21 Steps to Happiness (24 page)

“What is this,” I ask Nicolas, “the annual who's who convention?”

Hey, I got a smile out of him!

Clarice turns to me. “Ha ha ha!” She overheard me and finds me very funny. She is so perfectly gracious and at ease among the stars, like a little celebrity fairy.

“So how long have you been together?” I ask Nicolas.

“We just signed her an hour ago.”

“No, I mean together,” and I make my famous finger together-sign.

“Oh,
that
together,” he breathes. “Sorry to disappoint you but we're not…” He does my finger trick.

“Oh, it doesn't bother me if you date models,” I say, and mentally jump for joy that they aren't together.

“She's not a model! God, don't you know her?”

Apparently, I am the only person in the world not to know Clarice.

“Come on! She's the heiress of Kleron. You know. The hotels.”

Ah! That explains the name! It's not just a funny coincidence.

“And now she's Mademoiselle Xu!”

Clarice turns to him, laughs, winks and runs into Miller Yourt's arms. Yes, Yourt the rock star, who happens to be standing by the champagne bar. He calls her babe. She calls him sugar, and she forgets all about us.

Nicolas leads us into the ballroom. A small catwalk is surrounded by large tables set for a lovely continental breakfast.

Champagne, coffee in real silver pots and mini-croissants!

“Isn't Dior's show supposed to be this afternoon at the Carrousel?”

“This is not the show. This is the preshow breakfast,” Nicolas explains.

A preshow?

“It's a sneak preview for VVIPs.”

Here's the thing. To get into the top show, you need to be a VIP or well connected to one. But these days there are too many VIPs so they have invented VVIP, and special exclusive breakfast fashion shows to accommodate. Weird!

“Here he is.” Nicolas spots Villiers sitting at one of the front tables eating a croissant all by himself.

I cruise like a torpedo toward Villiers.

“Oh! Vous!”
he says when he sees me.

“Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?”

“Well. Yes, I'm waiting for my real guests.”

I sit down anyway.

“Is it about Muriel B again?”

No, it's about saving the whales of Australia!

“You said you would call back.”

“Are you kidding me?” He looks up at Nicolas who stands right behind me. “Did you explain to her how this game is played?”

“I have nothing to do with her,” Nicolas says, lifting his hands. “I'm not even working for those people anymore.”

Villiers sighs. “Well, that's not the way we play the game, here.”

“We need to talk,” I start.

“
Elle est incroyable celle là!
I don't care what you need. Look around. Nobody cares what you need. The day Muriel B will be like Galliano, I will call you darling and love you for real. In the meantime, I want you to leave me alone. Bye now.”

“I don't want to give up,” I reply.

Maybe Villiers is like some Jedi Master testing my willpower, and if I hold on long enough, he will break into a smile and teach me how to control the force.

“Trust me, I
will
make you give up!”

And then comes a real surprise.

It comes from my shoulder.

It's Nicolas's hand on my shoulder. It's both an encouragement to give up and a comforting touch.

Come on, Lynn, he seems to say, you're disturbing all these good people. Give up. Get out. Leave my life! Because I hate you, you know.

I turn to look at him.

He doesn't look like he hates me. He just looks plain sad for me.

He has been there, you know. Working for Muriel and trying to get people's attention. Now he is hanging out with celebrities and getting the real thing at Xu.

“To be continued,” I say to Destouches.

“Au revoir et à jamais, mademoiselle!”

That means goodbye forever. I didn't need a translation.

I stand and look at the catwalk. The models have started to glide around, clothed in the latest Dior collection. It's not like a real show. They are more like fish in an aquarium in a Chinese restaurant.

“Oh, Lynn! Nice to meet you again.”

I turn to see my favorite toilet pal, Marion. “I'm awfully alone. Can I join you?” she asks.

I look down at Martin. His mouth hangs half-open. “Is it all right with you if Marion joins us?” I ask him.

“Sure! Sure! Great!”

I sit back down, and push out a chair for her. “Martin, you must have met Marion,” I say.

Marion looks at him. “No, I'm sorry, I don't think we have.”

Even for Superagent Martin Villiers, Marion is big news. “Oh! Yes we did, Marion. We met numerous times.” I swear there are large sweat drops forming right under his wig.

“I'm sorry, I…don't remember.”

I put my hand over Marion's as if we grew up together in the Brooklyn Covent School for Girls and ask, “Marion, are you coming to Muriel's show tonight?”

“Oh. Well…”

“You know, it's the street show. It's going to be quite something.”

“Well…”

I press her hand real tight. “Tell me you are. It would mean
the world
to her.”

“I guess…well, yes, sure.”

I turn to Villiers. I know he heard her but he pretends to be looking at the dresses on the catwalk now. He is actually the only person in the whole ballroom looking at the poor models.

“How's everything, anyway?” Marion asks while glancing quickly at Nicolas.

“Things are…well…you know…” I shrug and turn to Villiers. I know exactly what he is computing in his rotten brain. If Marion goes to Muriel B's show, why shouldn't my clients?

“Martin! Darling!” Miller Yourt has set Clarice free and she decided to join our group. “Hi, Marion! What's up?” she asks casually.

“You know, Dior in the morning, Muriel B in the afternoon.”

“Ma-artin?” Clarice whines. “Are you going to Muriel B's show, too? Because I think I want to go now!” She sucks her thumb thoughtfully.

We turn to him.

He stares at me, so I grab the pastry basket and offer him one. He finally chooses the one with raisins, smiles and says, “Oh, well, how couldn't I?”

“Well,” Marion says. “I haven't seen Muriel's father for ages. It will be a kick to see him again. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Thank God Muriel's not here!

As others at the table chat with Marion I let her hand go.

I have more important business. I slide my hand under the table and grab Nicolas's.

I squeeze it.

But instead of squeezing back he takes it away and gives me a dirty look.

I try to keep smiling at him.

I try so hard, my face hurts.

 

Nicolas says, “We need to talk,” with a serious face, so we leave Villiers, Marion and Clarice Kleron to their breakfast.

We go backstage, out of everyone's sight.

He shakes his head and sits down on a carry box. “What was that all about?”

“It was nothing. Just a friendly handshake, for old time's sake.”

I sit beside him and draw my biggest card in this game. “Hubert Barclay is out of my life, if that makes any difference to you.”

“It's too late, Lynn. Why don't you understand?”

Because I don't want to!

“Please, Nicolas. Barclay was…”

“Was what?”

What was Barclay, indeed? Why didn't I just prepare a neat speech, huh, full of emotional picks and heartbreaking gimmicks?

“Barclay was a dream. Barclay was…like this job.”

“What job?”

I point at the part of the catwalk we can see from under the seat stand. The models are still turning absently. “This job! What we do. I dreamt of something like this all my life, you know. I looked up to Jodie and thought, I want glamour. I want the glitz, the spotlights. I want to be a part of it. And now that I'm here, I realize that there's no glamour. There is no glitz. It was just a stupid dream.”

“Barclay was just a stupid dream?”

He wants me to say it.

“It was a charming dream,” I tell him the truth. “But yes, it was just a dream.”

Can we kiss now?

“You know what? You're right, Lynn, this is all a dream.”

God!

“And I want to wake up and realize that you never existed, that you never came into my life and made a complete mess of it.”

 

When I feel this way, there's only one thing—rather one person—who can save the day—Muriel.

I've located her. She gave me an address on the flashy outskirts of Paris, near Le Bois de Boulogne.

The taxi leaves me in front of some threatening-looking gates. I go through the scrutiny of yet another security camera and make my way toward a tall, dark mansion covered in moss and surrounded by a spooky English garden. Muriel is just inside, waving at me from behind one of the French doors.

“What is this place? The Parisian residence of Count Dracula?”

“Almost. It's my father's house.”

It couldn't be more different from the villa in the Riviera. It's dark and clotted with intimidating antics. The walls are covered with old paintings. Dead people posing for the artist.

“It's very intimidating, like a museum.”

“Typical
grande bourgeoisie française,
very attached to the things of the past,” Muriel says. “So what is this great news then?”

“We have Marion and a couple of big cheeses from Villiers coming to see what a genius you really are.”

“Good,” she says moodily and drops her tush onto a throne.

“What's wrong?”

“This.” She hands me a sheet of paper. It's a printed e-mail. It reads:

 

Muriel. I won't be able to be at your show. Pierre will represent me. I know it will be a great success. All wishes of luck. For F.B.—Lilian Meredith, personal assistant to M. Boutonnière.

 

“Did you get flowers?” I ask, ready to compare our fortune.

“Flowers?” She smiles. “No, fruits and chocolates. Best quality! Hediart. Oh, and a box of champagne to celebrate.”

I look really useless with my damn bouquet. “You're spoiled.”

“I came here to make him eat his e-mail, or his assistant's e-mail, to be fair, but…he's already gone.”

Francis is back in his jet—flying all alone above some unknown ocean looking for his own immortality.

“You know, Lynn, we're messed up, but at the end, we'll be fine.”

Oho! Not quite.

Someone is fiddling with the lock in the foyer. I give her back the e-mail. “Well…
bon appétit
.”

We stand and tiptoe to the foyer to give Francis a proper welcome, but we don't get Francis, we get Jolanta.

“Oh…hello,” she says, more disappointed than surprised. She steps in and closes the door behind her.

She looks up to Muriel with those poor kitten eyes. The light is gone. The honeymoon's over.

“He dumped you, didn't he?” Muriel asks calmly.

She shrugs.
Oh well…don't they all!
and gives Muriel her keys. “I…He asked me to just leave them anywhere.” She looks upstairs. “I have a few personal things to…you know.”

“Feel free.”

“He didn't tell me you'd be here. He said I could stay for the weekend as long as I would be gone on Sunday evening.”

“The place is yours.” Muriel gives her back the keys. “We were actually about to leave.”

We watch her climb the monumental stairs.

“I envy her so much,” Muriel says enigmatically.

I know: she's so freaking slim!

“She can just give back her keys, pick up her things and, on Sunday, it's over. No more Francis Boutonnière in her life.”

I'm so shallow.

Shallow, shallow, SHALLOW!

D
amn!

Nothing's working. Nothing's ready. Nobody's here. They can't stop the traffic. Cars are slipping through our roadblocks. None of the models have turned up. There are no journalists. No photographers. I mean, where is everybody? I'm like the pathetic birthday girl without any guests for the party. Where is Muriel? It's going to be a disaster! Where did I leave my handbag? I need my cell phone! I need to phone everybody! Help! Help! Help!

When I locate Muriel, she seems strangely calm. That's a bad sign with her, let me tell you. It means that she is very close to exploding and having a full-scale mental breakdown.

“Where are the models?” she asks because, indeed, where are they? There's only one hour left before the show starts and the technicians have just finished setting up the backstage marquis. One hour! What are we going to do? All the Muriel B staff is here, under the marquis, sitting beside the racks of clothes, waiting for something to happen. And they all look at me.

I just smile. “The models are on their way. Not a problem at all.”

“We're not going to be ready on time, darling,” one of the hairdressers complains.

“It'll be all right,” I repeat and phone Louise at Fjord Agency. I get her voice mail again. I walk away from the marquis to leave her another angry message.

“Louise, call me back. Where are the models? This is an emergency.”

I look at my watch. Fifty-five minutes to the scheduled start. Oh, no! I wish something would happen. I wish a flood would destroy Paris and take me with it!

I walk to the catwalk. They're still working on it. “How long will it take to finish the catwalk?” I ask one of the carpenters.

“Don't know. About an hour. Maybe.”

I look at the stand for the photographers and television crews. It's empty. Completely empty. Not a single tripod to be seen.

Dear Lord, make me invisible.

A woman walks up to me. I recognize her immediately. Yeah, that's right, she frowns. She can't remember where she's seen me before. But I do. She was the security girl at the entrance of the movie premiere. She carries the same clipboard, but today she works for us.

“Vous êtes Lynn Blanchett?”
she asks.

“No English. I mean…no French. Just English.” I try to look composed, but I realize how stressed out and incoherent I sound.

“Lynn Blanchett,” she says, grabbing my wrist, trying to calm me down.

“Yes, yes, that's me,” I manage to say, but really, I'm about to cry.

“I'm in charge of check-in and security. I work with SecuryShow. We have a problem.”

Oh, really, we have a problem?

“We've finally managed to stop the traffic, but we can't guarantee security during the show.”

“What security?”

“This place is too open. Passersby will be able to come in and out. It's impossible for my people to stop gate-crashers. You understand?”

“Oh!” Will that really be a problem knowing that no one will come? “That's the spirit. We want it to be a street event. It's fringe, you know what
I
mean?”

“No, I don't know what you mean. Whoever had this idea didn't think it through,” she says and walks away.

I walk back into the marquis. Nobody has moved. Not a single inch. They sit lazily waiting for something to happen. Like for the models to turn up. Muriel has put on a pair of sunglasses. She is losing it. I can feel it. She knows that we're heading toward a tragedy.

“Is everything fine, Lynn?”

“Everything is fine. We might be five minutes late, but that's it.”

I look at my watch and there are forty-five minutes left before the start of the show.

My cell phone rings. I look at the screen and see Nicolas's name.

What does he want?

I have a very bad feeling about him calling now. I walk away because I don't want Muriel to hear me.

“Nicolas, I'm a bit busy right now,” I say defensively, but something tells me he's not phoning just to chitchat.

“I want you to know, I had nothing to do with it,” he says, and my legs are just giving up. “I'm phoning to warn you. You've been set up.”

Breathe.

“What do you mean by
set up?
”

“Lynn, you have to trust me. I phoned you as soon as I discovered it.”

“What do you mean by SET UP?” I yell.

“They screwed up your booking. You won't get any models.”

“Who's they?”

“Xavier Urbain.”

“Oh, that's really surprising,” I say and try not to faint. “Where are they?”

“The models? They are working elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Lynn, they are doing more important shows. Everywhere! I'm sorry. If I can do anything…”

I hang up on him.

I look at my watch. Forty-one minutes left.

I phone Louise again, only this time I get through to her.

“I don't understand the problem, Lynn,” she says. “We have fifteen girls booked for you, tomorrow at five, not for today. This has been confirmed twice by your office.”

“Who confirmed it to you?”

“I…” I hear her shuffling through some documents. “I received a couple of faxes.”

Shit!

“Louise! Where are the models?”

“They're working. Some at the Carrousel. Some are doing—”

I cut her off. “What time will they finish?”

“I don't know. I need to call them.”

“Louise. I'm going to the Carrousel right now. Tell them to wait for me. I'm going to pick them up and bring them back here. Tell them not to take off their makeup and to keep their hairdos.”

“Lynn, it's impossible. You cannot arrange to get those fifteen girls now.”

I look at my watch. Thirty-nine minutes.

“Please, Louise, phone them. Tell them that I will be at the Carrousel in five minutes. We will pay double rate to any girl who will do the show.”

“I cannot promise you anything.”

I hang up and my phone rings immediately. It's Nicolas again.

“You have to cancel, Lynn. Do you want me to phone Muriel and explain what happened?”

“We're not canceling anything,” I tell him and hang up again before going back into the marquis.

Carolina, Muriel's girlfriend, has joined our bored little group.

“Ah! Carolina! Good that you're here.” I turn toward the makeup artists and hairdressers. “You can start with her and I'm going to pick up the other girls. There was a traffic problem. I'll be back in about ten minutes.”

“Muriel doesn't want me to work on her show. She says that it's not right,” Carolina says, but I can see how excited she really is.

I turn to Muriel. “Today Muriel is all right with it, aren't you?” I say and drag Muriel away from the rest of the staff.

“The two dancers? Your girlfriends from New York? Are they coming?”

“They're invited,” Muriel says mechanically. She knows that something terribly wrong is happening.

“As soon as they arrive, get them in the marquis and prepare them for the show.”

“But…they're not models! The clothes aren't fitted for them.”

“Squeeze them in! I'll be back with the rest of the girls.”

I walk away thinking I need a magic car, and turn back. “Muriel!” I call. “Whatever happens, don't let anybody cancel the show until I'm back. Okay?”

I walk along the catwalk. A small crowd is starting to gather around it. It's hard to say if they are guests or simply passersby. The press stand is still completely empty.

I try to avoid the security girl, but she sees me trying to sneak out.

“It's a complete mess,” she yells at me. “We can't control anything.”

I shrug and walk away. All I can see is the major traffic jam on the main road in front of me. Cars are literally frozen. Reaching the Carrousel by cab would take about one hour. I look at my watch. Thirty-two minutes left.

I take my phone. Oh, God, I hate to do this! I dial. He answers. Bless God, he answers. I tell him immediately, “Listen, I hate to do this.”

“Lynn?”

I look back. I've walked far enough. Nobody can see me, not even the security girl. “Hubert, I need your help,” I say and start to cry.

 

I run through the Carrousel gallery.

“Where are they? I can't see them,” I say into my cell phone. I can hear Louise talking in French on another line while staying connected with me.

“Louise?”

“They are in front of the Virgin store.”

I reach the inverted glass pyramid in front of the Virgin Megastore and I see a group of tall girls, dressed casually but with outrageous hairdos and makeup.

“Bless you, Louise. Bless you!”

I wave at the models. They look at me suspiciously. They're not sure they should follow the crazy-looking little woman. I see one of them talking on her cell phone and I know for sure that she's talking with Louise.

“Louise, tell them to follow the crazy little woman waving at them.”

I reach their group and say, “Girls, follow me. Quick, quick!”

I hang up on Louise and speed-dial Muriel. She picks up but remains silent.

“It's Lynn.”

Silence.

“We're on our way.” I look at my watch. The show has officially started ten minutes ago. “Twenty minutes max. Hang in there, Muriel.”

Silence.

I hold the door to the street and count my models as they walk out. I have nine of them.

“Be there,” I pray out loud and look up at the sky to thank our Lord when I see Dave's Mercedes pull up in front of us. He jumps out and opens the back door for the girls.

“God bless you, Dave.”

“No, Miss Blanchett. God has given up on me.”

We manage to squeeze eight ultra thin models in the back and the extra one has to sit on my lap in the front seat.

“Get us there quick, Dave.”

“Sure thing,” he says and passes me the car phone.

“Where are you?” Hubert asks.

“On our way.”

“I'm already at the show. People are starting to arrive here. It's great stuff.”

“Is there any press?”

“They'll be here. I made a couple phone calls.”

Prince Charming!

“Can you put Dave on the phone again?”

I pass the phone to Dave. He nods then hangs up.

“What did he say?”

Dave looks at me and smiles. “If I make it in five, I'm rich.”

He makes it in five and we've even managed not to kill anyone.

We're about to reach the stage and Dave asks me if he should park the car nearby but—

No!

I…I phone Muriel. She answers.

Silence. “Muriel,” I say. “Ask the technicians to put the music on!”

“What?”

“Ask them to start the music.”

I ask Dave to head straight for the catwalk with the car.

I open my window to tell the security people to let us go through.

It's all right, guys. I have another one of my great inspired ideas.

Something as mind-blowing as Jodie's paper collection.

The lights come on.

The music is blasting.

The Mercedes glides slowly through the crowd. They applaud it. Dave parks right at the end of the catwalk. He jumps out, opens the door and the models pour out and make their way toward the backstage area, just like that, in their casual clothes. The audience goes wild.

It looks cool, so glam.

Nobody pays attention to the Mercedes anymore. I get out. As soon as the models have disappeared backstage, Dave drives away and Carolina appears in the first dress.

The music pumps. The crowd sparkles. It's champagne!

She looks amazing. It looks like a perfectly rehearsed and synchronized performance.

I look at my watch. We are forty minutes late but the show has officially started. And it's hot!

There is a huge crowd gathered around the catwalk.

Most of them are not guests. Just regular Joes and Janes attracted by the light and the hope to see some glitz.

And glitz they get. They cheer Carolina. They've never seen anything so beautiful in reality. They've heard of it. They've read about it. They've seen it on TV. But never has such a goddess appeared for real in front of them. For them!