Blondetourage

by Allison Rushby

  'What's that?'

  JJ looks me straight in the eye. 'In life, you've got to find what you're good at and hold onto it tight with both hands. It doesn't matter what it is, or what anyone else thinks. If you find the thing that can make you happy, that you have a passion for and would do for no payment whatsoever, that's really something. Some people spend their whole lives looking for it and never even come close.'

  I take all of this in before I reply. 'I get that.'

  'Good. You're very lucky, having a passion for something at such a young age. I had to learn the hard way. Now, how about we get out of here? It seems we may have just made ourselves a little bit too conspicuous! Are you done?'

  'Yes.' I'd kind of noticed we were still getting a few sideways glances as well.

  'Okay, then. Let's make one last stop at Galeries Lafayette. I know how you feel about shopping, but you need new jeans. You could see that tomato sauce stain from the top of the Eiffel Tower.'

  'Sounds good.' I can hardly argue with that. I guess I'll just have to brainstorm what Romy's good at on the sly.

  Catfight!

  JJ and I end up going on a bit of a shopping spree at the beautiful Galeries Lafayette.

  I almost can't believe it when our taxi pulls up outside and I catch my first glimpse of the place – trust the French to make even department stores beautiful. The place looks like a wedding cake and I'm sure every single layer will be a delight. When we get inside and I look up, I can see that I was right. As it turns out, there is a void filled by ornate rings of balconies, leading up to a gigantic light-filled dome. I may not be anywhere near as hard-core a shopper as Romy and Anouschka both are, but it sure is nice to be shopping in style for once and without Frau Braun, whose idea of fashion went out with the dirndl.

  The first thing JJ and I head off to look for is the item of greatest need – a pair of jeans. Plenty of other things catch our eye on the way, but JJ reminds me that we could get called away at any time, so it's first things first and then we can browse. Within half an hour, I have two pairs of Diesel jeans. One pair swings in the bag hanging off my right wrist and the other I have on. My old ones the sales lady folds and places neatly in her bin for us. She was even nice enough not to put gloves on to perform the task. As we turn away from the counter, however, we realise we have a problem. I now need new shoes. The dark, new jeans look terrible up against my daggy old sneakers, so we head off to the shoe section. And within another half hour I have a really gorgeous pair of silver Puma street shoes on my feet. The sales guy tells me they have a vulcanised rubber outsole and when JJ laughs, holds her hand up split-fingered and tells him to 'live long and prosper', he doesn't laugh back. 'They are very high tech,' he gives her a filthy look and as we walk away from the counter, JJ tells me under her breath, 'I guess the French/Australian mind-meld is a little too big an ask.'

  It must be my lucky day, because no one calls or texts JJ and within another hour I have a new puffy zip-up vest, four T-shirts from Petit Bateau and new underwear as well.

  'I think I need a coffee now,' JJ leans against the latest counter where she is paying for my haul.

  'I think I need a new suitcase.' All this new stuff, plus the Ladurée box, is starting to weigh me down. At least I've ditched most of what I was actually wearing along the way. My old clothes are now residing in bins all over the department store.

  'A new suitcase as well? Don't push your luck,' is her reply. 'Just roll those clothes up hard and sit on the lid. Now, espresso. Let's go.'

  We find JJ her espresso and me a hot chocolate and then we head off for some JJ-type shopping. Which means food, not clothes. We head into Lafayette Gourmet which, translated into JJ-ese, means heaven. Within seconds she is oohing and ahhing over chocolates and sausages, fish and spices. I look on as JJ buys this and that, and check out a woman in head-to-toe Hermès consider gorgeously spotlighted spices for at least ten minutes. I can't help thinking how different this all is to Australia, where display and packaging aren't so important and spices mostly come in boring little glass jars in the supermarket.

  JJ drags me around the different food stations until, finally, she looks at her watch and gasps. 'We'd better get back so I can put dinner on,' she says and with that I'm dragged off again, out of the store this time and into a cab.

  JJ and I are quiet as we drive slowly through the busy streets back towards the apartment. We're both tired and JJ is busy scribbling away on her iPhone, planning meals for the next few days. She's particularly excited about some truffle juice she's picked up and when I tell her I'd prefer apple, she gives me a withering look. Seeing her happily planning her meals, though, reminds me of what she'd said earlier this afternoon about finding your passion, which, in turn, reminds me of Romy. Ugh. If only I could work out what her passion is. She looked so miserable today during filming. Like she'd rather be anywhere else on earth. Which is where she'll be if I can't help her soon. She'll probably just up and leave, won't she? And then where will I be? Back with Frau Braun, that's where. It's no secret JJ's former client is begging her to come back. Apparently she's stacked on the weight and we've only been gone eight weeks. So, yes, that's it. I have to start thinking harder about this. With my new look, I'm now way too cool to be hanging out with the likes of Frau Braun.

  $$$

  When our cab pulls up outside the apartment's entrance, George is running to and fro outside, looking more than a little worried.

  'Hey!' I say, as I exit the cab. 'What's going on?'

  George turns and glares at someone hanging about in the shadows of the doorway – Ashleigh, as it turns out. 'It's Fluffy. He's lost.'

  Ashleigh takes a few steps out onto the footpath now and shrugs. 'I told Anouschka not to leave the balcony door open.'

  I glance up for a second. 'The balcony door? He couldn't have got down onto the street from all the way up there.'

  Ashleigh tutts. 'He's a cat, Elli.'

  My jaw sets in a hard line. 'I know he's a cat. He's also a cat in France. Who can't speak French. We have to find him. Fast. Are you sure he's out here? That he isn't just hiding out somewhere in the apartment?'

  'He should be, after peeing on my duvet again,' George says, but then spots my expression and waves her comment away. 'Sorry, sorry.'

  'He's definitely down here. I saw him walk off down the street. Or at least Anouschka said she did.'

  George snorts. 'You, Anouschka, same thing.'

  Ashleigh gives George a once-over. 'You, a stick of liquorice, same thing,' she mimics. 'I guess Fluffy just needed some air.'

  'What's going on?' JJ comes over, having paid for the cab and waited for a receipt.

  'Fluffy's got out somehow,' I sigh. 'George and I are going to have a quick look for him, okay?'

  JJ bites her lip. 'Oh, no. That's no good. Have a quick scout around, but come in before it gets dark, won't you? I'd help you out, but I have to get dinner ready.'

  'I know,' I nod. 'We won't be long. Hopefully he'll be hanging out somewhere nearby.'

  'Checking out the French talent,' George adds.

  'Let's go,' I grab her arm. 'Bye, Ashleigh,' I say, pointedly, as we turn our backs. Something's telling me she really is at the bottom of this. That she really is as nasty as everyone keeps telling me. And if that really is true, her kind of help we don't need right now.

  We only get a few steps down the street when we're interrupted by the beep of a text on my cell. 'Ugh,' I moan as I check it out. It's from Steph. She's having a tanty because I haven't contacted her lately. Fantastic timing. And today had been shaping up to be such a good day, too. And now ... I have no idea what Romy might be good at. Fluffy is missing. I can't please Steph. Maybe I'd be better off back in my Viennese prison after all? At least there I knew what each boring day would bring.

  'Anything wrong?' George pauses beside me.

  I shake my head quickly as my fingers fly, texting my cousin back to tell her I'll give her a call soon. 'Just cousin troubles,' I explain, slip
ping my phone back in my pocket and we start off again.

  This time, as we go, we both look high and low, calling out Fluffy's name. I think a couple of people get the gist of what we're doing, because they come over. Finally, my French comes in handy and I'm able to give at least a garbled version of what is going on when people ask. Though I do somehow make Fluffy sound as though he looks like an alien. But how else can you describe a very ugly, very hairless cat. Each time I speak to someone new, I make sure to mention that he's really very sweet, because I'm starting to feel disloyal.

  Finally, an old man approaches us, having overheard part of what's going on. Just as he gets up to us, however, he starts coughing and coughing. I'm not sure what to do – go and get him some water? But then, as suddenly as he started, he stops. 'Voici une boule de poils!' he tells me and I start to laugh.

  'Here comes ...' George understands the first part.

  'Here comes a furball!' I tell her.

  'Your cat, he has no hair?' the man continues in broken English.

  'That's right,' I tell him.

  'I think you will find he is busy with le goûter. He indulges in brioche with almond cream,' he points down the street.

  I'm unsure how a cat can indulge in afternoon tea, but I almost kiss him. 'Thank you! Thank you! Merci Monsieur! Let's go!' I grab George and we're off down the street as fast as we can run.

  We get to the café on the corner in no time and there, right in front of us is Fluffy, sitting on the lap of one of two stunning Parisian ladies who are petting him in turn and feeding him, as the old man said, brioche. With almond cream. George and I approach them.

  'Fluffy!' I say when I get a bit closer. 'What are you doing?' I look at the two women. 'Excusez-moi, pardonnez mon chat s'il vous plaît.'

  I don't think I've ever asked someone to pardon my cat before, but there's a first time for everything, right? And then, over the next ten minutes, I try to translate the coos of the two ladies to George as they reluctantly hand over Fluffy. After he finishes his brioche, of course. Finally, we manage to wrestle Fluffy away and, after saying thank you, we start back up the street towards the apartment with him tucked in my arms.

  'What did they say they named him?' George peeks over my shoulder at Fluffy and he hisses at her. 'Hey!'

  'Behave yourself,' I tell him. 'Um, pamplemousse.' 'Huh. That's cute. What does it mean? Devil cat? Cat that doesn't know what's good for him? Cat that may get left behind for real some time?'

  'Very funny. It means grapefruit.'

  'Grapefruit?'

  'Beats me,' I shrug and wait for George to punch in the access code now we've reached the apartment door. 'I've no idea why they called him that,' I tell her as we trudge up the stairs. (We've now been told we're not allowed to catch the elevator. Melinda says it's because we need the exercise, but George is convinced it's for the Rich Girls only.)

  'Maybe grapefruit is a good fit,' George continues as we make our way onto the third flight. 'He is a bitter little thing, after all.'

  Hiss.

  $$$

  'Well, that was fun,' I turn to George, who's sitting next to me, as per usual. She just snorts as she packs up her books during our short break.

  'You mean you don't like Geography?' Rhys leans forward in his chair so he can see across George. 'What's not to love about natural resources and their development in India?'

  I laugh. 'I don't have anything against India. It's just that my last tutor – I don't think she even realised India existed. She certainly didn't remember to teach me anything about it. Before today I could have pointed it out on a map, but that's about it.'

  'Sounds perfect to me,' George wrinkles her eyes as she scours the remaining macaroons in the Ladurée box. 'What's this one?' she points.

  I take a closer look. 'I think that's chestnut. And that's definitely coffee and that one there is dark chocolate. I'd go with the chestnut, myself.'

  George passes the box to me. I shake my head. 'Oh, no. I've Laduréed myself out today.'

  'Okay I'll give it a whirl,' George takes the box back and picks out the chestnut one. Her eyes practically roll back in her head during her first bite. 'Oh, oh wow. That is pretty good.'

  I nod. 'Not bad, are they? You've got to try one Rhys,' I encourage him. 'They're fantastic.'

  Rhys doesn't look convinced. 'I'm not really into sweet things.'

  George almost chokes on her macaroon with this. 'Freak. What planet are you from?!'

  He just laughs. 'Planet LA, remember?' Rhys reminds us his dad is a personal trainer. And one who obviously gets results if Anouschka's muscly arms are anything to go by. 'I'll try one, though, for you.'

  George shoots me a raised eyebrow with this and I try not to blush.

  'Um, try the dark chocolate, then. It won't be as sweet.' And then I panic as I wait for George to make some comment about the macaroon not being as sweet as me or something like that. Thankfully, her mouth is still full, so she can't. Phew. 'Um, Ashleigh?' I pass the box over to the table behind us when Rhys has taken his dark chocolate macaroon. 'Would you like the last one?'

  'No, not for me. I'm watching my weight.'

  George smacks her lips as she licks off the last vestiges of macaroon from them. 'Wow. Between that and your other intellectual pursuits, you must be super-busy!'

  'George!' I hiss at her, not unlike Fluffy.

  She gives me an innocent 'What?' look and I try to focus my attention on her and not on Rhys who's quite happily devouring his macaroon on the other side of her.

  'Pretty good!' he gives me two thumbs up when he's done. 'Maybe you can tutor me in sugar and I'll help you out with Geography.'

  'Ha ha, um, sure.' I stand up, fumbling for the box. It's only then that I spot Ashleigh again. Sitting all by herself at that long, empty table. Trying oh-so-hard to pretend she isn't listening in to what we're saying and that she's busy with her work. But she can't be, can she? No one would be in that situation. She looks really ... lonely. Despite the fierce 'I'm so, so, busy' set of her jaw, that is. I take a step forward so I'm in front of her, and bend down. 'Ashleigh? Are you sure you don't want one?' I offer her the box again. 'They're really nice.'

  There's a moment's pause where Ashleigh's pen hovers above her paper. And then her head snaps up. Her eyes meet mine and seem to size me up. There's a second or two where I think she might even say yes to a macaroon – yes to being friends, even ... before it happens. The eyes turn sharp again and her hair flicks in that way that's becoming very familiar to me. 'I told you I didn't want one, didn't I? So, no. No, thanks.' And with that, she gets back to work, blocking me out. Like she blocks everyone out.

  But me, I keep right on looking at her. What is it with that girl? But she doesn't raise her head again, so, with a shrug, I stand upright once more. 'Well, I might go see if Melinda wants another one. George, can you give me a hand?'

  'Okaaaaay,' George drawls. 'I'd better. I mean, the box is pretty heavy, after all.'

  Ugh. Thanks. I thought I'd got away with the blushing thing before, but if I don't get away from all these books soon, I'm sure my cheeks will start a paper fire in here. 'Let's go,' I hiss once more. A little more urgently this time.

  Outside the study, George stretches. 'I take it you wanted to get out of there.'

  'No. Really? You're a genius.'

  George laughs. 'You're so ... sweet.'

  'Shut up!' I give her a whack on the arm.

  'Maybe I could tutor you, sugar.'

  'He never said that!'

  'Or maybe he just wants to roll you in sugar and eat you up?' She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

  'George!'

  George just pokes her tongue out at me. 'Want to head out onto the balcony for a minute? I need to see if my legs still work.'

  'Sounds good. I need to get you away from any place you can embarrass me.'

  George laughs. 'Well, you'll need all your Geography skills to find that place, because I don't think it exists!'

  $$$<
br />
  Out on the balcony, we jump up and down and rub our arms to keep warm. It's getting cold, but the cold is worth it to see the view. The twinkling lights of Paris stretch out before us – the Eiffel Tower twinkling the brightest of all.

  'I can't believe how beautiful it is. And that we're doing lessons. We could be eating in bistros, strolling the streets ...'

  'Getting locked in romantic embraces?' George tries and I have to hit her on the arm again. 'Newsflash: we're not going to be doing any of those things.'

  I groan. 'I'm beginning to realise that.'

  George rubs her lips with one finger and then fishes around in her pockets. 'Have you got any lip balm? I've got to remember to start lathering it on. I get the worst chapped lips in the cold.'

  'Um ...' I hunt around in my own pockets. 'Here you go,' I find mine in my jeans pocket and pass it over to her.

  'Thanks!' George starts lathering and then brings the tube up to her nose for a deep sniff. 'That stuff is so good. What's it called again?'

  Mesmerised by the city lights, I barely even register her question. 'It's cocoa butter ...' I start and, as I say the words, this image pops into my head of someone else entirely. 'Cocoa butter from Ghana, beeswax from northwest Zambia and olive oil from Italy,' the person says.

  Still staring at the lights, I freeze, the cold night air sticking in my throat as I take a large gulp.

  Oh. Oh, wow. That's it.

  THAT'S IT!

  I almost yell out over the rooftops at my discovery, then remember how the reaction to JJ's over-exuberance in Ladurée today hadn't exactly been favourable.

  'Hello? Earth to Elli?' George says loudly and I realise then that she may have already tried to get my attention more than once.

  'Huh?' I shake my head and finally look over at her.

  'Your lip balm.'

  'Oh, thanks,' I take it from her, still in a daze.

  'Hey, are you okay?' George looks at me a little more closely. 'Your eyes have gone all ... goggly.'

  I try to unfreeze. 'Mmm. Fine. Just a bit ... frozen, I think.'