Blondetourage (5 page)

G
eorge and I walk most of the way back in
silence and when we do talk, it's about our
surroundings, not about us, or what we've just been
discussing. It's getting colder now, it's definitely
autumn; the late afternoon shadows lengthen and
our steps become quicker as we get closer to the
apartment, the two of us wanting to be back inside
for all kinds of reasons other than just warmth and
dinner. As we round the final corner, however,
and enter our 'rue', we stop dead and stare. In front
of our door is a messy tangle of media, florist vans
and ... an ambulance. George and I forget about
everything else, look at each other for a split second
and then bolt for the door. Something's obviously
going on. Something big.

We push our way through the crowd and
George enters the code that will open the front
door. A couple of journalists try to edge their way
in with us, but George gives them a steely glare and
tells them the minute they enter the foyer they'll
be trespassing, and they immediately back off.
Meanwhile, two of the florists load us down with
bouquets and flower arrangements. I'm guessing
by everyone's expressions that they've already
been waiting some time. With the door safely shut
behind us, we don't wait for the lift; instead we
opt for the stairs, running as quickly as we can
while holding half a florist shop each. We're
winded by the time we reach the apartment door
and George gasps as she fumbles her way through
zapping her keycard through the lock and getting
us inside. As soon as we enter, there's another messy
tangle before us. Most of the staff are huddled in
the hall, seemingly discussing whatever's going on
downstairs.

'What is it? What's happened?' George asks,
puffing all the while.

Her mom looks over. 'Oh, George. There you
are. It's Romy. I'm afraid she's broken a bone.'

My mouth falls open. Half, I think, for Romy
and half for me. I'm worried about Romy, of course.
My aunt Janet had fallen over in the kitchen a
couple of years ago and broken her leg. She'd been
by herself and had kept losing consciousness and it
had been a few hours before someone had found
her. She lost a lot of blood internally and had to
have a transfusion. It had been pretty serious. And
then, like I said, I'm worried for me. Because I get
a flash realisation that the show could be cancelled
at any minute. And while I might not like
Rich
Girls
and what it stands for, I have to admit I'm
loving my new 'insider' life, even though I've only
been here for about five minutes. There's a quick,
stabbing pain in my chest that comes with the
knowledge that Romy's broken bone could mean
the end and that it might be back to Vienna for JJ
and me.

'What did she break?' George asks the obvious
question. I'd ask it myself, but my mouth is still
hanging wide open, catching French flies.

Ashleigh's mom, the executive producer, sighs
and shakes her head. 'It's not good, I'm afraid.
What did you say it was again?' she turns to ask
Rhys's dad – the girls' personal trainer.

'There was a definite break to her first metatarsal
and a hairline fracture to her ankle,' he says, as
if it's no big deal. 'She'll probably live.'

Ashleigh's mom gives him a 'you just don't get
it, do you?' look. 'But she's in a cast. She'll be out
of heels for
weeks.'

George's head and mine whip from staff member
to staff member, following the conversation. 'Her
first meta-what?'

Melinda pops up in the background with a
diagram and I almost laugh. Trust Melinda to
make Romy's broken bone a learning experience.
No wonder they hired her – she's the queen of
education on the road. 'Her first metatarsal. Right
here.' She steps forward to point out the bone itself.
It's not a toe, like I'd expected, but a bone on top
of the foot.

George and I take a closer look and then pause
a moment before our eyes come together and then
move up to Melinda's at the same time. 'That teeny
tiny bone? That's what she broke? That's what all
the fuss and the ambulance and the flowers are for?
She didn't break something else as well? Like her
femur? Or maybe her soft head?'

'George,' George's mom warns.

'Oh, yes, sorry, and let's not forget the hairline
fracture of her ankle. It's probably being reported
all over the media right now that she broke her
leg. Or her hip. You know, something that might
actually be serious! And I can't believe they could
even put a tiny break like that in a cast. I bet
they only put it in a cast because she'll forget it's
broken otherwise. Oh, brother,' George dumps
her flowers and stalks off through the group of
staff. 'And to think I was worried. So Romy
won't wear heels for a couple of weeks. Newsflash,
people, Romy doesn't wear heels! Flats are
her trademark! Anyway, it'll probably just turn
into the next big trend. One flat and a white cast.
Like Michael Jackson and his one white glove. Or
maybe Armani will release a snap-on cast for the
girl who has everything but a broken foot.' She
makes a 'pffft' noise and waves one hand behind
her, dismissively, as she goes. But then, just as fast
as she's taken off, she stops. 'Wait. Wait a second.
How did she break it?'

All staff eyes turn and swivel to Ashleigh's mom,
who doesn't look pleased. 'She slipped and fell on
some steps. We're not sure how it happened, but it
looks like there was some grease on the stairs and
she slipped on that. Anouschka reached out for her,
but just missed grabbing her, unfortunately.'

There's a pause and then George hoots a loud
hoot. 'Her first metatarsal, huh? That is just the
limit,' she shakes her head. 'I'm out of here. You
coming, Elli?'

Everyone's gaze switches to me for a second and
I gulp. 'Um, sure,' I answer and trot off behind her
obediently. And I'm ashamed to say I'm glad now.
Not because of Romy and the fact that she doesn't
exactly need a transfusion, but for me, because
I'm over the moon that I've just received a Vienna
reprieve.

Phew.

$$$

Melinda follows close behind us and whisks us into
the kitchen where JJ is loading up hungry students
with bowls of fragrant, steaming Thai green beef
curry and jasmine rice. We carry our bowls,
cutlery and sparkling mineral waters into the large
study, where Melinda has set up two trestle tables.
Looks like we'll be having a working dinner. And
keeping out of everyone's way.

Halfway through an Art History class on the
Impressionists (not really one of our subjects, but
Melinda is hoping to fit in a quick visit to the
Louvre) and half a bag of JJ's favourite Vietnamese
coconut toffees for dessert, my jeans pocket
vibrates once, telling me I've just received an SMS.
When I think no one's looking, I slip it out of my
pocket and take a quick peek.

OMG. Heard on radio Romy dead. Report immed!

There's a snort beside me and I realise someone
(Rhys, as a matter of fact) has been reading over
my shoulder. I glance up just as a hand reaches
over and takes my cell phone off me. 'I see you
forgot to turn it off, Elli,' Melinda says, placing it
on her own desk. 'Don't forget to collect it after
class is over.'

Hmmm. Guess I won't be replying any time
soon. Apparently we're going back-to-back tonight.
A quick overview of the Impressionists and then a
German lesson.

'Sorry,' Rhys makes an 'oops' face at me when
Melinda has passed by and is busy talking to
Ashleigh.

I look at him for a second longer than I probably
should and then quickly glance away in case he
thinks I'm staring. 'That's okay,' I mumble. But
to myself, I think: okay? Of course it's okay. With
that face I'd just about forgive him anything! And
I'm just about to start daydreaming when, from my
other side, I get a kick on my ankle. George. 'Ow!'
I whisper at her, but George just flicks her head,
gesturing to the row behind us. I glance back.
Melinda has moved on. But Ashleigh, it seems, has
not. One row behind me and two seats to my left,
her eyes are shooting daggers at me. Slowly, I turn
back around again to see a scribbled line or two
written on my notebook.
He's hers
it says.
Problem
is, she forgot to cc him in on the memo.

$$$

I wake up at 3.17 am and can't get back to sleep.
I think I'm suffering from jet lag and it's hardly
surprising. Vienna, Sydney, NYC, Paris. My body
has no idea where it is and what it's supposed to be
doing. Right now it's telling me it's time to eat.
That is, my stomach is telling me it's time to eat.
Either that, or some alien-like animal is about to
burst out of my intestines, going by the noises that
my mid-section is making. I try to ignore it for a
bit, texting Steph back (finally) and reading for a
while, but eventually give up and get up. Trying to
be quiet so I don't wake JJ, or anyone else, I make
my way to the kitchen in the dim light available.
It gets brighter as I get closer to the kitchen and
I realise JJ must have left the lights on in there. I
keep going, thinking only about my stomach each
step closer I get to the fridge. And I'm just imagining
a second dinner of Thai green curry leftovers
when I turn the corner into the kitchen and ...

'Oh!' I say with a start, immediately forgetting
about my stomach entirely. 'Sorry, I'll just ...' I
turn to go.

'No. That's okay,' Romy says from where she's
perched on one of the island's super-cool stainless
steel bar stools, her cast sticking out at an angle.
'I can't sleep either. We may as well not sleep
together.' She gives me a sad little half smile. Her
eyes are sort of red, like she's been crying.

I take a few steps over. 'Does your foot hurt?
Did you want me to get someone?'

'No,' she shakes her head quickly. 'I'm okay. It
doesn't hurt any more. It's just that I slept all afternoon.
They gave me way too many painkillers at
the hospital. Complete overkill. I could barely lift
my head up.' She shrugs then. 'I bet that was some
great footage – stupid Romy does the emergency
room. How very funny.'

'I ... uh ...' I'm not sure what to do. With all of
JJ's other clients I've existed entirely on a don't be
either seen
or
heard basis.

'Come on then, pull up a stool. I don't bite.'

I want to add, 'No, that would be Anouschka',
but don't, of course (I'm sure George would have
kept going, however).

I take another step over. 'Can I get you something?'
I ask, falling into JJ's role.

'A new life?' Romy laughs a fake laugh, then
probably spots my freaked out expression. 'How
about a glass of water?'

A glass of water I can do. But then I take a
closer look at her – at those dark-ringed, slightly
red eyes and pale colouring. This is a girl who
needs comfort. 'How about a glass of water and a
cup of chamomile tea with honey?' I try.

Romy smiles a real smile at me then. 'Chamomile
tea with honey sounds perfect,' she says, with
a sniff. 'Hey, did you go to a park or something
today? You smell just like fresh-cut grass.'

$$$

I end up making Romy her tea and heat up a big
stack of crepes that JJ has left in the fridge with a
sign on top that says 'MIDNIGHT SNACK – EAT
ME!' Actually, that's not quite honest. The first
two words read 'MIDNIT SNAKE', but I know
what she means and I grab the note, crumple it up
and drop it on top of the plastic wrap that had been
covering the crepes before Romy, or anyone else,
sees it, reads it and starts to think that because my
mother is dyslexic, she's also stupid. JJ is one of the
most headhunted chefs in the world. She's many
things (including annoying at times), but she's
not stupid. The thing is, people tend to jump to
conclusions when they see her spelling. It's always
best for them to find out she's dyslexic
after
they
know how smart she is. Not that she tries to cover
it up, but she's worked for some people for years
before they find out.

It takes me a few minutes to turn the plain
crepes into crepes with warmed real maple syrup
and crepes with fresh lemon and vanilla sugar. I'd
expected skinny Romy to protest about the pile of
food and I'm surprised to find that she doesn't hold
back, but tucks in, demolishing four of the lemon
and sugar ones by the time I've only been able to
get through two.

'Sorry,' she says, catching me looking at her
as I reach for a third crepe. 'Hungry. And really,
really good,' she points at the crepes with her air-
suspended knife.

'No need to apologise,' I tell her. 'JJ will
be happy you've eaten them. She loves people
enjoying her food.' I notice then that Romy's knife
is shaking a little in her hand and, after a second or
two, she notices me noticing. 'Are you sure you're
okay?' I bring my eyes up then to meet hers, but
she keeps staring at the knife shaking in front of
her and takes some time in answering.

'No, not really,' she finally says.

It's not exactly the answer I'd been hoping for.
I turn and look at the entrance to the hallway,
hoping someone is going to enter and save me. But
no luck. I swivel back around in my seat. 'I ... um
... do you want to talk about it?'

Romy does look at me then. Really looks at me.
'Why would I want to do that?' she asks, almost
suspiciously. As if I might have a tape recorder
hidden in my pjs. Still, I guess I could have. Maybe
something like that has even happened to her
before.

I stare back at her, wondering if I should offer
that she give me a quick frisk. 'I ... I don't know.
You don't have to. I just thought you might like
to.'

Romy glances away and then her fingers reach
out and pick up JJ's crumpled up note. She brings
it back closer to her and begins to play with it,
picking at it. I'm worried for a second that she's
going to open it up and read it, but she doesn't.