Blondetourage

by Allison Rushby

  I snap out of my 'what is it with that Ashleigh girl?' daze. 'George is just being her usual hilarious self,' I tell him. 'Aren't you, George?'

  George's cheeks redden slightly with this. 'I've, um, got to go ask Melinda about something,' she says and jogs off, leaving me with Rhys and Toby.

  'Guess I'll talk to her later, huh?' Toby shrugs, then falls back a few steps again, whips out his cell and starts texting, oblivious to the gorgeousness of the streets of Paris. Frankly, I'm still a little bit (okay, majorly) in awe of this place. And since we've set out today, slowly making our way across the 15th arrondissement to the Seine, I've had to play it cool and stop yelping, 'Oh, look!' at even the most obvious things. 'Oh, look! A lady making crepes!', 'Oh, look! A fromagerie !', 'Oh, look! A patisserie!', 'Oh, look! A Starbucks/McDonalds/ KFC/Curves women's gym where you can work off all the crepes, cheese, croissants, Starbucks, McDonalds and KFC!'

  'So,' Rhys says, beside me, waking me up from my 'Wow! I could be fat in Paris!' daydream. 'It looks like you're enjoying Paris, huh?'

  I smile at him. I'm that transparent, am I? 'It's nice not to be in Vienna for once,' I tell him. But then I realise I sound ungrateful. I mean, I'm sure lots of people would jump at the chance to live in Vienna. 'Not that Vienna is a bad place, it was just a bit ... I was a bit ... lonely.' And then I realise I sound like a Nigel no friends, so I keep right on blathering. 'Not that I didn't have any friends, it was just ...' My cell phone starts ringing, thankfully saving the day. And saving my red cheeks, which are surely redder than George's were just moments ago. 'Excuse me,' I tell Rhys and juggle Fluffy's leash so I can grab my cell from my pocket, gripping it for dear life. It's JJ, according to the screen.

  'Guess what I just did?' she says with a groan, even before I get to say hello.

  'What?' I ask her warily. I'd been wanting to ask her how her chat with Romy went last night, but I hadn't managed to catch up with her this morning. She'd been busy with breakfast and getting lunches ready.

  'I just ordered confiture des grosses selles instead of confiture des groseilles .'

  I frown, thinking hard. My French is good, but it's not that good. 'Hang on ...' I keep on thinking. Des grosses selles. Groseilles. Oh. Oh, wait. I crack up now. Really crack up and the whole group turns to look at me. Melinda gives me, and Toby behind me, the 'put that cell phone away and take in the beauty of Paris' glare. 'I getcha, but I also gotta go,' I tell JJ.

  'Thanks for the sympathy,' she groans again. 'Apparently we have a date this afternoon. I'm taking you out to see the real Paris.'

  'Great!' I tell her. 'I can't wait. A bientôt !'

  'C'est ça ! Au revoir !' JJ chirps.

  I press end and shove my cell back in my pocket. 'Sorry,' I tell everyone, including Fluffy, who's not enjoying having his leash passed from hand to hand, and they go back about their walking business. I turn to Rhys. 'JJ called to tell me she just ordered confiture des grosses selles instead of confiture des groseilles.'

  'Uh huh,' he gives me a 'what on earth are you talking about' stare. 'And that's pretty funny because ...?'

  I laugh again. 'It would have been if they'd had it. How would you fancy big poo jam instead of red currant jam on your croissant tomorrow morning?'

  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.

  Fashion

  face-off

  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 g
oods. 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.'