Blondetourage Page 4

  '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.'

  All the Goss

  (you read it

  here first)

  'What?' 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.'

  It's all about

  the shoes

  George 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 reason
s 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.