Blondetourage (4 page)

I pull on my own jacket, wishing it had invisibility
powers. 'Thanks for the warning.'

$$$

'How'd it go?' George asks, closing the front door
to the apartment behind us. 'I see you still have
both your eyes, so there was obviously no gouging
or anything. She must be in a good mood.'

Wow. Gouging. That Anouschka must be really
something. 'Thankfully, Anouschka was scarfing
down a mushroom omelette, so she was pretty
quiet. JJ was busy tending to her every need,
so I got the "stay together, be back in less than
an hour" bit, but she forgot to mention the bon
bons.'

'Maybe she knows you couldn't resist them
anyway.'

I laugh. 'Probably. After years of Viennese
chocolate, resisting supermarket-style chocolate is
pretty easy, but French bon bons? I don't think
so.'

'Before we go, I've got to ask. Why JJ? Why
not Mom?' George pauses in the hall, looking
confused. 'JJ is your mom, right?'

'Well, for a start, we're Australian, so it's "Mum",
which kind of confuses people. And the JJ is a bit
of a family joke. Everyone in our family has two
names. We have our real names and our "sit-com"
names – the names that we should have been called
because they suit us better. JJ's real name is Susan.'

George pauses for a moment then nods. 'Definitely
weird, but I can see that. She's not a Susan.
What's your sit-com name, then?'

I grimace. 'Petunia. Another little family joke.
A not-so-funny one.'

Another pause. 'I guess you had to be there.'

I laugh. 'Don't worry. It doesn't make any sense
and you don't want to go to the headspace where it
does. If you understand my family, you're in huge
mental trouble.'

'I so know what you mean. Wait till you meet
my mom. Like I told you, she's the makeup artist.
She thinks it's perfectly okay to walk right up
to people and begin inspecting their blemishes
and picking at their skin. But anyway, stairs or
elevator?' George points at each with one hand.

'Stairs for sure. My legs are still cramped from
the plane and the car.'

'Me too.'

We start the long trot down the ten flights of
stairs, George leading. 'From what I hear, she's
a good chef, your mom. Probably the best we've
had so far. There's been some serious excitement
waiting for you guys to get here.'

'Really?'

'Definitely. Some of the others were terrible. It
all depends on Anouschka's latest fad. The last guy
was Japanese. That was pretty good. For a while. I
mean, there's only so much Japanese food you can
eat, right?'

'I guess so.' There'd been times during one of
our stints in Tokyo that JJ and I had been hanging
out for some Indian or Thai food.

'Before the Japanese chef, it was a macrobiotic
thing. Boy, was that ever fun. You'd be better off
chowing down on straw. So what's your mom's big
secret to weight loss if she's not into the dieting
thing?'

My legs instantly stop moving quite so quickly.
'Oh, um ...'

'What's up?' George stops and turns around,
one hand resting on the railing beside us.

'It's just ... I can't really say.'

'You mean it's a trade secret?'

'Sort of. Sorry. I can't say much, but it's all about
nutrition – kind of making everyday things like
burgers and muffins and stuff better for you and
more filling.'

George shrugs on hearing this. 'Sounds good.
I didn't mean to pry. I'm happy as long as I keep
getting fed real food. And Anouschka'll be happy
as long as her thighs don't get any bigger. Though
I can guarantee you she'll be dying to know all
your mom's tricks if she loses any weight.'

We start back down the stairs again. 'What
about Romy? Has she got food issues too?' I ask
after another half flight.

'Romy doesn't seem to mind what she eats.
Though I have to say she wasn't so fussed on the
whole macrobiotic thing either. It's Anouschka who's
the pain where food's concerned. Not Romy.'

I remember the vulture-like hunger screech. 'I
gathered that. Anyway, from what I've seen of the
show, it's Anouschka who's the pain about everything
and Romy is simply the dumb sidekick,
tagging along behind her like a love-sick puppy.'

George slows down, still a step or two ahead of
me. 'Yeah, well ... sort of. Romy's ... okay,' she
says reluctantly.

Instantly, I feel bad. As much as I hate the show,
I should be a bit more careful with what I say.
After all, it could mean JJ's job on the line and
plus, while I think George feels pretty much the
same way about the show as I do, one of the girls
could be her second cousin for all I know. So, yes,
maybe that was a bit harsh.

'Sorry,' I say as George starts off again. 'I didn't
mean ...'

'No, it's all right. You'll work them out soon
enough. Anouschka – well, she's the kind of chick
who knows what she wants and will trample every
last person on earth to get it. She's probably not
as high maintenance as you think, though. Best
to just steer clear of her, really. Romy, though –
she's very different from what you see in the show.
You'll see.'

'I can't say I'd fancy being Anouschka's best
friend, if I was her. Are they really? Best friends,
I mean?'

George glances back up at me as we keep going.
'Oh, yeah. They're tight. They've known each
other forever.'

Hmmm. Interesting. I think about everything
George has just told me as we make our way
down the final flight of stairs. Still, maybe it's
not so hard to believe, especially the bit about
Romy being different to her on-screen persona.
In
Rich Girls,
Romy is forever the dumb deer
in the headlights. She's always getting herself in
(and, surprisingly, out) of trouble and seems to
have about three exclamations that she rotates on
an as-needs basis – 'Ohmygod', 'Is that true?' and
'Anouschka, you can't say that!' Really thought provoking
stuff. If she was truly like that for
more than an hour a week, she would have been
lucky to survive childhood, let alone living with
Anouschka for a couple of years. Still, there's one
thing I don't get.

As we keep clip-clopping down the final flight
of stairs, I speak up. 'What I don't understand is
why the girls are both around so much. I thought
they'd have their own apartment and that JJ would
be off all day cooking there. How come they're
slumming it sharing an apartment with us?'

George crosses the parquetry floor and opens
the heavy wooden door that leads out onto the
(French!) footpath. She laughs at this, holding
the door with her back and letting me pass through.
'Only because they have to!'

'Huh?' I wait for her to let the door go and we
start off down the street together. I don't understand
what she's getting at.

'You really don't know, do you?' she says when
we're walking alongside each other once more.
'No one's told you yet.'

'Told me what?'

'You've got your secret. Well, that's
our
big
secret.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'A secret, huh? So, are you
telling?'

George smirks what I'm coming to realise is
a very George-like smirk. 'Sure, why not? The
secret is ... the Rich Girls? They're not rich at all.
In fact, they're not even close.'

'W
hat?' I stop dead in the middle of the
footpath and some (French!) guy whacks
into my back. 'Sorry!' I call out as he passes on by,
but really I'm already focused back in on George.
'Are you serious?' I ask her.

George grabs my arm, pulls me forward and we
keep walking. I'd been all set to drink in every
second of Paris – the people, the smells, the shops,
the cute dogs – but now all I can see and hear is
George.

'Oh, yeah. I'm serious all right,' she answers
me.

'But ... how? I mean, how can they not be rich?
They're always spending money shopping, flying
everywhere, changing their clothes every two and
a half minutes or so.'

George shoves her hands in the pockets of her
bomber jacket as the afternoon cools down. 'All
easily explained. The show's producers provide the
flights and the transport and the accommodation
and stuff. That's all for the show. The shopping and
the clothing and things – the designers are dying
to get their stuff on Romy and Anouschka's backs.
That's all free.'

'But their families ... everyone knows them or
something, don't they? They're really rich, aren't
they?'

'Oh, no. Don't get me wrong. They're not
actors or anything – their families really are
super-wealthy. It's just that Romy and Anouschka
themselves don't have a bean between them. Not
until they turn twenty-one, anyway.'

'Ahhh ...' I speed up a little in order to keep up
with George. 'Now I get it. So this is like a real
job for them.'

George nods. 'It's this or the toothpaste factory.
Well, for Anouschka, anyway. That's what her
parents do.'

'Interesting.' My brain takes this all in slowly.

'I like to think so. Anyway, that, my friend, is
why we're all sharing an apartment. And here we
are.' With this, George makes a sharp left and stops.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

When George said 'park', I'd been expecting a
bit of grass, a bench or two and maybe some old
dodgy fountain, but I guess Parisians wouldn't 'do'
a bit of grass, a bench or two and some old dodgy
fountain. It would probably offend their stylish
French eyes. Instead, I'm met with a view extending
before me of rich green grass, punctuated by
modern concrete and granite plinths, perfectly
trimmed hedges, flat canal-like stretches of water
and tall glasshouses. It's the strangest park I've ever
seen, but inviting nonetheless.

'You like it?' George looks over at me.

'I do. It's just not what I was expecting. It's really
...' I can't find the word I'm looking for.

'Futuristic?'

'That's it! Exactly. It's what all parks will look
like a hundred years from now. It's fantastic!'

She laughs. 'That's why I love bringing people
here. You always get a strong reaction. Anouschka
thinks it's hideous.'

Now I snort. 'Well then, I
really
love it. Anyway,
she probably just hates it because there isn't a gift
shop. Come on, show me around!'

$$$

We spend the next half hour or so exploring the
black, white, red and blue gardens (like George
said, 'futuristic' is definitely the word). I think
my favourite bit has to be the fun choreographed
fountain with spurting water jets that all the kids
are dying to run in and out of, but it's simply
getting too cold, oh, and the glasshoused, light-filled
orangerie
and ... okay, I pretty much like
everything. It's an amazing park. Everywhere you
turn, there's a complete change of scenery – almost
as if you're in a different park altogether.

Finally, the flight and all the accompanying racing
around catching up with us, George and I sink into
the green grass and watch the (French!) world go
by. We're both silent for quite a few minutes. It's
George who ends up speaking first. 'So, kindred
spirit, spill. Why do you hate
Rich Girls
so much?'

Her question surprises me, coming out of
nowhere. 'Um ...' I have to stop and think for a
minute, but I don't come up with anything major.
'I don't know, really. The usual, I guess. I mean, it's
just so boring. All they ever talk about is clothes and
shoes and bags and getting their eyebrows plucked.'

'Not plucked – threaded,' George points out,
rolling her eyes. 'Threaded. It used to be all about
flying out Anastasia from Beverly Hills. Now it's
all about threading.'

'Right. Threading. Sorry. I'll try to keep up.' I
roll my own eyes. 'How I missed it on the world
news, I'll never know.'

George laughs.

'Not to mention all the stupid things they do
and say that everyone thinks is oh-so hilarious.

Like the time Romy finally got that bag the girls
wanted.'

'The pink crocodile small-scales-only Birkin
with the gold and pave diamonds?'

'Um, I think so. And then she left it in a cab
within fifteen minutes.'

George gives me a 'yeah, right' look.

Oh. 'I guess she didn't really do that, huh?'

'I don't think Hermès likes you losing a $50,000
purse that they've given you on loan.'

Ah. I cringe now. How stupid am I? 'I never
really thought about it too hard.'

George shrugs. 'You're not meant to. Until a
few days ago, you were a viewer. Or a once-only
viewer, as the case may be. Now you're an insider.'

An insider. The word makes me pause for a
second or two. Even if I have to tag along with the
Rich Girls to be one, there's something within me
that grabs on to the thought of being an 'insider'
and holds tight. Up until now, it's always been
the opposite. I've always been on the outside. An
outsider. Tucked away studying in foreign country
after foreign country. Friendless apart from my own
flesh-and-blood cousin and my so-called MySpace
buddy Tom (yes, the friend they give you for free
when you sign up). Being an insider, like George,
sounds like a nice change. I remember what she'd
said before, that Romy wasn't so bad. 'So the girls
really aren't stupid at all?'

Another shrug. 'They're not who they make
themselves out to be, that's for sure.'

'And that's why you hate the show? Because
they're not who they say they are? Because it's not
really real?'

George sits up a bit straighter with this and
rearranges herself on the grass, so her legs are
stretched out. 'Oh, no,' she says breezily. 'I hate the
show because it glorifies people who are beautiful
and popular. I'll never be either of those things, so,
naturally, it tends to grate on little old B-list me.'

I almost laugh. The carefree way in which
George pops the sentence out doesn't really match
with what she's saying and, at first, I think she's
joking. But then I see her expression, which is
quite serious, despite her carefree tone, and realise
she's not joking at all. Like a goldfish, I open my
mouth, but nothing comes out. I don't know what
to say to this. I don't know what to say to her at
all. 'But ... you ...' I start, trying desperately to
think of something.

'It's okay, I'm all right with it. It's just the plain
old truth, after all. I'm not tall and blonde and
gorgeous and rich like them. I don't have some
pretty-pretty girly-girl candy-floss name, or look
good in varying shades of pink. I don't drip with
diamonds. No one's going to make a show about
me, or read about me in the tabloids, or care what
I wear, or where I get my eyebrows styled, or ...'
she ends with another shrug, which seems to say
she could go on all day if she wanted to. After
being corrected on the eyebrows and the Birkin
before, I have no doubt she probably could.

'But ...' I have to say something. But what?

George shakes her head at my efforts. 'Really.
I'm not looking for you to talk me round or
anything. It's how things are. I'm okay with it. I'm
not one of them and that's more than fine with me.
Really. I mean it – it's okay. You can agree with
me whenever you want.'

I stare at George as she speaks. The weird thing
is, on the face of it, it all makes sense, doesn't it?
I mean, she's right. George isn't a Rich Girl, is
highly unlikely ever to be one and there's not
much point in trying desperately to be something
you're not (not that I think for a moment George
would truly want to be one of 'them' anyway). But
still there's something in me that doesn't want to
agree with her. I'm not sure what it is, but all of a
sudden I feel completely and totally cheated. She
hates the fact that the Rich Girls are pretending
to be something they're not? Well, that's exactly
the way I feel right now about George. Because
up until now I thought George was one of those
lucky people who go through life knowing exactly
who they are and what they want. She hates
Rich
Girls.
Likes wearing black. And a whole eyeliner
pencil on each eye. You know, self-assured and
confident. The kind of person I'd always wanted
to be. But now ... what's she's saying – it just
doesn't feel right. I don't want to agree with her
because my gut tells me on some level it's a kind
of put-down to herself– that she really does think
she's B-list because she's different. And now I feel
cheated because, to me, that's what made her A-list
all along.

Tirade obviously over, George shrugs, then
reaches down and busies herself plucking out single
blades of grass. I remain quiet, not wanting to say
just anything, or brush away what she's telling me.
In the silence, I inspect her carefully, really looking
at her – at this new person who's suddenly popped
into my (before now) very small world. I stare at this
tiny, black-clad shiny beetle of a girl sitting beside
me who's smart and funny and sassy and more 'all
that' than any Rich Girl. And I want to say the
thing that's going to change her mind and make
everything better. But I can't. I don't know what
that is. What I want to say is, 'I think you're something
pretty special, George.' But in my head, that
just sounds corny. In the end, I tell myself I'll find
the perfect words later and simply nod. 'Um, okay
then. As long as you're really all right with that.'

George nods as well – a little too hard. 'Oh, I
am. I am.'

Riiiiight. She is so not. I'll definitely think hard
about all of this and get back to her later, I tell
myself.

George continues plucking out blade after blade
of grass, inspecting each one and then letting it
drop again, then seems to realise what she's doing
and stops with a jump. She turns back to face me.
'So, now I've opened up the depths of my soul to
you, tell me why you
really
hate
Rich Girls
?'

I frown, not understanding her question. 'I told
you.'

She chuckles in reply. 'Um, no, you didn't. You
told me what you tell other people. You know, the
sanitised version of why you hate the show.'

I pause. 'But what I told you – that really is why
I hate the show.'

There's a moment or two of silence as George's
eyes bore into mine. She stares at me so intensely
and unblinkingly, that I'm surprised her gaze
doesn't go straight through my head and set fire to
the hedges behind me.

'Really,' I say after a while. 'That really is why
I hate it.'

George continues staring for a moment longer
before she looks away, decidedly unimpressed.
'Yeah, sure. If you say so. Come on,' she jumps up.
'We'd better get back.'