Being Hartley (27 page)

A
bout
T
he Author

Allison Rushby is the Australian author of a whole lot of books. She is crazy about Mini Coopers, Devon Rex cats, 
Downton Abbey
 and corn chips. You can find her at 
http://www.allisonrushby.com
, on Facebook, or procrastinating on Twitter at @Allison_Rushby. That is, when she's not on eBay, or Etsy, or any other place she can shop in secret while looking like she's writing...

Don’t
miss the exciti
ment!

BLONDTOURAGE

Rich Girls
.

It's only the hottest, most talked about, highest-rating reality show on TV.

Romy and Anouschka, the stars of the show, are born gorgeous, have never worked a day in their lives and shop and party their way from country to country. Who wouldn't want to live like that?

Um, fourteen-year-old Elli Adamson, that's who. Elli feels like she's the only person in the world who thinks the Rich Girls are Not All That. But when her chef-to-the-stars mother is headhunted to cook for the Rich Girls, the offer is too good to pass up.

Soon enough, Elli finds herself living a new life in the blondtourage, the behind-the-scenes crew that keeps the Rich Girls on the road. But as they travel, Elli starts to see that reality and reality TV are two very different things indeed.

Maybe she has more in common with the Rich Girls than she could have ever imagined...

OMG!

"Okay. I can handle this. I can. I can, I can, I can. No, wait a second. I so can't. I can't, I can't, I can't, I…"

I roll my eyes as the voice drones on in my ear until finally, I've had enough. This has been going on for fifteen minutes now, which would be approximately thirteen and a half minutes too long. I'd stupidly dialed Steph's number just as the cab pulled up to the curb. (Why? Why?! I blame long-flight-induced insanity.) Thus, the babbliest babbler of them all has been babbling since JJ and I exited the car downstairs, while we were being vetted by the doorman, heading over the marble floor into the elevators, whizzing the long way up to the penthouse suites, and finding our way into the gigantic kitchen we're now standing in. The gigantic kitchen that is JJ's new workplace and my new…well, home, I guess you'd have to call it. But back to the babbler and her babbling. Ow. Seriously. My ear hurts.

"I really can't. I can't, I can't, I can't, I…"

That's it. "I think you probably can handle it from halfway across the world, Steph. I'll talk to you later," I tell my best friend/cousin, and then end the call. Looking on, JJ laughs at both Steph (who the whole of Manhattan probably just heard) and me. Why laugh at me? Okay, so it's fair enough. My guess is she's laughing at my surly expression, which I've been perfecting all the long way over from Sydney to New York City (and that's some serious surly practice).

"Oh, come on, Elli." JJ gives me a look as I try with all my might to take it up a notch to über-surly. "You've got to admit it's just a little bit exciting."

Exciting, huh? Well, let's see. Hmmm. I take a sweeping look around me. At the gorgeous chef 's kitchen with its pale blond wood floor, its spotless stainless steel work surface that goes on forever, and the gigantic oven. Oh, wait a second. Make that two gigantic ovens. (One for Hansel and one for Gretel? Who knows?)

"Well…it's not too bad, I guess." I shrug half-heartedly, but then can't help smiling a tiny smile at my mother (that's JJ—I'll explain about the name later). All right, all right, I have to admit it—even for me, little Ms. Über-surly, this is all a tiny bit exciting. I mean, even though I don't watch the show, you always see bits and pieces of it on the commercials, don't you? You still hear about it on the news and from friends and stuff. And this is it. Actually it. The kitchen. Romy and Anouschka's kitchen. The kitchen that millions and millions of viewers all over the world see when they tune in to
Rich Girls
every Sunday night (or whenever prime time is wherever you are).

So, yes, all right. It's a
tiny
bit exciting.

"That's better." JJ beams back at my miniscule "it's a tiny bit exciting" smile. And then she pulls me in for a sideways hug, which, of course, I start to squirm out of as soon as I can.

"Don't get me wrong." I squirm harder still, trying to make my escape, and start in on my point. "This doesn't mean that I approve."

"Of course not." JJ nods.

"I'm still here completely against my will."

Another nod. "Duly noted."

"And…" I'm about to start in on one of my "
Rich Girls
—step aside while I vomit" speeches, when another glance around the kitchen sees me spot something that wasn't there before. Two somethings, in fact.

Something one: Romy, and something two: Anouschka.

Yikes! Two somethings! Two somethings who are staring straight at me.

At first, I don't quite believe what I'm seeing, but then I check again and it seems, unfortunately, that it's true—the two most photographed, most talked about girls in the world are staring at me. Me. With my "I've been on a plane for approximately twenty-two hours" static headrest-hair, mustard-stained jeans (pre-flight hotdog), T-shirt with a fresh chocolate smear (soggy airline chocolate croissant for breakfast) and my oldest, comfiest sneakers on my feet. (I'm no
Rich Girls
wannabe. I travel in comfort, sweetie, not in style.) So, um, yes, again…yikes!

Quick but important disclaimer: Not that I care a jot what the cover girls for materialism think about anything, of course, and especially my economy-seat fashion story, but to tell the truth, I'm lucky they let me into the country at all looking like I do right now, let alone into Manhattan and the headquarters of
Rich Girls
.

So, have I said those two words enough yet?
Rich Girls
. That's right.
Rich Girls
. Of course you know about it. It's the hottest, most talked about, highest-rated reality show on TV. And what's not to like? I mean, who wouldn't want to be born gorgeous, disgustingly "sorry, but I can't count that high" rich (hey, they probably can't count past twenty—the number of digits on their hands and feet) and never have to work a day in their lives?

Um, me. That's who.

Yes, call me a freak, but I, Elli Adamson, seem to be the only person in the whole wide world who considers
Rich Girls
to be Not All That. Even my grandfather and his Jack Russell terrier, Stinky Jack, love the show (sad, but true). But no, not me. "Stupid Girlz," I like to call it (yes, with a "z"—everything is cooler if it's misspelled, right?)…but I digress. We'll get to all that some other time, because, right now…

Well, I'm kind of busy. Remembering where I am and whose eyes are currently on me, I step sideways a tad, ducking the limelight. I wind up slightly behind the kitchen counter, in the hope of hiding that hideous mustard stain. And, again, it's not because I care what Romy and Anouschka think. It's because, well … I may be Normal Girl to their Rich Girl, but only three-year-olds have mustard stains on their pants, right? Okay, so I guess I should say something. And so, to impress them with all the wit and knowledge that I'm always going on about that they lack, I use my Normal Girl voice and say…

"Guh."

Oh, great. Just great. Nice one, Elli. "Guh." It's not even a word, is it?

In front of me, Romy, milk-chocolate-haired and looking gorgeously, effortlessly casual in jeans, ballet flats, a floaty white-beaded shirt and tinkly silver bangles, blinks and half smiles at me before glancing back at JJ, looking like she's wondering who I am. Anouschka, sharp and blond in a tightly cinched green geometric print wrap dress and killer black stilettos, doesn't smile at all. Her look is more of a glare. A "Child, you're of less use to me than the tissue I just blew my nose on and subsequently discarded" glare.

JJ, however, doesn't seem to notice Anouschka's look. Either that, or she simply doesn't care. "Nice to see you again Romy, Anouschka." She looks over at them, grinning. "This is my daughter, Elli," she says. "Elli, I'm sure I don't need to introduce to you to Romy and Anouschka. She loves your show. She watches it every week."

I shoot JJ a look with this one. Ha! As if! If I wasn't so busy guhing, I'd laugh for real. I love their show? Um, no. I don't think so.

Having been introduced, Romy and Anouschka turn back to look at me once more, probably expecting me to gush, or run over and kiss their feet, or something, I suppose. I try to open my mouth and let out that witty one-liner that will no doubt come to me at about one a.m., but I think I left my brain on the luggage carousel where it's probably still circling over at JFK. Just when I'm about to guh again to fill the silence, Romy saves the day.

"Cocoa butter," she says cryptically, sniffing the air (how anyone can sniff the air and look angelic doing it is beyond me, but Romy can do it. I suddenly wish I could as well, but I'd be more likely to look like a dog who thought something, somewhere, was on fire). "Mmmm," she says, thinking aloud. "Cocoa butter from Ghana, beeswax from northwest Zambia, and olive oil from Italy."

We all stare at her. Okay. Riiiiight. So the girl really is cuckoo. Still, at least the attention has moved away from me and my guhs. She's welcome to the sniffing limelight.

Next to Romy, Anouschka sighs a bored sigh (most likely because the limelight isn't on
her
).

"Romy, you're so dumb." I hear her say for about the millionth time (this is one of her trademark lines—calling her best friend dumb. Nice, huh?). "Will you cut it with the party tricks already? This is serious. We need to have a little chat with our new chef here…" She glances at JJ.

"JJ," JJ says. "We've met before."

"Of course." Anouschka flicks JJ's comment away with one hand. People's names obviously aren't important to her. Not JJ's, anyway. J-Lo's and Jay-Z's and Jesse J's, she could probably remember. She continues, "I gained two pounds last month with that Japanese chef. Two pounds! Can you believe it? That better not happen on your watch, CC!" She glances JJ's way once more.

"JJ," JJ says calmly, and has the good sense not to say anything about that two-pound addition of Anouschka's.

Anouschka rolls her eyes and ignores JJ's name correction yet again. "Don't you have anything to say about that, Romy? Two pounds, I said! TWO POUNDS!" She whips back around again, looking for some kind of reaction from her bestie.

Romy is, of course, off in Romy dreamland, where she mostly resides (with her one-and-a-half brain cells to keep her company, if what I've seen on
Rich Girls
is anything to go by. The ads, that is. Like I said, I don't watch the show itself. Or only bits of it, as I pass by the couch, where my grandparents, Nan and Pop, JJ, and even the dog, Stinky Jack, are wedged in together, getting their sad weekly top-up of
Rich Girls
inanity).

"Hmmm? Oh. Two pounds. That's a shame," Romy finally manages to wake up and reply.

"WHAT?" Anouschka's head practically spins on hearing this, and my eyes widen as I watch her. Calm down! Geez, that girl really does have a temper, just like on the show. (Yes, yes, the show that I don't watch. Oh, all right, already. So sometimes I catch a bit of it. It's like watching a car crash. You don't want to, but you can't help yourself.) In front of me, Anouschka continues her rant.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? Oh? I gain two pounds and all you can say is, 'Oh'? and 'That's a shame'?"

Romy shrugs. "Oh, that's, um…terrible?"

Glare, glare, glare. "I guess that's easy for you to say. You never gain
any
weight."

Another shrug from Romy. "I can't help it. It's not something I think about. Maybe you think about it too much?"

Silence.

And uh-oh. Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

I start to consider whether backing out of the room might be a good idea. You know, because I value my life and everything, but I'm also aware that any movement might draw attention to me. Instead, I watch as Anouschka's eyes slowly turn from glare-mode into two small slits.

"Romy, are you saying it's my fault I put on two pounds? Because I'll have you know…" And with this she reaches down, lifts up the bag by her feet that I haven't noticed until this moment, and dumps it unceremoniously on the countertop. "Even
he
gained half a pound on that dumb chef's food."

JJ steps forward to glance inside the now-hissing bag. "No cats in the kitchen," she says quickly.

"What?" Anouschka's wrath changes direction violently. "Did you just say something, CC?"

"JJ," JJ says, still amazingly calm. Seriously, I don't know how she does it.

The slits grow smaller still.

Okay. Really time to back away now. I don't want to be some
Rich Girls
road kill. I have plans for my life. Big plans. And I'm not going to leave them dead and dripping on the
Rich Girls
altar as some kind of Anouschka sacrifice.

Surprisingly, however, JJ doesn't look even slightly taken aback. I guess she's used to this kind of thing, having worked in celebrity kitchens for years now. The celebrity tantrum must be part of her daily routine. I see her mouth twist slightly, which I know means she's sizing Anouschka up and is about to take a different approach in the hope of getting her to do what she wants her to do (it doesn't work so well getting me to clean up my room anymore—I know all her tricks). Anyway, instead of shouting, or telling her off, JJ simply takes a step back and nods knowingly.

"It's the cat's energy, Anouschka. Apparently it can heighten the calorific effect of food. If the cat remains in the kitchen too long…"

I look on in disbelief. Is she insane? Is the
Rich Girls
brain-sucking bug some kind of super virus that has affected her already? I stare at JJ like she's a loon. The cat's
energy
? As if anyone's going to buy that. She just wants the cat out of the kitchen because it's not exactly hygienic to have it traipsing across the counters. Any idiot knows that.

Or, um…maybe not.

Anouschka sucks in her breath, horrified at JJ's words. "Oh. Oh, no. I had
no
idea. No wonder I gained weight. The stupid cat
loved
that no-good chef. He was always hanging around the kitchen begging for salmon scraps. See, Romy? I told you it wasn't my fault."

With a definite shake of her head, Anouschka's mood changes again just as scarily and just as fast, and she leans forward and deftly zips the cat out of his $2,500 Louis Vuitton Monogrammed
Sac Chien
. (The only reason I know this is because Steph told me. Personally, I like to refer to it as the Dumb Person's Dog Carrier. A plastic one you can hose out makes so much more sense.) With another hiss and a swipe of a paw aimed in Anouschka's direction, the cat jumps out of the bag, onto the counter, and then, just as quickly, makes his leap to freedom.