21 Steps to Happiness (8 page)

“Lynn, this is completely absurd.”

“Absurd, huh?”

Okay. He makes the rules. I go again. I'm back on my toes and on his lips. I'm right against him. I feel him. I feel how tense he is.

“So?” I ask again.

“This is crazy.”

“Well, that's Muriel B's style. I'm just like her, getting the vibes.”

“I'm…so sorry.” He steps away from me. He doesn't want me to go for a third. “I need…you know…” He points toward Muriel and the group. “We'll arrange your trip back and, well, we're broke but we will…pay for everything. That's…”

I nod. “Just go, Nicolas.”

“I'm sorry, Lynn.”

“Yeah, right.”

I want him to go away before I fall apart. He gives me some kind of sad smile and leaves me there.

I fall down on a wooden box. It's covered by some sort of white dust. That's going to stain for good.

I feel so lonely and lost. I am in Paris, far away from home, surrounded by strangers, hiding under a stand with the souvenir of a hopeless kiss.

“That's the best I can do,” I hear the priest say. “And honestly, Muriel, I don't have all morning to argue with you.”

“It's a fucking joke! I'll sue!”

“You'll sue? Ha! Do you realize that I booked you here only as a favor to your father?”

I can see them from where I sit. I can see the catwalk. I could hide here for the day and enjoy the shows. Nicolas looks so confused.

Is he still thinking of me?

“Maybe we can make it…a breakfast event. With coffee and croissants…and…I don't know…” Nicolas says clumsily.

Muriel takes a better look at him. “What's wrong with you?”

Is it me, or does he looks extra pale?

“This is fashion, Nicolas! Fashion doesn't wake up at seven in the morning. Fashion doesn't wake up before noon.”

Why bother discussing this with the priest? They should have the show in the street. That's the very first thing that crossed my mind when I walked into Muriel B's office. Set it among the prostitutes. Hell, if they could shake off a pound or two, you could even use them as models.

I stand. I get out. I don't have anything to lose. I don't care if I'm going to sound ridiculous. I walk over to their group.

“Do it in the street,” I say.

“What?” Muriel barks at me.

“Muriel B belongs to the street. It's young. It's provocative. It's different. Just set a stage in front of the office and do the show in the street.”

“Who are you?” the priest asks.

“This is Lynn Blanchett,” Nicolas says. “She is…
was
our PR…consultant.”

“Everybody will talk about it,” I continue. “That's the spirit of Muriel B. Free Fashion. Street Fashion.”

“In the street,” Muriel repeats.

Nobody dares to say anything.

They wait.

She looks at my butt. “Look at you!”

She slaps it gently and brushes off the white dust, and when she is finished brushing my ass she just says, “I like it.”

“You must be out of your mind!” the priest blasts.

“Forget about our booking. Give it to Galliano. We're doing my show in the street. How did you put it, Lynn? Free Fashion. Street Fashion. I love it.”

The priest rises and shakes his hands in a kind of a
I wash my hands of all your madness
gesture and walks away.

“I love this girl, she's a genius,” Muriel shouts, and embraces me. “Nicolas! We have to change everything. The show will take place in the street. Phone everybody, absolutely everybody. You have to work closely with Lynn. Let her know everything you're doing.”

She walks away, followed by her entourage, leaving me behind with Nicolas.

“
Bien joué,
Lynn.”

“What?”

“That was…very
inspired,
” he says.

What? The kisses? Say it! Say you liked it.

“Your idea to do the show in the street is a surprisingly good idea.”

“Sure.”

Coward, coward, COWARD!

I
am a star! Look at me in my Basic clothing! I'm the best thing that has happened in this town since…I don't know…Napoleon?

“This party must be
so
boring for you.”

“Not at all, it's amazing. Look at this place,” I say.

“Americans are
so
ignorant but so entertaining. While we French, we are very cultured but very boring.”

Is that a compliment?

“Oh, I see you as the nasty kind…” He moves his hand in the air. It's a dancing-puppet version of me. “A nasty little party girl! Just like your mother!”

“Not at all, Jean-André,” I say. Jean-André is an aging gay Frenchman who, apparently, knows everyone. “I am a very boring American, in a French kind of way, and I am
so
over the going-out thing,” I hear myself say.

“No, no, no, darling. You're a New Yorker. New Yorkers are not Americans. We have been there recently with Kazo, you know….”

He whispers the name and pauses. He wants to give everyone enough time to realize that he is talking about
the
Kazo, the famous Japanese designer.

“We were in New York for leisure because Kazo, you know, loves New York, but everybody was making a point of being so
boring
. They don't drink, they don't smoke and of course they don't fuck.”

“Fun is not fun anymore,” I say to the laughing little man. I don't even think Jean-André is his real name.

“Fun is not fun!
Vous êtes irrésistible, ma chère!”

We're enjoying a warm evening in the garden. Fiber-optic cables provide a gentle light. Artificial streams of blue-colored water run along moss and bonsai trees. Oriental New Age music plays in the background. We feel Zen sipping our Bloody Marys and chewing celery.

In the middle of this Japanese garden lies a huge condo that seems to be built out of rice paper and wood. All this is perfectly mind-blowing, of course, because we're actually in the middle of Paris and on the property of the famous Japanese designer Kazo, you know….

“Kazo, you know…spends most of his time in Paris. This house is a reflection of his creative madness.
Sa folie!
” Jean-André explained to me.

Kazo's not here. Kazo is drinking his own Bloody Marys in Los Angeles and, like us, celebrating the twenty-year anniversary of Kazo Fashion.

Amazing dresses and garments are suspended in the air all around the garden. Tall beautiful models are drinking pink, red and blue cocktails while sucking sushi canapés passed around by hunky waiters.

“Hey, I love your dress,” a tall blond girl passing by says out of the blue. “Calvin Klein?”

“Jodie Blanchett,” I say.

I never thought I could ever put on one of Jodie's garments. But I've been so malnourished since my arrival in Paris that I slid into this one like a wet piece of soap.

“Very cute!”

She smiles at me. She's extremely cute, too. God, is she flirting with me? Is everyone in this business so sexually ambiguous, or is it just me?

“You must know Clarice, everybody knows Clarice,” Muriel says. Out of nowhere Muriel has materialized at my side.

“I'm Clarice Kleron.” The tall blonde gives me her hand and giggles.

“This is Lynn,” Muriel presents me.
“Lynn est une perle.”

I am a pearl. That's how Muriel presents me to everybody. I'm the pearl that she found in New York and dragged back to Paris.

“Yeah, I've heard about you,” Clarice says to me. “You're Jodie Blanchett's daughter.”

“When did you hear about me?”

“Well, tonight. I'm going to the Gucci party after, would you like to come?”

I'm getting picked up by a beautiful blonde!

“Not tonight, sorry,” I say. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Pity,” she whispers and walks away.

“American women are going to conquer the world,” Jean-André laughs out. “They can't cook, they can't fuck, but they conduct business better than any man.”

Is that a compliment? No time to ask because Jean-André keeps talking.

“Kazo, you know…thinks that the next American president will be a woman. Somebody just like you, Lynn. A pearl.”

“Would you excuse me, Jean-André?” Muriel interrupts. “You might pass on Clarice,” she whispers to me, “but I want to go to the Gucci party with her.” She walks away and goes after my girl.

“Alone at last,” Jean-André says. “I know somebody that's dying to meet you.”

Kazo?

“I know what you're thinking. No, it's not Kazo, you know…. You will meet him one day, don't worry. Kazo, you know…loves to meet talented people like you.”

Jean-André walks me inside the condo. He pushes one of the sliding walls and invites me to walk inside a secluded room.

“Sit, Lynn, sit.”

There's no chair, of course. If your business is to manufacture and sell chairs, forget about Paris. They all sit on the floor and pretend to be Japanese these days.

Jean-André slides the wall shut and I find myself face-to-face with a very fat man, lying on the floor like some Roman emperor, picking on a food platter laid in front of him.

“This is Xavier Urbain, you know, the founder of Xu.”

“Of course,” I say, but I have absolutely no idea what Xu is.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lynn. We heard a lot about you,” the fat man says with a French accent, swallowing a stuffed grape. “And your mother is…a goddess!”

“So, you're working for Muriel B, you poor thing,” a very elegant woman sitting beside him says. She reminds me of Roxanne. Same age, same style, same elegance.

“Lynn, you must know Chloe Destouches.”

Who?

“Er…surprisingly not,” I say, shaking, well, rather touching her hands.

“Where have you been hiding, dear? Chloe is the black queen of fashion! No, no, Chloe, no false modesty, that's all true! You can read her ruthless prose in the pages of
Marie Claire.
”

“Ah! Sure, yes!”

The cutest of all the waiters stands quietly behind them. Jean-André snaps his fingers at him.

“Get Lynn another Bloody Mary.”

“And some more stuffed grapes. They're disgustingly good,” Xavier Urbain says, then sucks in another one. “How are things at Muriel B? Chaotic, I imagine. It must be so exciting to work in chaos!”

“I'm still settling in.”

“I heard that you're doing wonders.”

‘“Muriel B belongs to the street,'” Jean-André quotes me. “Everybody talks about it. It's brilliant, Lynn.”

“Pity that the talent of a Blanchett is wasted on someone like Muriel,” Xavier spits out along with some grape seeds.

“Oh, but no, Xavier! You're cruel with the young Muriel,” Jean-André protests. “Fashion's such a difficult business and it's so hard to go on pretending you're a genius for so long.”

“Ha! Muriel will never be mistaken for a genius.”

I have a feeling that I shouldn't be here.

“She has a rich father, and that's all there is to it,” Chloe chimes in.

“She has no idea what she is doing.” Xavier pops another grape.

“She's a joke.”

“Not even a funny joke, Chloe,” Xavier says.

“She's the proof you can buy your way in this business.” Clearly Chloe enjoys her ruthless reputation.

“She's a fake, didn't I tell you that before?” Jean-André forces himself back into the conversation. “She has no talent! No talent at all!”

“She'll be over in six months,” Chloe concludes, picking out the stuffing and skinning the grape before eating it. “It's a cruel world out there, isn't it, Lynn?”

Jean-André puts his hand on mine. “You're very young yourself, you wouldn't know.”

“Those kids want the fame, but they don't want to do the real work for it. And they think that you can get famous just like that….” Xavier snaps his fingers as the waiter walks in with my Bloody Mary.

“Look at him….” Xavier snaps his finger again. “He appears and disappears at will.”

They laugh and the poor guy has no choice but to smile and become invisible again.

“I wonder what makes somebody like you decide to waste time with a company like Muriel B.” Another grape disappears into Xavier's gigantic mouth. “Francis Boutonnière is actually fed up with paying the bills. Do you know that they're broke?”

“I'm sure that Lynn knows what she's doing,” Jean-André says. “She is like Kazo, you know…she is very impulsive and follows her feelings rather than reason. Geniuses and crazy people are like that.”

Help me! Is that a compliment or an insult?

“I really would like to talk to you later,” Chloe says. “Maybe we can make a feature on you for
Marie Claire
. ‘American Girl takes risks in Paris.' The thing is…”

She looks at Xavier and back at me. She needed those few seconds to think of something nasty to say. “I know your mother very well but I never heard a single word about you.”

Join the club, Chloe, I think to myself. But tonight I refuse to let Jodie's lifelong disappointment in me ruin my good time. They think I'm brilliant. So instead of sinking into myself I smile and say, “Someone like me should always remain in the shadows.”

“Modesty. Is that another one of your flaws? Mmm?”

Oh, this time, I know! This wasn't a compliment at all. Chloe is much more obvious than Jean-André.

“I have to go back to Muriel, you know…working for her and all.”

An embarrassing silence follows. I know exactly what they're all thinking: how could I prefer to go back to Muriel when I could stay with such fabulous people?

“We'll catch up later then,” Chloe says, which sounds like something a toreador says to a bull before a fight. “And ask your assistant to send me your bio.”

“Sure!”

“It's nice to see passionate people back in this business. Fresh and innocent!” Xavier says and then ignores me as if I had already left the room.

Jean-André makes a silly gesture with his hand. Somehow, I have disappointed him.

Muriel is still chatting up Clarice. She is very sexual, touching and caressing her. I haven't decided yet if I should tell her about my encounter with Chloe and Xavier. Before I have a chance to say a thing, however, Muriel squeals, “Oh, look who's here!”

Nicolas passes the garden gates. Blood rushes to my cheeks. I don't want to see him. Not after what has happened. Not after…

“Are you sure he's gay?” I ask before he can hear us.

“I don't know, ask him.” Muriel laughs out loud.

Too loud.

Maybe bisexual? I can live with that. Think about it. He would bring home gorgeous angels just like him…. Mmm….

“Lynn, you look fantastic,” Nicolas says when he reaches Muriel, Clarice and me.

“Jodie Blanchett.”

“What?”

“The dress.” I explain.

He looks amazing, too. He wears a stylish gray suit with a simple tight black T-shirt. Why are gay people so hot? It's like being teased with a cream cake that turns out to be plastic. It's so unfair.

“Can I get you another one of those,” he says, taking my empty glass.

“Oh, why not? Bloody Mary.”

Why not, huh? Well, how about because you're getting drunk?

“Wait! I might take something nonalcoholic.” That's it. I am a sensible woman. I am in control of myself and I am not a greedy drunk like my uncle Ted.

We cross the garden together toward a lovely bar covered with food and prepoured drinks.

“Is that orange juice?” I ask the waiter.

“No, it's…” He says what it is but I don't understand. It looks like juice so I take it. I sip and it's horribly bitter and peppery but very fashionable.

“I think it's a ginger juice.” Nicolas goes for a Bloody Mary. “They are Kazo's favorite. It's his special recipe, invented by his caterer. Do you like sushi?”

“Yeah, once it's cooked.”

Nicolas gives an apologetic smile to the waiter. The you-know-she's-American kind of smile.

“I wanted to talk to you. First, I want to apologize for the way you've been treated,” Nicolas says.

“Apology accepted.” I'm so easy.

“Then…Well, I don't know how to tell you this, but at some point, yesterday, we lost faith in you.”