Read Online Chanel Bonfire by Wendy Lawless - Free Book Online Page A

patchouli, which we perceived as something drug addicts wore to identify themselves to each other. Whispering “Eighty-six” meant it was time to go. Of course, sometimes there were no words, like when, at the bottom of the long, clacking escalator in the South Kensington tube station, a man flashed us. He opened his raincoat. We looked. He smiled. We screamed and ran for the train to school.
    While Mother was partying and simultaneously dating a dashing Romanian polo player and a fey English solicitor who wore an ascot and a monocle, Robin and I attended the American School in London, in St. John’s Wood, with the children of oil executives, diplomats, and even a few movie stars.
    Our first day of school, it was clear we were encountering a new breed of rich kid. We showed up to find that although we thought of ourselves as cosmopolitan New Yorkers, we weren’t nearly as worldly as these kids were. Like us, they’dhad moved around a lot, but to places like Germany, Libya, Japan, and Nairobi. And unlike our old school, Town, ASL was enormous, with a student body of over a thousand. And every single one of them seemed cooler than we were. We needed a way in.
    In an astounding moment of sheer luck, our mother bumped into Judy Turner—a former beauty queen and wife of a Texas oil executive—shopping at Harvey Nichols, the upscale department store rival to Harrods. They immediately bonded over their American accents, big hair, and penchant for Sonia Rykiel knitwear. The day after this meeting, which had resulted in a shopping spree that almost reduced Mother’s charge card to ashes and was followed by a ladies’ heart-to-heart in a Knightsbridge wine bar, Judy’s daughter, Tracy, walked up to Robbie and me in the cafeteria at school and did what she had been instructed to do.
    “Hi,” she drawled, as we looked up at her over our plates of chicken curry and chips.
    Tracy Turner was the most glamorous and beautiful girl our age. She was thin and willowy, with long, caramel-colored hair, tanned skin, perfect teeth, and a nose that turned just ever so slightly up at the end. She was like the girl from Ipanema—whenever she walked by, everyone would go “Ah.”
    I glanced around to make sure she wasn’t talking to someone else. “Hi,” I blurted back, regaining my composure.
    “Are you those new girls, Wendy and Robin from NewYork?” Everyone stopped and stared because the It girl was speaking to us. Robbie practically spit-taked her Fanta.
    “Um, yes, we are,” I answered haltingly. I noticed that she kind of shone, as if she were on the red carpet under a follow spot or something.
    “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come over to my house this afternoon. I have some new records we could listen to while we do our homework.” She put one hand on her hip and used the other to adjust her leather-fringed handbag.
    “Wow, we’d love to. Thanks.” Robbie and I smiled and nodded.
    “Great. See you after school.” She flounced off, executing a perfect hair toss on her way out of the lunchroom.
    And that was it. We were in.
    Tracy welcomed us into her large posse of girlfriends, which included the wildly popular Cassidy girls, Lynn and Diane, whose international banker dad hunted big game in Africa in his spare time; Lourdes Lopez, a red-haired Mexican spitfire; and Paige Dundee, whose parents were rumored to be spies for the CIA. Our moms all became friends, and many of our weekends were full of sleepovers, shopping at Selfridges or Way In, or just hanging out at Lynn and Diane’s listening to music and watching them feed live mice to their pet boa constrictor. There always seemed to be exciting people there, like the dishy actor John Phillip Law from the Sinbad films, or tall, toothy Jeremy Lloyd, a writer and actor who had been in A Hard Day’s Night with the Beatles. Robbie and I begged Mother for a whole new wardrobe just to keep up.
    The other thing besides size that made ASL different from our school