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
L ike 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
life. 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
'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
L ike 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
life. 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
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