Blondetourage Read online

  '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.

  Love those

  locks

  '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 th
en, 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.