21 Steps to Happiness (11 page)

“Ooh! That's so continental of you. Very
today
.”

“Hubert and I are just friends.”

“That's right. You're one of Hubert's special friends. Believe me, I'm so over those kinds of friendships. Five minutes in bed, two days of running mascara.”

She smiles and knocks on the door of room 212.

Xavier Urbain opens the door. He didn't bother to dress up. He wears a bathrobe. The little hair he has on the top of his round head is neatly greased and brushed back.

“Ah, Lynn Blanchett! I'm so happy that we meet again. We have so much to talk about.”

We enter Chloe's room. Yak! It smells of acrid sweat, strong cologne and soapy humidity. There's very little light and no oxygen at all.

“Please sit,” Xavier says, pushing a chair toward me. God, I can't stop thinking that he's the weirdest, most revolting little creature I've ever seen.

“This conversation is well overdue,” Xavier says. “You must have realized by now that Muriel is a flake.”

“Well, no actually,” I tell him. “She is…different, but I see potential in her.”

“Wouaf!” Xavier barks. “There's nothing behind Muriel B. Just wind. It takes years to build a serious fashion house like Xu. She thinks that she can come with all her father's money, with all her ridiculous tattoos and all those
things
all over her face and we're all supposed to clap our hands and call her genius.”

“I don't understand why she makes you so furious. Chloe and you seem so against her.”

“Pretentiousness is infuriating.”

“She's not the only pretentious person in the business. Why single her out?”

“Listen. I don't want to talk about her anymore. I want to talk about you. I want to help you.”

“I didn't know I needed help.”

He eyes Chloe nervously.

“Lynn, would you just listen to what Xavier has to say?” Chloe seems to have lost some of her icy calm.

“We think that you are an exceptional asset. I mean, your name…and your
ideas,
of course!” Xavier says in what he must think is a seductive voice.

“And I would hate to lose you to those buffoons. Understand?”

“No, I don't understand.”

“Well, Xavier would like to offer you a position in his organization. A top position. But that would mean that you would need to stop having any contact with Muriel B.”

I look at Chloe. I can't believe my ears. I'm the stake in a poker game between Muriel and Xavier Urbain.

“You must be joking,” I snap. “You want to double-cross Muriel by using me?” I began to laugh, quietly at first, but soon I was practically in tears.

“What's so funny?” Chloe looked at me and frowned. Or would have frowned if all the Botox in her face hadn't prevented it.

“The situation. And you people. Why do you think I would backstab Muriel?”

“Well, how much is she giving you?” Xavier asks.

“Enough,” I lie because we haven't discussed money yet. And actually, she might not be giving me anything at all after she speaks to Fran.

“I was thinking of offering you…enough, too.” He writes a number on a little hotel pad and pushes it toward me. I read it. My throat dries instantly.

“It's in euros,” he says.

They're waiting for a reaction but I am paralyzed. Are they really proposing to pay me all this money? He takes back his pad and writes another number.

“And this will be your
ipso facto
bonus when you sign a contract with us.”

I read the number.

Holly mother of God!

I'm rich! Look at me, Jodie, I made it! I am a freaking European goddess!

“I'm sure that whatever Muriel told you, it will never match those figures,” Chloe says.

I thought she was a journalist, but she seems more like Xavier Urbain's dark shadow.

“Well…I have to think about it,” I say, trying to stay perfectly neutral.

Think about it? My brain is screaming at me. Are you crazy? Didn't you read the little pad and the huge numbers? Ask them to show you the money and sign the contract immediately. You don't owe anything to Muriel or to Nicolas.

Shit! Nicolas! God, he is going to hate me. I'm a horrible mercenary, only excited by the smell of gold.

“We don't have a lot of time to think, Lynn. Those are the figures,” Chloe says. “Now you have to make up your mind.”

Sign, sign, SIGN!

“I need time to think about it.”

They look at each other.

“You're not going to try to raise the bid, are you?” Xavier asks.

“Lynn knows she is very valuable, Xavier. But I'm sure she realizes that her name is not worth one cent more.”

A lovely woman, that Chloe, through and through.

“I just need to think about it,” I repeat, managing to sound much calmer than I feel.

They relax. They seem convinced that I will go along with their evil plan and honestly, if it wasn't for Nicolas, I really might.

“Don't take too much time thinking, Lynn,” Chloe says. “Opportunities are like trends. They perish fast.”

I hate to admit it, but Chloe has a point. What if they change their minds? What if they realize that I'm not worth all that money?

What if I say yes and never see Nicolas again?

Nicolas! Nicolas! You're about to ruin the deal of my life.

With all that money I could just buy fifteen guys fitter than you (not that I have seen you without your shirt on). Guys that would fulfill all my kinkiest fantasies. Guys that would go by the name of Alfredo, or Bernardino. Guys that would not only have sex with me on demand but would also be very good at cleaning the swimming pool or spreading sunscreen on my back with their very, very strong virile hands.

And you, Nicolas? What do you have to offer? A scooter! Just a damn ridiculous scooter and the bizarre feeling that you are the one for me.

A
message left at the reception desk says, “Call me back. Nicolas.”

Oh, God!

I imagine Fran Wellish's face when she tried to remember a Lynn, daughter of her ex-boss.

What did you say? Lynn? Hmm…No, no. There was no Lynn around Jodie. She had an ugly little dog called Spark, but I never heard of any daughter called Lynn. Sorry, she must be a fake my dear Nicolas.

Another message says, “Will pick you up at seven-thirty. Kiss. Hub.”

Hub?

I can't picture Hubert Barclay as a “Hub.”

A Hub can't possibly manage a media empire.

I lie on my bed looking at the two notes.

“The Hub,” I say out loud.

Maybe the Hub doesn't give a damn who my mother is.

The Hub might only be interested in the
real
me, the person I am
inside
.

Yeah, right! Based on his reputation, the only inside he's interested in is inside my pants!

Why am I even going out with him? Besides the handsome-rich-powerful thing, I mean. Am I attracted to him? Hub sounds ridiculous as a name. It's like a spaceship is picking me up for dinner.

I read Nicolas's message again. Cold. Straight to the point. Directorial. I'll-see-you-in-my-office-right-now kind of message. A message for someone about to be told she's over.

I sigh and fall onto my bed. I have landed in a crazy world, inhabited by frenzied lunatics, but somehow, I like it here. I have seen the kind of life I could have had. You know, with Nicolas and all the rest, and I want more of it. But instead, I'm about to be cast away, sent back home without fame, without glamour, and probably end up marrying a guy called Rod or Ted out of desperation. I will never show Jodie I can be part of her world.

The phone rings. It's Nicolas. I know it's him. I can feel him even over the phone. There's no point in postponing the kill. I pick up.

“Lynn?”

Yes, it's him.

“Hi, Nicolas.”

“Sorry, Lynn. Did you get my message?”

“I was just looking at it. Did you speak with Fran?”

“Fran Wellish? Well, no. She postponed her trip to Paris.”

Postponed?

“Postponed?”

“In fact, it's quite weird. She actually wasn't on the flight and now we can't seem to contact her.”

Thank you, God! You've vaporized her!

“But what about you? Did you talk to…Where were you today?” he asks rather clumsily.

“I needed time for myself. I spent my day walking.” Did that sound as much like a lie to Nicolas as it did to me? He must suspect I went to the meeting.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No…Why should I be angry with you?”

“I don't know. It's the sound of your voice. You okay?”

I'm so far from okay, but obviously I can't say that to Nicolas. Better change the subject. “I walked by L'Escargot. It looks very nice in the daylight.”

“That's funny.”

I roll on my bed and start to play with the phone cord. “What's funny?”

“I talked to my parents today. They've finally decided to sell the restaurant. They asked me one last time if I wanted to take it over.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said no, of course.”

“They must have been sad.”

“I guess.” Nicolas takes a deep breath I can hear over the phone. “Can we see each other tonight?”

“I have a date.” Oh shit! I shouldn't have called it a date. “I mean, I just bumped into Hubert Barclay, and he asked me to have dinner. It's a…friends-date.”

Nicolas is totally silent. I hear my own words echo in my head.

Definition of friends-date: eat food, drink wine, go home, keep pants on! Everyone knows that, right? Even in France?

“Nicolas, Hubert is just a friend.”

It's you that I want, silly.

“I see. I'll see you at work tomorrow, then.”

Damn! Why am I screwing this up?

“Lynn?”

“Nicolas?”

We sink into another of our famous embarrassing silences.

“I…” Nicolas starts, then stops.

“Yes?”

“I…”

“Hmm?”

“Well, have a nice evening,” he says.

Whatever.

 

Didn't I tell you that I'd be a princess? I can't stop looking at myself. Front. Back. Three-quarter. Profile. I really did do some walking after my meeting, and I bought a couple of amazing dresses and a pair of shoes to match each one. Then I bought a stunning new trench to complete the outfits. Thank God for the cash Jodie gave me.

The few banknotes left lie on the table beside the Kazo store receipt and look at me with their sad eyes for the loss of all their friends.

Yes, I shopped at Kazo…you know.

But seriously, look at me!

Front. Back. Three-quarter. Profile.

That's what fashion is all about. Transformation and finding one's identity. I have finally found out that I can be cute. Very cute. Super very cute. In fact—dare I say it?—almost beautiful. Wait until the Hub sees me! He is going to drown in his own drool.

I know. I shouldn't go out with Hub. Not with what's going on, uh, or not going on with Nicolas right now. Still, it's going to be fine because, first, it's not a date. It's a friends-date. Second, I feel absolutely nothing toward the Hub and will really be thinking about Nicolas.

And third, I'm just dying to go out in Paris with an all-American legend like the Hub!

I'm the little darling of the jet set! And let's face it. This is probably my one shot at this before it all comes crashing down, so I think I'm entitled to enjoy it.

Har har har!

The phone rings and the concierge tells me that there is a Mr. Barclay waiting for me in the lobby.

It's so incredible!

I would like my entire life to be just like tonight. I mean, how I'm sure tonight will turn out.

I'm so excited I can't remember if I have closed the door to my suite.

I can't remember if I took the card key!

I quickly look in my purse but I've already forgotten what I'm looking for.

How can you do it? How can you stay gracious and have a date (a friends-date) with Hubert Barclay? He is taking me out in Paris. I belong to a long list of celebrities and models that Hubert has taken out, had sex with and then discarded. What a lucky girl I am.

Oops! I mean, of course I'm not going to have sex with the Hub. This is a friends-date. I'm thinking of my angel Nicolas and I feel very guilty for not being with him.

Of course, Nicolas could have asked me out…

I see him. The Hub has his back to me. I walk down the last steps to the reception area. I'm making my Ingrid-Bergman-comes-down-the-stairs impression. He turns to take a good look at me. Ah! There's electricity in the air. I can feel it. I smile my best smile. Bull's-eye! It's working. He likes what he sees. A real girl, finally. Not one of those tall, anorexic spiders. A fleshy girl he could bring to his parents and say, “Yes, Mother, she has curves and large hips, and she will bear my child!”

“Hey, Hubert.” Or Hub or the Hub.

“You look…perfect.”

He looks “perfect”, too.

“I booked a table at La Tour d'Argent. I hope that's not too tacky for you.”

“You seem very scared of tacky.” I give him my best sexy-but-suitable-for-a-friends-date smile.

“Tacky kills, Lynn.”

“Well, I've never been there before,” I say. “But I'm starving, so anything will do.”

He smiles. He doesn't date a lot of starving women. Or anybody eager to go anywhere. That's the problem with anorexia and self-medication. Low sugar makes you numb. I'm different. I'm all cookies and cream. It gives me the energy to bite into life and plenty of extra fat.

“I haven't had a steak since I arrived in Paris,” I say, eagerly renouncing my fake vegetarianism. “Do they have good steak?”

He tries to think about it. “I've never seen a steak at La Tour d'Argent, but I'm sure that if we ask them, they'll send a runner to buy one somewhere.”

He's so unfussy. In a way, he acts as if he doesn't give a damn about the world, and at the same time he appears to be very kind and eager to please.

I love this friends-date!

 

Outside the hotel the night is warm and the sky is pink red. Everything is perfect. Hubert's driver opens the door of a stretch black Mercedes. I sit in the deep leather seat. I could get used to this.

“Should we go for an aperitif first?”

“If that means an alcoholic drink, I'm with you.”

“What kind of girl are you? Trendy or classic?”

Er? “Classic?”

“Good. Do you like Bloody Marys?”

“Mr. Barclay? Can you read minds?”

“Dave,” he calls to the driver. “Take us to Harry's.”

It's something else to be driven in stretch limos. You feel separated from the real world, it's like traveling in fantasyland.

“Lynn, I'm embarrassed to ask you, but where did we meet before?”

“We never met before, Hubert.”

He considers that and smiles. I smile back.

“You're something different, Lynn.”

“You bet, Hub.” I know, it sounds like I'm flirting, but I'm not…. Or maybe just a little bit, in a friendly kind of way.

 

The driver stops in the middle of a tiny street, blocking the traffic with style. He jumps out of the car and opens the door for me. He gives me his hand and helps me out. Hubert came out by himself and is already waiting for me at the bar's entrance.

“I knew that I couldn't have possibly met you before. I would have remembered.”

He opens the door for me. Inside the bar, it's packed, smoky, noisy and dark and I love it. It's exactly the way you would picture nightlife in Paris. It's the way you read about it. The smoke. The noise. The relics of the past hanging from wooden panels. I can only hear English conversations. We're among Americans here, and we are all keeping an eye on the door in case Ernie Hemingway or Scott Fitzgerald come back from the dead to enjoy a last gin and tonic.

“Look who's here! Isn't it a small world?”

Isn't it indeed? Roxanne Green is eyeing us and gives me an inviting smile.

She sits with a handsome, dark-haired boy half her age.

“Lynn! How lovely to see you here. Hubert! Sort us out with some drinks, will you.”

“Sure. What's the boy drinking?”

The boy looks up at Hubert.

“Oh. Hubert, Lynn, this is…Guy. Guy is…What is it you're doing again, Guy?
Qu'est-ce que tu fais dans la vie, mon chéri?
”

“J'ai été dans l'Appart. Mais j'ai perdu.”

“Oh, yes, Guy was in one of those stupid reality shows they've got here. Now I think he wants to write his biography, but of course, he will have to learn how to read and write first. And he wants to become famous. Bring him a club soda, he already had too much to drink.”

Roxanne brushes his cheek.

“Je me sens pas bien!”

“So, Lynn,” Roxanne says. “I see you've been busy. And you can't say I didn't warn you about Barclay.”

“It's just a friends-date,” I protest. “Besides, Hubert has a girlfriend back home.”

“Tsk, tsk! You're so outdated, darling. Hubert has dumped the poor girl like he dumps any young naive thing that passes through his bedroom. She wanted them to get engaged before fall, so he wanted her out. He came to Paris to give her time and space to move out of his New York apartment. How delicate of him! Aren't you a knight, Hubert?” she says as he returns with our drinks.

“If you say so.”

He puts the soda in front of Guy, but the poor thing has fallen asleep on the table.

“I think it's past his bedtime.”

“That's the problem when we're dating
so young,
Hubert,” she says, sipping her Bloody Mary and stroking Guy's hair.

“Mmm! This is the most delicious Bloody Mary I've ever tasted,” I say, trying to shift the conversation.

“You're the luckiest man, Hubert,” Roxanne continues as she eases back in the bench. “You're rich. You're successful. And now you're adding Lynn Blanchett to your trophy wall.”