21 Steps to Happiness (10 page)

I turned and realized that she was no lady. She had huge hands and she seriously needed a shave. She would always need a shave.

“No, I'm American,” I said. “He is French.”

“Êtes-vous des amoureux? Elle comprend pas, hein?
Lovers?”

“Non, non, seulement des collègues,”
Nicolas answered her—I mean him.

“You look like lovers,” he/she pronounced.

I blushed so much that the room turned red with the glow from my face. The drag queen leaned over to speak into my ear.

“The young man, he is in love with you,” and he/she blinked at me as if it was a done deal. “And you are a lucky girl, because he is like an angel.
Comme un ange!”

God, don't I know!

“What did
she
say?” Nicolas asked when the drag queen went back to her own conversation.

“She said…she said we make a handsome couple. Ha ha ha!”

He blushed, too, I swear, he blushed!

 

We were the last ones to leave the bar. I asked if we could walk back to the hotel. Nicolas said that it would be quite a long walk, but that was exactly what I was after. Quite a long walk. A long, long, long walk. A walk that would take us forever.

I told him about my childhood. I told him about growing up away from Jodie. And it felt good to talk about the real me, the girl that used to hold daisies under her chin, and if they shone yellow on your skin, it meant that you were in love.

The girl that used to hide in Jodie's room and pretend to be locked into the tower of a castle, waiting for Prince Charming to come and free her.

But the prince never came, no matter how long she waited. He was too busy playing video games at the mall, I guess.

We fell silent. We were getting closer to my hotel and I was getting anxious. Should we part? Should I ask him to come up to share a bag of peanuts from the minibar, and a bottle of champagne and my bed?

We stopped in front of the Georges V.

I was about to say something, but he stopped me.

“I want to tell you…”

Yes, yes!

“I was wrong and I'm sorry. I think you are great.”

Mmm?

“You're great for Muriel B, I mean. And…”

And?

“I think we all made up our minds about you. And…”

Okay…And?

We looked at each other. Oh, yes, we were getting closer. My lips were almost reaching their ultimate goal when…he kissed me. On one cheek and then the other. Like a brother or my best gay friend.

That was so…gay.

Then he made a funny face, turned his back to me and walked away. That was it. All I ended up with was a lousy pair of kisses on the cheek and red-purple lips from cheap wine.

 

“Hey, it's Lynn,” I say on the phone.

“What's wrong with you? Do they ever sleep in freaking Paris?”

“We kissed!”

“Goddamn it!” Delia wakes up in a flash. “Is he a good kisser? It's very important that he be a good kisser.”

“It's hard to say, I kind of stole our first kiss. But we just spent the night together.”

“God, you're fast!”

“I mean, we went on a date. Nothing definite happened!” Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly a date in the traditional sense, but it still counts.

“Oh. False alarm, then. I'll go back to sleep and you call me back after you do him!”

“Delia!”

She sighed but I could hear the squeak of her bed as she sat up. “Okay! A date! Did he walk you home?”

“Yes.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“Yes…”

“No, no, no! You don't sound right. Where did he kiss you?”

Delia knows me too well.

“On the cheek. But it was quite close to my lips.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Delia! I said
almost on my lips!
A very, very erotic cheek kiss!”

“Yeah…anything else?”

Sometimes I forget why I'm friends with Delia.

“No!”

“I thought all those French guys were sex maniacs.”

“No, he's not a maniac, he is…charming. Yeah, he is
so-o
fucking charming.”

I spent my childhood waiting for a guy just like him. Now I knew why he couldn't come: he was busy peeling potatoes in L'Escargot.

“Do you think he could be the One?” I hear Delia ask.

I look through the window. It's so calm out there. No way I'm going to jump. I'm far too tired for that.

“I don't know,” I say as I collect all the pillows around me. I squeeze them. I squeeze them and wish I was squeezing Nicolas instead.

I'
m not available.

I'm not here.

I'm not in Paris.

I'm not coming out from under my blanket.

I'm supposed to meet Muriel and Nicolas to discuss my contract, but I can't bring myself to go.

I'll stay right here, in my suite, until the police pick me up and put me in jail.

Only, I'll be at the airport before they show up. I'll be on my way home. And then, I'll dig a big hole in Dad's backyard and bury myself so they'll never find me!

It's not my fault everybody is so incompetent at Muriel B. Any other
normal
company would have asked more than just my name before relocating me to Paris.

Oh, but not at Muriel B. No, no. At Muriel B, nothing's done the right way. My company, after all, should reflect my personality.

So why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel like a stink? Why do I feel like I did something wrong?

Because I'm the biggest freaking fraud in the history of fashion! And Fran Wellish is about to arrive and expose me.

The phone's ringing. It has to be the police.

Too bad! I'm not answering.

I wait until it stops and the message light flickers. I pick it up, thinking I'm safe, but instead of getting my message, I hear Nicolas's voice, “Er…Lynn?”

The phone tricked me!

“Lynn, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Nicolas. I hear you. But I'm busy. I have another very important call on hold.”

“Wait…I wanted to—”

“I'll call you back.”

I hang up before he can say that he has met Fran Wellish and that she said Jodie never mentioned anything about a daughter.

I press my messages button. First I'm going to check who phoned. Then I plan to disconnect the phone and start packing my things.

“
A-allo.
This is Chloe Destouches. We met yesterday at Kazo's. I meant to call you. I just talked with my chief editor, and, well, we would love to do a piece on you. It would be a feature. Three thousand words plus. ‘An American Girl in Paris.' Or ‘Jodie Blanchett's Daughter Takes Over Paris.' Or ‘Lynn Blanchett does Paris.' Something like that,
anyway
. It would be just wonderful. Phone me at…”

God! A feature on me in
Marie Claire?

Can I do the star-makeover segment, too? “Lynn Blanchett: From Swamp Thing to American Princess.”

I force myself to swallow my excitement and think logically for a moment. Don't do it, Lynn, you're not up to this. Don't pick up the phone.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Yes?”

“Chloe? This is Lynn Blanchett.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

“Are you serious about the article? I mean, who would be interested? It might be boring for your readers.”

“
Au contraire.
You are a very interesting subject. You are the dream come true. The glamorous heir of a fashion empire, conquering Paris. We could turn it into a series.”

A series about me?

“We can follow your career. We would show your character easing into French high society…Mmm? I think we can do something great with you. What do you say?”

All those years, I've been wondering what it would feel like to be one of those celebrities. You know, to be like Jodie, to have stories written about me and my picture taken in a fabulous house in Italy or anywhere sunny and sophisticated.

And now my chance is here. All I have to do is say yes.

“That sounds great.”

“Let's meet in the Quartier Latin. What about now? We can have breakfast together. I believe this would be the perfect atmosphere.”

“Perfect,” I say. Suddenly I'm excited to leave the safety of my bed.

“I'll arrange a photographer. But be casual, we want our readers to see the real Lynn, and it's
so-o
easy to correct your imperfections with digital imaging.”

I write down the address of her hotel and hang up, when the phone rings again.

“Lynn? Don't hang up. We need to talk!” Nicolas says.

He really sounds worried.

“Ah! Nicolas, I can't talk with you right now. I have a very important meeting with Chloe Destouches.”

What a perfect excuse not to meet him.

“I know and I want to advise you not to go to that meeting.”

“How do you know?” I can't believe that once again I'm the last to hear the latest gossip about myself.

“Lynn, listen to me. I can't talk right now but I don't want you to go.”

Is he scared that I'm going to do a disastrous interview? Or…

“Did you talk with Fran Wellish?”

“No, she hasn't arrived yet. I just don't want you to go to that meeting. It will be bad for…our relationship.”

“Are you all right, Nicolas?”

“I have to hang up now. Please don't go.”

“Nicolas, I can handle a reporter. It will be very good publicity for Muriel B.”

“Lynn, this interview is not about Muriel B.”

He sounds very cautious, as if he can't talk freely. Honestly, it feels a bit awkward.

“Don't worry. I know exactly what to say to Chloe.”

“Lynn?”

“Yes.”

“If you decide to go…”

“Yes.”

“Whatever they tell you, and whatever you decide, well, I want you to know that last night was very special for me.”

“Are you all right? You're frightening me now.”

“I have to hang up.”

He does so and leaves me with a feeling of freakiness. He sounded as if this meeting with Chloe was a deadly trap and he'd risked his life to warn me.

It's all so mysterious and…
so
romantic!

 

The taxi leaves me in front of a lovely little hotel. Oh, you should see me now. I'm the mastermind behind the “Twenty-four-hour Blanchett Complete Makeover.”

I have invented sexy-hip-casual wear. You wouldn't believe what I can do with a pair of sandals, jeans, a simple T-shirt, the proper handbag and a fantastic hangover.

And it works. I saw the looks men gave me as I left the hotel. Even the ones with their wives or partners couldn't help themselves. They had to turn and give me the who-is-this-woman-I-wish-I-knew-her-better look.

The concierge opens the door for me and, as I walk to the reception desk to ask for Chloe, I feel the insistent gaze of a man seated in the lobby.

“Lynn?”

He drops his newspaper and stands. It's no one else but Hubert Barclay. You know? The super-sexy-I-would-kill-to-spend-seven-minutes-with-you media mogul. He scans me. He smiles, he is very happy with what he sees.

“How are you? You look…amazing.”

Oh boy, he sure looks happy to see me.

“Are you staying here?” I ask.

“No, I came to see a friend. You?”

“I'm looking for Chloe.”

“Chloe Destouches. Of course. She's in the restaurant. Is she writing something on you? You deserve it, anyway, for all the good work you're doing for Muriel.”

All my good work?

“Where are you staying?” Hubert continues.

“The Four Seasons.”

“Le Georges V?”

“Oui.”

“Mmm? A bit tacky. You should check in here. It's more your style.”

I think to myself that Hubert has no idea what my style is, but I only say, “Maybe next time.”

We look at each other. He smiles but says nothing. Obviously he's waiting for me to say something interesting and witty.

“I have to go,” I say. Great, Lynn. Real witty.

“Oh. Are you…?”

“What?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me? If you're not too busy, of course.”

Dinner with Hubert Barclay?

“Oh! That would be lovely.”

“Good. I'll phone you at the Georges V then.”

“Sure.”

Sure, sure, SURE!

I walk away. Don't turn back. I order you not to turn back, Lynn. Imagine you are Roxanne Green. She would never turn back. Dammit! I turned back and there he was, checking me out with a satisfied smile on his face.

 

“Was that Hubert Barclay you were talking to, Lynn?” Chloe asks, but of course she already knows the answer. Chloe and Barclay belong to the same world. I'm the odd one out.

“Yes, that was good old Hubert. Isn't it a small world?”

“Do you really know Barclay? I mean, know him well?”

“Hubert has just asked me out on a date, but if you publish anything about us dating, I'll kill you.”

She pushes out a chair for me and I sit down beside her.

“You keep surprising me, dear. You're dating the most eligible man on the planet and you don't want everybody to know. What are you? A Buddhist?”

“I just don't want details of my private life published in a glossy magazine.”

“But that's why we're here!”

“Well…Except if it can help Muriel.”

“I don't think so, Lynn,” she says while pouring me some tea. “Nobody cares about Muriel. She is a fake, a spoiled brat,
une sale gosse
. And I won't waste a single drop of ink to help her get out of the shadow she will never leave.”

My stomach churns with guilt. I wish Chloe would stop bashing Muriel. Muriel has actual creative talent.
I'm
the fake.

“My real interest is you, Lynn.”

“But I'm representing Muriel B.”

“Oh, come on! You must have realized what a waste of time they are by now. Muriel's nothing but a rich kid spending her father's money and pretending she is the best thing since denim. She makes me very angry.”

Muriel must have stepped on Chloe's stilettos and never apologized for it.

“She makes a lot of people very angry,” Chloe whispers.

“I think she has talent,” I say.

“Talent! What's that exactly? It takes more than talent to succeed. It takes genius. Your mother has genius. Xu has genius.” Chloe goes back to the whispering mode. “You two should meet again and talk. Xu is a very good friend of mine. I could arrange something.
Un rendez-vous.
”

“I don't think so. I'm just starting with Muriel. They trust me. You can't deceive people like that.”

“Lynn, you're not a captain. You don't need to go down with the ship. This is not an honorable battlefield. This is fashion.”

I reach for the sugar and get a dirty look.

She can't stand
sweet!

“It so happens that Xavier is staying here, too. I could call him and you two could meet right now.”

Call me paranoid, but years of rejections have taught me something. I don't feel naturally desirable. So, when all of a sudden, someone appears very eager to talk to me, I can only imagine that it's to kill me, dry me, salt me and eat me through winter.

“I'm sure that Xavier Urbain doesn't want to be disturbed to talk about corporate treason.”

“Not at all, he is actually waiting for us in my room.”

The plot thickens. Didn't Nicolas tell me not to come? How did he know that this interview for
Marie Claire
was nothing but a smoke screen?

Chloe stands as if it were a done deal. She promised to deliver my head to Xavier Urbain before lunch, and that's the way it's going to be. She doesn't even turn back to see if I'm following. She is sure that I want to hear what Xavier has to say, and she is absolutely right.

I stand to follow her. I didn't even have a chance to try my tea. And so much for having a feature article about me published in
Marie Claire!

“No, we're not taking the elevator, dear. My room is on the second floor and my trainer says the stairs are good for my butt.”

Chloe nimbly ascends the stairs as I drag behind.

“Have you had sex with him already?”

“Who?” Does Chloe think I know her trainer?

“Barclay!”

Oh, right. “None of your business,” I say. No article, no details.

“You know that he has a girlfriend back home. They're talking ring and wedding cake.”

“I hope I'll get invited.”