Blondetourage Read online

  '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.

  Uncomfortable with the silence, I continue. 'Whatever it is, it can't be that bad, can it? Maybe I could ... I don't know ... give you a fresh perspective. I mean, I don't really know anything about you, do I? I never even saw Rich Girls until a fortnight or so ago.' Oh, great. What on earth did I say that for? Good one, Elli.

  Naturally, Romy zooms in on this last sentence. She drops the note and turns to face me properly. 'Are you serious?'

  I nod. Please don't fire JJ, I think.

  'So you don't know anything about me?'

  'Not really.'

  'Do you know much about my family?'

  'I guess I thought you might have one. From what I've heard they're really wealthy.'

  Romy laughs at this. 'But you don't know who they are and what they do?'

  I shrug. 'Nope. I've kind of been living in operatic isolation for a couple of years in Vienna. TV and internet for one hour only per day. No cell phone.'

  'Are you serious?'

  'Deadly. But please don't tell anyone. It's a bit of a secret. If too many other teenagers find out I'm not one of their kind, they may stone me to death.'

  Romy laughs at this and finally looks at ease again. 'That's just ...'

  'Cruel. Inhumane. Torturous ...' I finish her sentence for her. 'Tell me about it. Most of JJ's bosses have been more than slightly strange.' I pause, then realise what I've said. 'Oh! Except for you, of course. You seem really nice!' I add hurriedly.

  Romy laughs again. 'Nice save.' She reaches out and slowly picks up another crepe, placing it on her plate, shaking her head all the while. 'Do you know how ... refreshing that is? To hear you don't know who my family is? Sometimes it feels like everyone I meet has already decided who I am and where I fit into the scheme of things. Sometimes I think there's not even any point being me. I'm just this outlined shape they've already coloured in.'

  Silence.

  Yikes. I mean, what do you say to that? It's a bit deep for 3 am with a side of crepes, isn't it?

  'Sorry,' Romy sighs, starting to pick at her crepe. 'I'm freaking you out, aren't I?'

  I think about this for a moment. 'Um, not really.' I take another crepe as well. 'So, what does your family do? Are they like the mafia or something?'

  Romy laughs for a third time at this.

  And then, over the next forty-five minutes or so, she tells me pretty much everything I'd ever need to know about her.

  Romy's secret

  life

  Like I said, Romy tells me everything. I get Romy's life story, her family's life story, Anouschka's life story, Anouschka's family's life story. Like I said, everything. I practically even get dished the dirt on good old Fluffy (who's by now cuddled up on my lap and fast asleep after I found him a few non-crepe cat treats). I hear all about Anouschka's father and grandfather, the toothpaste barons (no wonder her teeth are so scarily white) and how her two brothers have been groomed to be mouthwash and floss barons. I almost laugh at this, but suck the laugh back in when I see Romy is serious. She goes on to tell me just what they all think about Anouschka's 'career'. Apparently, not much.

  Romy talks and talks and talks. All I need to do is nod my head every so often and pick at my crepe in a semi-interested way and she's off again. After only a few minutes, I realise that she might be talking just a little too much (there's the understatement of the new millennium). The thing is, every so often I see Romy look kind of weird. Her expression a bit spacey, maybe even a tad drugged, her speech a tiny bit slurred, her hand shaking the tiniest amount again. I get the distinct impression it might be the painkillers telling me everything I'm hearing, so I make sure I butt in and ask her several times if she wants to go back to bed, or if she wants me to get someone, but every single time she says no, she's fine. She tells me she's having a great time talking to someone who doesn't know anything about her. She says 'refreshing' so many times, I start to wonder if we're in a Schweppes commercial or something.

  After a fifteen minute rundown on everything Anouschka, she starts in on herself. I then get to hear all about her own family. How they own a bunch of newspapers and that just about every member of her extended family is a famous editor, publisher, journalist or novelist. But not her. Romy, as she puts it, is some kind of freakish genetic throwback. Not at all academic, she'd been hopeless at school, barely graduating. I'm not sure what to say when she tells me this, because for a second or two, I almost don't believe her. I might have a few weeks ago, before I actually met her. But now ... nope. No way. In just the short amount of time I've spent with her over the last couple of days, I've realised one thing – Romy isn't the ditz they make her out to be on Rich Girls. She's nice. And kind of funny in a goofy way. Sure, she's not going to discover a cure for cancer any time soon, but I'm seriously doubting I am, either. What it comes down to is that Romy is not the ditz I assumed she was and while I might have doubted she could graduate from fifth grade last week, now I know better. I open my mouth, trying to think of something to say, when Romy leans over and sticks her head in my face, almost overbalancing on her stool.

  'Whoops!' she says and grabs the bench in front of her. She leaves her head, however, right in my face, a few stray hairs tickling my nose. 'Tell me something, Elli, is my head flat?'

  Okaaaaay, maybe I should hold out on that graduating fifth grade thing for a bit. Or maybe it's time to put that poor girl to bed.

  'Well, is it? Is it flat?' The most copied hairstyle in the world waves about in front of me. If only Steph could see me now, I think, my eyes wide.

  'I, um, I don't think it's flat, Romy.'

  She sits back upright again and winces. 'You'd think it might be. Because that's what I got all my l
ife. Pats on the head from my family. I was the pretty one. The life of the party. The fun time girl. What they meant was I was the stupid one.'

  I watch her closely again. 'I'm sure they don't think you're stupid.'

  Romy snorts the most elegant snort I've ever heard. 'Sure. They never once thought that. You know what some journalist called me the other day? A "celebutard". My brother thought that was really funny. He faxed me the article just so I could read it. He even highlighted it for me, so I didn't miss the good bit.'

  My eyebrows raise at this. 'He faxed it to you? And highlighted it?'

  There's a long pause.

  'Yes.' Romy sounded miserable.

  I'm not sure what to say, so I say the obvious thing. 'Well, that wasn't very nice of him, was it?!' Geez. He sounds like he needs more than a few minutes in the Supernanny naughty corner.

  She shrugs. 'Being a Rich Girl is all I'm good for. But, oh, I don't know ...' she pauses. 'Sometimes ...' I nod at her, expectantly.

  'I don't know ... sometimes I just feel like I want to do something more.'

  'Like what?' I prompt.

  She stops again and thinks for a second. 'I'm not sure. Like something I'm really good at. Something that's really about me.' Romy turns to look at me. 'I guess you think I'm the ultimate poor little rich girl, don't you?' She laughs slightly. 'Crying over nothing when I've got the perfect life.'

  But I shake my head slowly in return. 'No. I don't, actually.'

  Romy looks surprised. 'You don't?'

  'Nope.'

  'Oh,' she thinks about this for a moment. 'And, um, why is that?'

  I consider my words for a second. I don't want to get JJ fired, after all. 'Well, because it kind of all adds up, doesn't it? You just said your family always made you out to be the less smart one and now your job, your whole life, really, is being this Rich Girl character who isn't really you and also isn't that bright, but everyone assumes you're one and the same. It can't be easy for you. It must get you down.'