ashleigh's comment again. The first
thing I wonder about is whether the girls' luggage
is really worth $50,000. I glance down at our own
bags, battered, bruised and stickered from just a few
short trips. I'd thought they were expensive when we
spent a couple of hundred bucks on each of them,
but wow – $50,000 seems like an awful lot of money
to spend on something that's going to get battered,
bruised and stickered. Then again, maybe it isn't a
lot of money and they don't get battered. Not if you
travel first class everywhere. And you're a millionaire.
And not that I'd ever admit it to Steph, but
that luggage did look pretty nice, all lined up on the
concrete, with its matching insignias. Almost like
it was about to do the can-can, as everyone who
walked by goggled at how much there was of it and
how much it was obviously worth. Still, $50,000.
That's a scary amount of money to pay for some
stitched together leather and a couple of zips – for
stuff to haul your stuff in.

With a frown and a fold of a couple of T-shirts,
I move on. To something not altogether so nice –
the other thing Ashleigh had said. The thing about
the starving people in the world. I mean, come
on. She can't really have meant that, can she? The
weird thing was, no one had seemed particularly
shocked that she'd come out with what she'd said,
so I guess she must say things like that all the time.
I wonder for second or two if she really does think
this way. Has she always been like that, or has
hanging around the Rich Girls turned her into one
herself? On the show (yes, yes, okay, so I've caught
a couple of episodes, so sue me!), Anouschka's
always managing to come out with corkers like
Ashleigh's comment. That homeless people should
'just find somewhere nice to rent if they can't
afford to buy' or that 'girls with anorexia should eat
something already – they make the rest of us look
fat'. And everyone's always telling me that it's all in
fun, that the girls don't really mean the things they
say or do, but I don't know. I don't really buy into
that argument. I think saying things like that at all
is almost as bad. It makes what they're saying valid
in some way. As if it's a point of view that actually
matters, because people are listening, right? And
I'm sure there's plenty of people, little kids mainly,
who watch the show and think it's a hundred per
cent for real. And then, just like Ashleigh, they go
around repeating those awful phrases and acting
like the Rich Girls. Even worse, after meeting
Anouschka, I think she does mean all those things
she says. The whole Anouschka thing isn't an act.
It's actually for real. Anouschka really is, well ...
Anouschka and ...

Knock, knock.

I look up from my suitcase to the doorway and
a sea of black.

'Want to come for a walk?' George asks, leaning
against the doorframe.

I fold one last T-shirt and close the suitcase lid.
'Sure.'

'Melinda says we can have some free time until
dinner. Then we have to put in a couple of hours
study and really hit the books tomorrow.'

'Oh.' Poof. There go my grand ideas about
hanging out in the gorgeous cream-sofaed living
room with its view of the Seine, luxuriating in
the media room with my classic French films or
... washing my hands as I gape at the Eiffel Tower
(well, I guess I could sneak away for a quick bit of
grapefruit-scented hand washing. You have to go
to the bathroom now and again, right?).

George must see my face fall. 'I know. It feels
like a bit of a vacation at first, doesn't it? You
soon find out it's not. You should see the places
we've done lessons. Fighting motion sickness on
the bullet train in Japan. Holed up in a café in
Disneyland Paris. Even stuck on the London Eye.
Melinda managed to squeeze in a whole Geography
lesson on the Thames while we were on that
thing. It takes a whole half hour to go around,
you know.'

'Well, after years of being tutored by myself, it
still sounds pretty good to me. If it's here or a year
in a dusty opera singer's library, I choose here.'
(Don't tell JJ I said this.)

'It has its moments. The London Eye was fun.
The motion sickness on the bullet train thing, not
so much.'

I nod. Still, it does sound a lot more enticing
than a full year with Frau Braun, which was
looking like the alternative.

'Is that true? You were tutored by yourself
before this?'

'Mostly in Vienna. JJ worked with an opera
singer there for years. And there were a couple of
other stints in Japan and so on.'

George leans on the doorway for a second and
frowns. 'An opera singer? I thought they were
always fat. Isn't your mom some kind of weight
loss cooking guru?'

'Sort of. She's into eating healthily. It's not a
dieting thing. She doesn't believe in diets.'

'Anouschka thinks she has some kind of secret
cooking method that she never tells anyone.'

I pause for a second. 'She does. Kind of.'
Heaven forbid anyone ever finds out the exact
ingredients in JJ's recipes. I know all her tricks
and for the Anouschkas of this world, it's fairly
mind-blowing stuff. 'So, um, how about this
walk then?' I change the subject. I'm often asked
about JJ's 'secret'.

George pushes herself off the doorframe. 'Oh,
yeah, sure. I thought I could take you to this cool
park I know –
Parc André Citroën.
You haven't seen
it yet, have you?'

I shake my head. 'No. I've actually never been
to Paris before. That sounds great. I'll just go and
get the "stay together, be back in less than an hour,
don't talk to strangers with French bon bons"
lecture from JJ and we'll go.'

'I'll grab my jacket and meet you at the door.
Watch out though, Anouschka's in the kitchen.'