21 Steps to Happiness (4 page)

“I never sleep,” I hear myself say, because that's exactly what Jodie always tells everybody, even though I've never heard someone snoring louder than her. “Too many things to do! I'll sleep in my next life!”

If only I could be mute.

“Sure….” He makes a weird gesture that doesn't mean much to me. Maybe he just wants to say that I am by far the weirdest, most disturbing person he has ever met.

“See you then,” I say, but he is already gone.

 

I fall flat on my bed in my beautiful suite.

I pick up the phone and follow the instructions to make an international call.

“Er…what?” Delia answers.

Delia is my best friend. I hold her partly responsible for my being in Paris. She's the one that said,
Hey, why don't you phone your mother. She can get you a job as a receptionist or something.

But she didn't know that Jodie doesn't do anything like normal folks.

Like, if you suggest a gym subscription for your birthday, she sends her chauffeur with an Australian personal trainer that you're also supposed to lodge.

“I met someone,” I say on the phone.

“What? Lynn?”

“I met someone.”

“You…Do you know what time it is?”

I lie on the bed. If only she could see the smile on my face.

“I'm in bed,” she protests. “I'm sleeping! The whole freaking city is asleep! Are you crazy?”

“He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. And he is…so refined. And he…he…”

She finally caves in. “What's his name?”

“Nicolas.”

“French?”

“You bet!”

“Mmm…I don't like it. I don't trust those European types. Great sex. Great fun. They even seem to really listen to you. There's definitely something suspicious about them. Are you in love?”

I rock on the bed and play with the phone cord. I'm a teenager again!

“I don't know. I just met him.”

“He's French, use a condom.”

“Delia!”

“Is he hot?”

“Aaaaaaargh!”

“You lucky thing!”

We laugh.

“Delia…He doesn't like me.”

“Of course he likes you. Everybody likes you.”

“No, he really doesn't. How could he? He is so handsome and so…and so…everything…and I'm…well, I'm
me
.”

“Nonsense! You're hot!”

“I'm so not.”

“Miss Blanchett, you listen to me. This guy…this
Nikoooolaz,
he doesn't deserve you.”

I don't say a thing.

“Lynn, tell me you will come back.”

Silence.

“You're not permanently moving to France for a man, are you?”

Well…I make a quick mental calculation.

I am ugly: -2

I am very poorly dressed: -2

I am exotic and foreign: +1

I am faking anorexia: -2

I drink trim lattes, no foam: +2

I like to ride on the back of his scooter: +2

I get crazy hairdos after riding on his scooter: -1

I feel madly attracted to the most beautiful, most charming Frenchman: +2

Total: 0

Even Steven!

S
o here is my new plan: coffee.

I look at the clock on my nightstand and it's only six in the morning. I know, I shouldn't leave the sanctuary of my bed when outside there are hundreds of people waiting for me to be just like Jodie, but I must have it. And then I remember the dreams.

I had so many! In some of them, I was being eaten alive by all sorts of fish. But mostly I had the other kind of dream. Not nightmares at all.
Au contraire.
They were more like…well, erotic, I guess. And they involved him (
him, him, him!)
, a pair of very large wings and various kinds of animals.

It's crazy what jet lag does to you, huh?

Or maybe it's just the Parisian atmosphere. The air pollution here probably makes every American woman horny.

I slide out of bed and hop to the bathroom. Where to begin? I start by looking at my body in the mirror. I feel so…Mmm?

When I can no longer stand to look at myself in the mirror, I throw on some clothes and head out. The lobby is very quiet. Nobody's at the reception desk. Nobody's in the restaurant, even though it seems open. “Hello?” I call. “Anybody?”

It's such a beautiful room. It shines like a new coin, but still brings you back a century or two.

A tired waiter finally comes out of the kitchen and notices me.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, une seule personne?”

“Breakfast,” I say defensively.

“Yes, breakfast.
Suivez-moi
.”

He seats me at a charming little table.

“English or continental?”

“I feel very much like a continental girl this morning.” I beam up at him, quite pleased with my own joke.

He shrugs, kind of
whatever,
and brings back a little basket filled with mini Danish pastries and croissants. There are Barbie pots of jam, honey and butter to play with on my table. Add to this, toasted French bread and a large coffee plunger and, that's right, I am in heaven.

Some guests have joined me in the restaurant. I am particularly interested in the women, the professional ones, the ones who are about to go to an office, just like me.

I need to look like them and I realize that I have chosen the wrong outfit. I'm wearing a brand-new gray ensemble that I bought for job interviews. I look like a cheap businesswoman in a commercial for a dandruff shampoo.

The other women are more casual. They wear designer denims and simple black or white shirts and, even though it's quite dark in the restaurant, some of them hide their faces behind large lightly shaded sunglasses.

I can do that.

Fashion is so easy!

After breakfast, I take the elevator back to my room. Luckily, I have a dirty pair of jeans. I give them the smell test. Mmm…They're a bit stuffy, but I can fix that with a bit of deodorant.

I don't have a white shirt, though. But I have a plain white T-shirt that I wore for my bus trip to New York. I put it through the smell test, too.

Ouch!

Bless deodorant.

There are two little sweat stains under the arms. Not a problem. I just won't lift my arms. How often does one need to lift her arms in an office environment? And as soon as I get a minute, I will go out and buy myself a simple white shirt.

I check out my new outfit in the full-length bathroom mirror. I don't look like the women in the restaurant. It's my jeans. Wrong model. They're too plain. They're not your designer denims.

Maybe if I fold them like so. Yes, it does give them a bit of character.

Shoes?

What about my Japanese flip-flops? Let's do that.

I twist and turn in front of the mirror. I look…experimental…and I still smell of sweat. More deodorant.

Stinky and ugly. That's my fashion statement.

I look at my gray ensemble on the bed. Woman from dandruff shampoo commercial or smelly scarecrow? What will it be?

Maybe a pair of lightly shaded sunglasses is the missing detail. I don't have that kind, just plain ugly ones. I try them on. I can hardly see my reflection in the mirror. And that's good. I mean, not to be able to see myself. I immediately feel better.

The phone rings, I pick it up in the bathroom. Massoud is waiting for me downstairs.

Panic!

I hurriedly add a last spray of aerosol deodorant. Isn't it too cold to wear nothing but a dirty T-shirt? I'm going to look naked. I grab a light pink pullover and throw it over my shoulders. Perfect! Now I look like a creature from the eighties who escaped after spending the past twenty years in a shoe box.

 

“Morning, Massoud,” I say as get in the car. “Nice to see you again.”

He turns and takes a good look at me and his nostrils twitch.

“No English,” he reminds me and opens his window. He whispers something. How do you say,
God, the lady in pink really stinks
in Arabic?

I recognize some of the streets from yesterday, mostly because of the herd of old prostitutes. Massoud stops the car and points at a wooden black gate across the street.

“Muriel B,” he says and I am not sure if he is talking about a brothel or a fashion company. “
Rue Saint Denis, très, très
hot!”

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

Jodie sent me to Paris to work in fashion not in prostitution. At least, I hope.

I step out of the car to find myself surrounded by people carrying racks of clothes, and prostitutes, lots of prostitutes.

The sight of Nicolas's scooter instantly makes me feel better. I walk to the gate. I have to apologize to a prostitute since she's leaning against the intercom.

“J'étais là la première, dégage!”

She's shooing me away! Does she…? She thinks that I'm the competition!

“I just want to go into this building.” I point at the intercom. “I'm working in there.”

“I'm working here, too!” She steps away, very annoyed at me. She spits on the ground. That's what she thinks of me.

I ring and the gate buzzes and opens. I pop my head inside, and then step into the courtyard. It's very old-looking, with a little stone bench and a little angel statue in the middle. Behind the statue stands a large three-story building. It's a sort of private house in the middle of Paris.

I walk on the old pavement listening to the sound of my Japanese flip-flops as I climb the marble stairs to the building.

I can see a reception desk past the French doors and a huge Muriel B logo. There's no mistake. I have reached my own private hell.

But I can do this. I can prove to Jodie and everyone else I can fit in.

I open the door. The receptionist looks up at me. Everything is so silent. It seems that there's just me and her in the building.

“Bonjour,”
she says.
“Je peux vous aider?”

“Nicolas Bouchez, please.”

“Qui dois-je annoncer?”

Oh, God, how long can I hide that I can't speak a word of French? “I'm Lynn Blanchett.”

“Oh, but of course, take a seat, please.”

I take a seat in the beautiful white salon by the reception area. Everything feels brand new. You can still smell fresh paint. Electric cables are hanging here and there, waiting for the finishing touches.

Yet, the Muriel B office looks astonishing. A mixture of modernity set inside traditional surroundings. And beyond the black gates, past the courtyard, in the street, there is Sodom and Gomorrah. It's so…fashionable!

I hear heavy footsteps coming down the large marble stairs. I'm so scared. Animals must feel this way before being killed and eaten. I put away my ridiculous sunglasses. I look up and see Nicolas walking toward me.

Seeing him is like a kick in the stomach. He looks
that
good.

Just like in my dream from last night. Yeah, that's right, that dream. The one where he runs after me in the hay barn. He catches me and…

Did he make a special effort to look so good today? Or is he just plain cute like this every day?

“Nice to see you again, did you have some rest?” he asks.

I couldn't stop thinking of you and you've even invaded my dreams. Oh, God, did I say that out loud? “I rested plenty, thank you.”

“Muriel is looking forward to meeting you.”

“Likewise.” Two sentences without sounding stupid. I'm on a roll!

“What do you think of our office? Amazing, no?” he asks as we start to climb toward whatever purgatory is waiting for me upstairs.

“It's very…well, very special.”

“I know. It doesn't look like a trendy district. That's Muriel. She wants us to keep our ears to the ground, you know, be where things really happen.”

“The concept is good, I like it,” I say earnestly. “It can become some kind of motto—Muriel B. Where things really happen. You know what I mean?”

He smiles approvingly. That's the first time he approves of something I say or do, except maybe for the scooter ride.

“You know what I think?” I ask, because all of a sudden I think that it would be great to do a fashion show right there, in the street below, in the middle of this chaos. That would be…

“No, what do you think, Lynn?”

Wait a second. What if my idea sounds completely stupid? How would I know?

“Well…Nothing,” I say mysteriously.

“Okay….”

Dull, dull, DULL!

We reach the landing and my heart is beating faster. Noises, voices, the sounds of movement and laughter are coming from behind a huge tall white wooden door.

“
C'est l'Atelier.
The workshop,” Nicolas says. “All the offices are located on the second floor. But this is where the real magic takes place.”

He pushes open the door and invites me into their world.

It's a huge space, like a ballroom. Groups of people are gathered around different tables.

They chatter away. They scream. It's a zoo.

Most of them are very young, a majority look Asian, maybe Japanese, and dress in contemporary punk style.

Nicolas whisks me through, and I can see lots of facial piercings, tattoos, dreads and multicolored hairdos.

“Here she is,” Nicolas says, pointing at a group at the far end of the workshop. “Do you recognize her?”

“Oh, yes,” I say, trying to guess which one in this group of teenagers could be Muriel B, and finally decide that it has to be the oldest one, well, I mean a girl about my age, which happens to be the most elegant one, in a classic kind of way.

“Muriel,” Nicolas calls, and, yes, the elegant girl turns first, so I walk straight to her, take a large breath of air, shake her hand and give her my million-dollar smile.

“Hello, Muriel, I'm very pleased to meet you.”

She shakes my hand, smiles and says, “Françoise Neuton. Pleased to meet you, too.”

Shit!

She points at the smallest, youngest kid in the group. “That's Muriel,” Françoise Neuton says amused.

Muriel can hardly be more than eighteen years old. Her lips and nose and ears are infested with multiple piercings and studs. A large tribal tattoo goes all around her neck and arms.

Nicolas clears his throat. “Muriel, this is Lynn Blanchett.”

“I see,” Muriel says, but we don't shake hands.
“C'est un honneur d'avoir une Blanchett parmi nous!”

Oh, we aren't going to speak English, then?

I nod. It worked so far.

“Tu parles français, j'espère?”

“Oui,”
I say. “
Je…
Mmm!
Je…”
Nothing French comes out, not even a word about buying bread at the bakery.

They turn to me. The whole workshop staff stops and waits for some sound to come out of my mouth.

Complete silence.

“So…you've already met Françoise.” Nicolas comes to my rescue. “She is our
première.
If Muriel is the creative mind, Françoise is her hands.”

“That's very poetic, Nicolas. Well done,” Muriel says with a cool and exaggerated British accent.

She looks at me more carefully. Everybody looks at me more carefully. They don't dare to think anything before Muriel has given her own verdict.

“I like your…T-shirt. DKNY?”

“No, it's just a…basic one.”