Blondetourage (8 page)

Now it's Rhys who cracks up. 'She didn't really
say that to someone?'

I nod, still laughing.

'No way.'

I nod again.

'I would have paid a lot of money to see that.'

'Me too,' I agree, just as we step onto a paved
path and turn right. 'Oh! Oh, look!' I say as I stop,
realising where we are. Ms Super Cool again, that's
me. Because there, right before me, is the Eiffel
Tower. You know, doing its towering thing. And
there, on my left, is the Seine, shimmering slightly
in the sunlight. As I take a tentative step forward
again, I touch the cold metal of the green, ornate
lamppost that Rhys and I pass. Just to check that
it's all real. That I'm in Paris. With people. People
other than Frau Braun.

Rhys laughs at me. 'You know, it's nice to see
someone who's impressed by something for once.
I think we're all a bit jaded. Living the
Rich Girls
lifestyle must do that to you.'

As we walk towards the Tower, I get to ask
Rhys a little bit more about his life – about how
he and his dad, the show's personal trainer, came
to be keeping Anouschka's thighs skinny, where
he and his dad used to live (LA), his family and
generally everything Rhys. It doesn't take long
for me to see that there's more to Rhys than his
good looks (though I won't be stopping looking at
him any time soon). He's funny and really, really
nice. As Melinda leads us slowly over the green
grass of the Champ de Mars, towards the base of
the Tower, I steal glances at both Rhys and the
looming structure getting closer to me. They're
both quite a sight.

Finally, we stop and I simply stare (yes, at the
Tower now, I'm not that much of a hussy that I'd
stop and simply stare at Rhys!). Mainly for my
benefit, everyone gets the Eiffel Tower speech,
which, from the sighs that this produces, makes me
think they've probably had it several times before
– even Fluffy sits down with a huff. Melinda may
as well be talking about the price of French
oeufs,
however, because all I hear, through my dazed stare,
is the basics – 324 metres, 108 storeys, 7300 metric
tons, made of iron, Gustave Eiffel and so on. Seriously,
all I can do is stare upwards. Of course I've
seen hundreds of pictures of the Eiffel Tower and
had to unlock my eyes from its structure every time
I used the bathroom over the past few days, but up
close – it looks completely different. I thought it
would be really black. Black and steel-like. Plain.
But it's not. It's actually kind of grey tinged with
red and is very intricate – all flounces and curls.
It's very – I can't quite find the word for it. Not
ornate, not delicate, um ... French? The fact that
I can't find any other way to describe it makes me
smile.

Eventually we move on again and I'm dragged
away. We're not going up the Tower itself, unfortunately.
Maybe some other time. What we are
doing, Melinda informs us, is taking a brisk walk
around the Champ de Mars in order to wear us
out and send the final remnants of jet lag packing.
As we set off at a faster, businesslike pace, I'm
reminded of other business. Business from last
night. Romy! She had been at the back of my
mind since we'd left the apartment, but now I
remember I need to give her some serious thought.
I take a step closer to Rhys and lean in conspiratorially.

'Can I ask you something?' I have to concentrate
on keeping up with his longer legs. I try not
to puff as I'm sure it wouldn't impress him.

'Uh huh.'

'You must know Romy and Anouschka pretty
well, right?'

Rhys shrugs. 'Sort of. It depends how you
define "know", I suppose. Why?'

'I need to know ... well, what Romy's good at,
really.'

Rhys looks over at me and frowns. 'What she's
good at? You mean, like shopping?'

'Isn't that Anouschka's forte?'

Rhys pauses. 'Er, I guess you're right. I don't
know. Food? She likes food?'

My ears prick up at this. That's true. She's always
hanging around the kitchen. And she's always interested
in what JJ's cooking. Maybe she could be a chef
too? There's something about this, however, that
instantly doesn't sit right. Last night, Romy seemed
interested in eating the food, but she didn't seem so
interested in the preparation, or the ingredients. And
that's what JJ's into the most – the creative side of
things. Dreaming up new dishes and trying new ways
of doing things. Hmmm. So maybe she's not a chef
after all. 'Anything else?' I ask Rhys.

He shrugs again. 'I don't know. What do you want
to talk about Romy for? I'm not interested in Romy.'

Now it's me who pauses. 'Oh. I ...' I'm not sure
where to look. But before I can drop back away from
Rhys, he catches my arm. 'I was just asking because
...' I let my sentence peter out, unsure of what to
say.

'Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that. It came
out the wrong way. I just meant that I didn't want
to talk about Romy. Can't we talk about something
else?'

'Um, sure. Like what?'

There's a pause as Rhys looks away, then turns
back to me with a shrug and a smile. 'I don't know,'
he says. 'We've done me, so how about you?'

Right then. Maybe finding out what Romy's
really good at can wait for just a tiny bit longer.

I
was right. Rhys
is
funny and really, really
nice.
And
obviously still has that 'if lost,
return to Ashleigh' label somewhere on him,
judging by the looks that get thrown my way
during our grassy picnic lunch. I make a note to
myself, though – seek out Ashleigh sometime soon
and have a proper chat. Try and sort things out.
But, for now, with every bite of my yummy crusty
baguette, I almost have to pinch myself. I'm sitting
next to the Eiffel Tower eating a filled baguette
lunch with people and a cat who aren't Frau Braun.
It doesn't get much better than this. As I take
another bite of my sandwich, I think about Romy
again. It might not get any better than this, but if
I don't think up some way to help Romy be a little
bit happier pronto, there might not be a whole lot
more of this. I wonder for a second or two whether
I should just tell everyone about my little midnight
chat with Romy, but as soon as I think of this,
I realise it doesn't feel right. The things Romy
told me, drugged up to the eyeballs or not, were
personal. I wouldn't feel right broadcasting her
words to everyone. Especially the stuff about her
dyslexia and her thinking about leaving the show.
For now, anyway, I'll just have to go it alone.
Hopefully I can help her find something she's good
at. Something that will keep her happy that she
can also combine with the show. Even if it is just
for this season.

'Well hey there,' Toby comes over and plonks
himself down beside me on the grass, breaking my
train of thought.

'Hi, Toby!' I uncap my bottle of water and take
a sip. 'How's it going?' I notice that George, sitting
over with Melinda, glances over at me and then
quickly looks away again. Interesting. For a second
there, her eyes had a very distinctive Ashleigh-type
'he's mine' flicker to them.

'Good, good,' he says, absentmindedly. And
then proceeds to talk, in a roundabout way, about
George for approximately ten minutes. It's astounding,
actually, how he can make every topic that
either of us brings up come right back around to
George. He asks me about Vienna, only to tell me
about the time he and George had a Vienna coffee
together. He asks about JJ, only to tell me about
what George has thought about each chef they've
had. Toby's brain is obviously stuck on the George
channel. It's very sweet, actually, and every so
often I give George a sly look and a wiggle of one
eyebrow. George, that is, who is pretending not to
watch me, but is actually watching me like a hawk.

Eventually, we pack up, throw our rubbish in
a bin and start the walk back to the apartment. It
doesn't take George long to catch up with Fluffy
and me and, when she does, we fall back a step or
two behind the others so we can chat. 'So ...' I start.
'Toby, huh?' I can't help but grin a huge grin.

George is instantly defensive. 'What about
Toby?'

I shrug. 'Why don't
you
tell me?'

'Because there's nothing to tell!'

'Really?' my eyebrows rise at this one. 'He told
me a lot about you. It was George this, George
that, the whole time he was talking to me.'

George's eyes hone in on mine now. 'What do
you mean? What did he say?'

'So now you're interested?'

I get an evil stare for this one. 'No. Yes. No. I
mean, of course I'm interested if people are talking
about me. It's completely normal.'

I rearrange Fluffy in my arms. He's getting
heavy. 'Yes. They're completely normal feelings
to have. Normal ... urges. The kind Fluffy here
would have if he weren't neutered.'

'Oh, shut up!' George gives me a whack on the
arm.

'No. Really. They're healthy teenage urges.
Nothing to be embarrassed about.' I try to keep a
straight face and fail completely.

George just shakes her head. 'You really are
disgusting, aren't you?'

'Yes. Yes, I'm afraid I am.'

'They locked you up for too long, didn't they?'

'Yes. Yes, they did. And now I have been let
loose on society.'

George watches me with interest. 'This could
get scary.'

I reach out and tap one of the green lampposts
as we walk past on the gravelly ground. 'It might.
If you don't tell me everything about you and
Toby.'

George blushes again now. 'I said there's nothing
to tell. We're just friends.'

'Mmm. Sure,' I nod, when what I really want to
say is, 'Hardly!'

'It's true!' George protests. 'Anyway, I'm not his
type.'

I eyeball her to see if she's joking. OMG. She's
not. 'You can't be serious,' I say. 'The poor boy
can't talk about anything
but
you. I think you
might be his favourite flavour. In fact, I think
you might be his
only
flavour.'

George snorts. 'Oh, yes. I'd be the ultimate girlfriend, wouldn't I?'

I frown. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

She rolls her eyes at me. 'Oh, come on. I'm
hardly the dating type, am I?'

I falter in my step and Fluffy looks up at me.
'What are you talking about? What's the "dating
type" look like?'

'Um ... Romy? Anouschka? Those names
suddenly spring to mind.'

Huh? 'Um, I don't know if you've noticed, but
a lot of people in the world date besides Romy
and Anouschka. Lots of people have even dated
Michael Jackson. Some of them even went so far
as to marry him!' We both stop for a second and
shudder before I can push the bile down again and
continue. 'I think there's more than enough room
for one dating "type".'

George just looks away and shrugs, but I keep
on at her. 'Well, I think Toby's into you. Big time.
Whether you want to do anything about that or
not is up to you, I guess.'

And as we walk on in silence, I have to bite my
lip in order to say all the other things I really want
to grab her by the shoulders and say. Like, 'What's
with you? Why are you so down on yourself? And,
while we're at it, what's with the black? There are
other colours out there, you know. Unless you're
the undead!'

But of course I don't grab her by the shoulders.
And I don't say any one of these things. Instead,
we walk on in silence, all the long way back to the
apartment.

$$$

'Now, you're going to be on your best behaviour,
right?' Melinda's head pokes in the cab window
and asks the same question in a different way for
about the five hundredth time.

'Yes, Melinda,' George and I drone together.

'Which pretty much means being invisible,
right?'

'Yes, Melinda.'

'And doing as you're asked the second you're
asked to do it?'

'Yes, Melinda.'

'Hmmm.' Her eyes narrow. 'I hope so. And
remember, Elli, JJ will pick you up at three o'clock.
George, you'll be coming back to the apartment
with the crew.'

George sighs. 'And here I was thinking I'd hitch
a ride back with the girls.'

'Georgiana Thomasina ...' Melinda starts.

George yelps like she's been stuck with a pin.
'All right already! I'll behave like an angel. Just
don't say those evil words!'

Melinda laughs. 'I'll see you two at dinner.' She
pulls her head back out of the car and waves at us.

'Look after Fluffy for me,' I call as we pull out
and Melinda nods at me. One last wave and we're
off, headed towards the flagship LV store on the
Champs-Elysées.

'Georgiana Thomasina?' I look at her.

Beside me, George groans. 'I think my father
may have wanted a boy.'

I laugh. 'Well, at least he got a George! So,
Melinda's slightly scared me now with the invisible
stuff. Any tips for today?'

'Sure,' George says. 'Keep out of the way. Like
Melinda said, act invisible. I don't usually tag along,
but you've
got
to see this place. It's completely
mad.'

'In what way?' I ask.

George pauses and stares out the window for a
minute, thinking. 'Well, I don't know. It's hard to
explain.' She turns back again. 'I just like watching
the people hanging around there. I mean, some
people are there just to stickybeak, but the shoppers.
They really
believe
.'

'Believe?' I frown.

George stops and thinks again. 'How can I
explain it? They get all jumpy and excited about
leather goods. It's honestly like they think all this
overpriced stuff will really give them a better life,
or make them happy or something. Don't get me
wrong – it's nice stuff and I totally get why people
want nice things, but I just don't get why you'd
want to carry your cat or dog around in a $1500
bag that at the end of the day is just plain uncomfortable
for both you and the dog. And what's with
the monogram business? You see it
everywhere,
right? It's hardly that exclusive. It's just not really
all that interesting is it? It doesn't say a whole lot
about you other than that you've got an expensive
handbag.'

'Or a really cheap fake one,' I add.

'Exactly,' George nods. 'I just don't get why
you'd want to spend that much money on a bag
just because everyone else has one. You know, I saw
the coolest bags the other day. They were all made
out of recycled materials – candy wrappers, newspapers,
barcodes, pull tabs, movie billboards. And they
weren't super-cheap. I think they ranged from about
$50 to over $200, which, mind you, is what some
of the fakes cost now anyway. But they were cute.
And you're not going to run into someone with the
same bag on every block. And they plant a tree for
every handbag they sell. I'd rather have something
different and meaningful that gives back any day.
Does that make any sense?'

I nod back at her, looking serious. 'Sure. And
either you really believe all of that, or you're
majorly bitter about not being able to afford a Louis
Vuitton handbag.'

George laughs. 'Rats. You've found me out. If
only I had a Louis Vuitton monogram shearling to
go with my Ugg boots, all my problems would be
solved and then I could concentrate my efforts on
world peace.'

'I have no idea what a monogram shearling is,
but I'm guessing there's leather and wool involved
and that doesn't sound pretty.'

'It's not. It's kind of a bag homage to
Silence of
the Lambs
.'

'Remind me why we're going to the store
again?' After everything George has just said, I
have to keep reminding myself why we're headed
there.

But George just waves a hand and looks out the
window, unfazed. 'I might hate their products, but
wait till you see their store. It's something else. If
you worship at the altar of consumerism, this is the
ultimate cathedral.'

$$$

'Waiting list?' Anouschka screeches at the shop
assistant. 'Waiting list?! Do I
look
like the kind of
girl who waits in line? Do I
look
like some kind
of rag-wearing refugee?'

'Mademoiselle, if you could please step this
way.'

'Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. I'm not going to
be taken to some little back room and quietened
down. Oh, no. I want that bag and I want it now.'

'Mademoiselle, please. I have explained. This
particular bag will not be available until next week
and ...'

'Ha!' Anouschka scoffs. 'So, if Scarlett Johansson walked in here now and asked for one, you
couldn't rustle one up in five different colours?'

'I am afraid I could not.'

'Agh! That's it. I've had it with this place. Out
of my way, Frenchie.' With a huff, Anouschka
pushes past the shop assistant, who goes flying. She
flounces off past us towards the front door. 'Don't
bother,' she raises her voice so the line of people
outside the door, queuing to get in, can all hear
her. 'The service here is atrocious. I'm off to Gucci.
If anyone here's smart enough to join me, feel free
to share my ride. And hello, Romy, that means
you!' she adds, turning around to bark at her best
friend, who's kind of ignoring her tantrum and
is entranced with her own image as she tries on
multiple pairs of sunglasses.

'Oh, um, okay!' Romy yelps, dropping the
sunglasses and trotting off behind Anouschka as
fast as her cast will take her. 'You don't sell cast
covers, do you?' she asks the shop assistant breathily
as she passes her by.

The shop assistant shakes her head. 'I am sorry,
mademoiselle, but we do not.'

'Oh, well ...'

'ROMY!'

'Coming!'

Silence. Pause. And then Anouschka turns
around and walks straight back inside the shop.

'That okay for you, Jane?' she calls out to
Ashleigh's mom, her hand resting on her hip.

'Beautiful,' she calls back. 'Just once more and
we'll move on. If you don't mind, a bit more of the
hissing and spitting wouldn't go astray.'

'Sure,' Anouschka says, from underneath
George's mom's kabuki brush that's taking the
shine off her non-shiny nose. 'Can do.'

'And Romy? Really fumble with those expensive
sunglasses. Maybe even drop a pair on the
floor and step on them with your cast.'

'Okay,' Romy says, obediently. Like she gets
asked to trample on $500 every day.

Oh. That's right. I guess it's looking like she does.

I turn to George now, who's already staring at
me, grinning like she's really enjoying this. 'You
look shocked.'

'But ... I ... you ... she ...' I start, not quite
knowing what to say.

'You thought it was all for real?' George
prompts. 'You thought Anouschka was evil and
Romy's brain was permanently on holiday in the
Bahamas?'

I don't know how to answer. 'No. Yes. No.
Kind of.' I think it's just strange to see both sides of
Rich Girls
coming together.

'Yeah, well, welcome to the reality of reality
TV.'

More silence. Around us, everyone hustles and
bustles and gets ready to do the scene we've just
seen played out before us all over again. While
everything gets set back up again, Romy and
Anouschka hang about, inspect their nails and
look ... well ... bored. And sort of miserable.
As if they've had enough. Hardly like the ever-shopping, ever-partying, ever-no boring moments
Rich Girls they're supposed to be.