Книга - 21 Steps To Happiness

21 Steps To Happiness
F. G. Gerson








21 Steps to Happiness

F. G. GERSON







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Acknowledgments


Thanks to Kate Silver for her incredible help and insights; Farrin Jacobs for her courage and commitment; Selina McLemore; Kathryn Lye; Ruben Gerson for his kindness; Franklin & Dulce Gerson for their love and comfort; Lukasz & Veronica Karwowski for their warm support.

Also, thanks to my wonderful agent, Julie M. Culver, and everybody at Lowenstein-Yost for the caring support, unlimited enthusiasm and hard work.


For Maria & Ilo,

the two authentic ingredients for happiness




Contents


Acknowledgments

Step #1:

Never be ashamed of who you are.

Step #2:

Remember: The grass could ALWAYS be greener.

Step #3:

Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.

Step #4:

Silence is your finest conversational tool.

Step #5:

Seduction seduction seduction!

Step #6:

Sometimes it’s hard to be successful.

Step #7:

Mingle, Snuggle and Connect

Step #8:

Never put love in the equation for success. Love is a freak number.

Step #9:

There are two kinds of people: those who have their names in the papers, and those who don’t.

Step #10:

You can sleep with Mr. Lovely but you must marry Mr. Wealthy.

Step #11:

Love lasts a year. A penthouse in Tribeca is for life.

Step #12:

There will be plenty of Mr. Lovelys, very few Mr. Wealthys.

Step #13:

Once you have convinced yourself, convince the others.

Step #14:

Remember to always look like you’re listening. People will love you for that.

Step #15:

Don’t be who you are, be who you want to be.

Step #16:

Don’t get too attached to Mr. Lovely.

Step #17:

What people think of you doesn’t matter, as long as they don’t work for Vanity Fair.

Step #18:

You can have talent but no success, but you can’t have success without talent.

Step #19:

Every success story has its climax.

Step #20:

Success will bring more success.

Step #21:

Bonus Material!: Always remember, only love can bring happiness.




Step #1:

Never be ashamed of who you are.


“You’re on the next flight, leaving at 5:40, Miss Blanchett.”

Listen to her French accent! It’s so…

“I can check in your luggage straight away.”

“That would be just fine,” I say with a suddenly posh voice.

I make a mental note: easy on the posh voice.

I pass her my bag. She frowns. Okay, it’s not one of those fancy Frenchy-looking kind she expected from someone like me. It’s more like a little Adidas job I used to take to yoga. And yes, it looks horrible, like an old sheep stomach stuffed with clothes and underwear. But darling, you should take a look at the rest of my life.

I have no time for futilities such as traveling wear anymore. I’m so desperately busy right now!

I am a businesswoman.

Going to Paris!

“You may wait in the Premiere Lounge and I’ll place a call for your boarding,” she says extra gently as she points at some sort of classy hotel-reception area behind her. “And…Miss Blanchett?”

“Yes.”

“I love your mother’s work.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say, stepping cautiously into the lounge with the feeling that I’m entering a sacred place.

Hello? I mean, Bonjour?

L’Espace Première is a magnificent lobby full of aging golden boys playing with their cell phones and computers, reading French newspapers while drinking scotch on the rocks under appropriately dimmed lights.

I make another mental note: Lynn, you must get used to these swanky places. Because, right now, I feel as comfortable as a monkey sitting on a rocket.

Oh!

A waitress brushes past me and places a basket of pastries on the buffet table. I move closer. I’m guessing they were baked in Paris this morning and flown to JFK.

“Are they from Paris?” I ask.

Silence.

“The croissants?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “They deliver them by truck. We heat them up in the microwave. I’m new here, anyway.”

“Thank you.” I grab one of those ridiculously tiny plates and fight a natural instinct to beat the cake-eating record, which is actually held by a Japanese woman, or so I’ve seen on the Discovery Channel.

Since Jodie asked me to behave like a young lady of the world, I put the tiniest of all the croissants on my plate, ignore the tray of éclairs, and find a seat next to an elegant woman.

She is all I would like to be. Startlingly beautiful. Confident. At home in such surroundings.

She is much older than me, about Jodie’s age, somewhere in her comfortable forties. She’s sipping tea while browsing through a magazine. She looks so calm, so perfect, so…erudite. She drops her reading, looks up and smiles at me. I smile back with my mouth full, shrug and struggle to eat as elegantly as a bird.

“They’re lovely croissants, aren’t they?” she says suddenly.

“Oh, yes, lovely!” Some crumbs come flying out of my mouth and land on George W. Bush’s face on the cover of her magazine.

She brushes them off gracefully. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I think we can board our flight. You’re going to Paris, aren’t you?”

I swallow a mouthful and say, “Well, yes, I’m flying to Paris!” As if it was the most obvious thing to do.

“I thought so.” She stands and gives me her hand. “Roxanne Green. Nice to meet you.”

Roxanne? What a cool name.

“Lynn,” I say briefly, controlling a survival impulse to say, That’s Lynn Blanchett, yeah, that’s right, the daughter of super-famous Jodie Blanchett, so who’s the most glamorous one now?

“Lynn? Mmm! Nice to meet you, then.” She gives me a condescending smile. “Our gate is this way,” she says and darts away immediately.

Oh! Should I…

She stops. “Are you coming?”

Yes, yes! I abandon my croissant to catch up with her.

“First visit to Paris?”

Apparently it’s tattooed on my forehead.

“Oh, no! I go often,” I lie. “What about you?”

“Not as often as I’d like to,” she says, but every single Air France attendant is, like, hello, Miss Green, how are you, Miss Green, how nice to see you again, seat 1A as usual, the Chablis is already in the chiller, ha ha ha, have a nice flight.

“What brings you to Paris so often, Lynn? Studying at the Sorbonne?”

Studying!

“Oh, no, no, work mostly.”

“Really? Working? What is it that you do, then?”

“I’m a PR…er…person. I work in couture,” I hear myself say.

“How interesting! Paris! Couture! At your age! You must lead a very colorful life.”

“I can’t complain.”

“Who are you working for? Dior?” Roxanne giggles.

“Muriel B.”

“Oh, you’re working for Muriel. That’s so funny. I know Muriel very well. Her father is a good friend of mine. You know him? Francis Boutonnière? It’s such a small world, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes! Extremely tiny,” I agree awkwardly, since I hardly know anything about Muriel B and I’ve never ever heard about any Francis Boutonnière. “Do you work in the fashion business, too, Roxanne?”

“I’m just an enthusiast. I make my living as a writer.”

“Oh…have you written anything I might have heard of?”

She gives me that smile again. “Are you familiar with self-help titles?”

“Boarding pass, please,” a flying attendant asks as we’re about to board.

Roxanne hesitates a second, but finally snatches mine. “Where are you sitting? Ah! Business,” she breathes and looks up at the stewardess. “Would you mind upgrading my good friend Lynn to premiere? Seat 1B. We just didn’t realize we were on the same flight.”

“That won’t be a problem, Miss Green.”

Just like that. I follow Roxanne into first class. “These flights are such a drag,” she whispers as they serve us two champagne flutes and a tray of canapés to make it just about tolerable. “We’ll keep each other company and you can tell me all about your big job at Muriel B!” Another laugh escapes her perfectly shaped mouth.

Oh, God!

“And remember to tell Muriel—you only fly losers and sales reps in business.” She’s about to give me back my boarding pass but takes a better look at it. “Blanchett?” she reads.

I can practically hear the bell of recognition in her head.

“You wouldn’t happen to know—”

“Yep,” I interrupt. “She’s my mother.”

You should see the look on Roxanne’s face. I thought for a second she was choking on one of the lovely canapés she threw in her mouth. “You’re Jodie Blanchett’s daughter. But, darling, it’s…IMPOSSIBLE!”

I gulp my champagne. I’m Jodie-freaking-Blanchett’s daughter. That’s just the way it is.

Jodie Blanchett, the designer behind the revival of denim chic.

Jodie Blanchett, the guru of anorexia clothing.

Jodie Blanchett, the worst mother on the entire planet and the one person responsible for putting me on this plane.

“I know Jodie very well and…she never mentioned any daughter!”

Typical Jodie. She always introduces me as family, never uses the actual word daughter. “I grew up with Dad,” I say to clarify the obvious un-Jodieness about me.

“Whose your dad? I must know him!”

“Bill Blanchett.”

“Bill Blanchett? Never heard of him.”

“Dad is a…” I’m about to say simple guy, but that’s such a bad way to sum up Dad. He is all that Jodie’s not. Caring, loving, there for me. Their marriage lasted less than a week. Jodie once told me she loved the sound of Jodie Blanchett. I’m just the by-product of her quest for a flashy name. “Dad worked in a club she used to go to,” I explain. “Like centuries ago.”

“Well, your mother was a real trouper, wasn’t she. Party party party!” Roxanne points a toothpick at me. “She was my absolute idol back in the eighties! Very liberated! Do you know I was one of the very first people to buy her paper clothes?”

The paper collection put Jodie on the map. Then came the perfume and the cosmetics line. The rest is history.

“I used to hang out a lot with her. We were very good friends. You know, back in the days….” Roxanne laughs again and the sound is quickly becoming annoying. “I don’t see her at all anymore. It’s like she…disappeared.”

“She lives a very secluded life,” I say.

It’s actually a miracle she came out of her lair to drive me to the airport.

I mean, she didn’t drive me, of course. Her chauffeur did.

“Muriel is all you’re not,” Jodie had told me during the ride while helping herself to a mineral water from the limo minibar. “She’s been an item since she was a child. She’s eccentric. Charming. She’s a social animal. She knows everybody and everybody knows her. And she also speaks many languages,” she concluded to answer her cell phone.

I opened the old copy of Learn French in 10 Days she offered me and looked through the first pages while she was having an angry cell-phone conversation about importing fur from Kazakhstan.

Day 1 was fairly easy and all about finding a bus stop. Day 2 was a real challenge as it encompassed buying bread in a French bakery.

Je voudrais une baguette de pain s’il vous plaît. How was that going to help in Paris? I was positive that buying bread wasn’t part of my job description. I couldn’t fall back on Day 1 either because I was also darn sure Muriel Boutonnière was not going to ask me directions to the next bus stop.

L’arrêt de bus se trouve à coté de la mairie.

Please.

How could anyone ever manage two languages in one head anyway?

Jodie disconnected her cell phone. “Did William give you some spending money?”

Jodie’s the only person in the world who calls Dad William. Everyone else calls him Bill.

“I have my credit card.”

“I mean real money,” she said and took an envelope from her handbag.

I opened it. It contained a large wad of Euros. Jodie is like the mob, she only believes in cash.

“I can’t take that,” I protested.

She laughed. “Why?”

“It’s too much money.”

“Don’t be so common!” She put her shades on, protecting herself from my commonness. “You’re Jodie Blanchett’s daughter. People will expect you to pay for everything. And you will! I don’t want you to seem cheap, it would reflect poorly on me.” She tapped on the driver’s shoulder as we approached the terminal. “To the Minute-Drop!”

I tried not to make a face, but she looked at me and sighed. “I can’t go inside the terminal. Not at this time of day. There are all…those people.”

I sat there beside Jodie, uncomfortable as usual, trying to think of something to say or to do that would impress her. Or at least get her attention. But she was already back on her cell phone, this time yelling at her PA and complaining about how U.S. Customs is ruining the fashion industry.

“Thank you, Jodie,” I said when I got out of the limousine.

She put her cell phone on the side for a second.

“Thank you?”

“For arranging all this,” I said, pointing at the terminal.

And for giving me the chance to show you I can be the kind of girl you’d actually claim as your daughter.

She looked annoyed. She doesn’t like thank-yous or goodbyes. It’s her excuse to run away from people pronto and without ceremony. “Please, Lynn. Don’t turn it into another mess,” she said and they immediately drove away.




Step #2:

Remember: The grass could ALWAYS be greener.


I want this!

I’ve always wanted this!

To be given a chance!

I look at myself in the mirror. There is such a difference between the person I want to be and this gross image I see. I’m a small chunky girl just out of college trying to look like a fashion guru about to tackle Paris.

I’m nothing like Jodie. Nothing at all.

I know that’s exactly what they expect in Paris. That’s what they paid for. Jodie II: a younger, kinkier, sexier, thinner version of the genius mother.

And all they’re going to get is me.

Untalented!

Inexperienced!

Unqualified!

I sit on the toilet. I hide my face in my hands and refocus.

I am Lynn Blanchett.

That’s Blanchett with two t’s, dammit!

I AM fab! I AM glam! I AM…going to be sick!

Focus focus. FOCUS!

Knock, knock.

“Yes?”

“We’re about to take off, miss. You should go back to your seat.”

I walk through the first-class cabin. Look at those people. I don’t belong here. I’d be better off with the sales reps in Business.

Roxanne looks particularly excited when I get back into my seat. She drops her magazine and whispers in my ear. “Don’t look back. Hubert Barclay is coming our way.”

Hubert who?

“He’s been trying to date me forever. Seriously! A womanizer like him. You must know Hubert?”

“Well…”

“He is so low. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hunting in your age group. He’s such a disgusting man.”

I throw a quick glance in the aisle to see who she’s talking about but all I see is a very handsome man walking toward us. Late thirties. Tall. Athletic. Elegant. It can’t be the one she’s talking about, because…

“Oh, Roxanne! Tsk, tsk! Going to Paris and not telling me, again.”

Wait a minute! What’s so disgusting about him?

“So sorry, Hubert. Lynn and I are having a girls-only pleasure trip. You know Lynn? Jodie Blanchett’s daughter?”

He looks at me and gives me his am-I-supposed-to-know-you smile. He finally makes up his mind and says, “Of course, how are you, Laura?”

“Lynn,” I correct him.

“Yeah, right, Lynn. Sorry. How have you been, since…since last time?”

“I’ve been good, Hubert,” I say, trying to keep my breathing at a socially acceptable speed.

“Lynn is working for Muriel Boutonnière, you know, Francis’s daughter.”

“Muriel, huh? Her father and I, we go way back,” he says and the world keeps getting smaller. “Is she still not talking to him?”

How would I know?

“She doesn’t…talk about that with me.”

We all shake our heads. Damn Shame is the consensus.

“Anyway, I don’t want to spoil your all-girl…thing,” he says and walks back to his seat for the takeoff.

“Look at him. He owns half the newspapers and magazines published in this country and he is still scared of me. Men are scared of women who reject them…. Men are scared of rejection, period.”

I smile but my heart is rushing while I try to look calm and poised. I recognize him now. This is the Hubert Barclay, the billionaire, the media mogul, Barclay the Great, and he actually said Hi, Lynn (or Laura, but oh who cares!) and How are you and My favorite color is green, just like yours (I know, I made that one up).



“Can I top you off?” The flight attendant is back with some more champagne as soon as the plane has reached appropriate altitude. She tries to gives us our dinner menus but Roxanne refuses them knowingly. “We will have the Dover sole and the white-chocolate thingy. And Chablis as usual, dear,” she decides for the two of us. “Don’t tell her I said so, but I think Muriel doesn’t deserve to get someone like you. A Blanchett! Imagine! What money can’t buy?”

Yeah, imagine.

“That girl always gets what she wants. She wants to become a designer, and voilà! Her father buys her this Muriel B fantaisie. And she never had to work for it. Like the French say, the only effort she ever made was to be born.” She puts her hand on mine. “Oh, and I don’t mean this for you, dear, I’m sure you must have some kind of…talent. Those things often run in the blood. Oh, that reminds me!”

She starts to shuffle in her handbag.

“You must remember to tell your mother I say hi, for old times’ sake.”

“Sure.”

“And you must give her this.” Apparently she keeps a small library in there, because she comes out with a tiny hardcover book.

I read the title. Roxanne Green’s 20 Steps to Success. I recognize Roxanne on the cover. She’s dressed in a strict business ensemble. Her arms are crossed firmly against her body. She wears a pair of sunglasses and is leaning against a white stretch limo. It’s a very sunny picture and you can even see some thin palm trees in the background.

“The perfect image of success when imagined by losers!” she says through a now nearly nauseating laugh while pointing at the cover.

I open the book.

“It will give Jodie a laugh.”

I read the title of the first chapter: “Step #1: Never be ashamed of who you are.”

“You could read it, too,” she says. “Lynn, can I be so bold to say that you strike me as a nice person.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

“No, it’s that…Well, if you want to survive in a place like Paris, you need to be a bit tougher. Go to the third chapter, you’ll see.”

I turn to the relevant page.

“Read it,” Roxanne commands.

The chapter title says: “Step #3: Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.”

“What I mean is, Lynn…you need to be more of a bitch.”




Step #3:

Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.


I’m it!

I am the real thing!

Lynn Blanchett, daughter of famous mother Jodie Blanchett and genius in the making!

I have picked up my ugly Adidas bag, farewelled Roxanne and, as I cross customs, I find a tall Arab-looking man holding a piece of paper with my name on it.

“I’m Lynn Blanchett,” I tell him.

“Je suis Massoud, et je suis votre chauffeur.”

“Do you speak English?

“No no, no English! Français!”

“Right! This—” I point at the name “—is me.” I point at me.

“Oh!”

He points at himself.

“Moi, Massoud.”

We’re doing the Tarzan-meets-Jane thing.

“Should we go to the car? The car? Le car!” I turn an imaginary steering wheel.

“Car! Yes, yes! Par là, mademoiselle.” He walks toward one of the exits.

I follow him outside and we walk toward a stretch lim— No, that’s not a limousine at all, that’s just a…er…silly-looking car. Like a cross between a hearse and a spaceship. That must be the compact French version of a stretch limo.

He opens the passenger door for me.

Mmm? Cream leather upholstery. A phone. A minibar. A little video monitor for the passengers to enjoy a selection of DVDs.

Not bad at all!

“Vous voulez aller à votre hôtel?”

“Er…”

“You want hotel?” he tries.

“Yes, let’s go to my hotel.”

“Good!”

We’re off and I take my first glance at France. It’s not what I expected. It’s dawn, but the sky is nothing but mud-brown mash. The airport is located in the middle of grimy fields and lines of dirty highways.



“Paris!”

“Er…”

I open my eyes.

It feels like we have been driving for hours. Horrible traffic jams. I look to my right and all I can see are gray buildings. But…

I turn to my left and I see it, Paris!

Paris, Paris, PARIS!

We exit the highway. “Trop de bouchons,” Massoud repeats like a motto as we slide into the city.

Bouchons?

It feels so unfamiliar. The streets are narrow. Everything looks old and hides the dark rainy sky. People are walking along the wet sidewalks, heads down, and dressed in plain boring colors.

There is a feeling of sadness.

Nobody plays the accordion.

There’s no Café Terrace with people drinking wine and eating French bread by their parked scooters.

But then, we turn and drive along a lovely little river.

“Is that the Seine?”

“What?”

“La Seine?” I ask, tapping my window.

“No, no, Canal Saint-Martin. Very very beautiful!”

“Oh, yeah, it’s so beautiful,” I repeat excitedly.

Now it looks like the city I have been dreaming of. Romantic, slow paced, vibrant and full of culture.

But before I can take on this perfect image of Paris, we make another turn and we get blocked in a street that might have been in Cairo for all I know. People of all races yell at each other in different languages while carrying racks of clothes, vegetables, meat. Cow carcasses are unloaded from dirty trucks. Animals are hanging upside down above butcher stalls.

I can’t believe my eyes. Here I am, in the comfort of my hearse-spaceship combo, and outside, it’s mayhem.

We drive along a huge old monumental arc.

“Arc de Triomphe?” I ask.

“No! No! This Porte Saint-Denis. Arc de Triomphe very much big!”

He shows me how big with his hands.

The Arc de Triomphe is much bigger, he tries to explain. Apparently Paris is full of arcs. They have an excess of arcs.

“Ah, Paris,” he says happily and winks at me. “Look, look!”

When I look outside, I realize that we are surrounded by an army of prostitutes. Most of them are very old, overweight and wear ridiculously tight Lycra.

Is this Paris according to Massoud?

But before I can make up my mind about that, we change landscape again.

This is not a car, it’s a time machine.

“Et voilà, la Seine!” Massoud points. “Là!”

Look!

Paris opens up in front of me. And here is the Seine. Two lines of magnificent monumental buildings run alongside this huge river. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful. I would cry if Massoud wasn’t checking me constantly in his mirror.

“It’s very…beautiful,” I say.

“Paris, Paris!” Massoud stars to whistle, turns away from the Seine and stops the car.

Before I realize that we have arrived at my hotel, a porter opens my door and offers his hand to help me out.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, bienvenu au Georges V.”

“Bonjour…”

I look at the hotel. It’s magnificent. Way beyond what I expected.

Massoud gets out of the car and passes the porter my ridiculously small luggage.

“Voilà! Goodbye.”

“Hey!” I call after him. “Massoud?”

“Oui.”

“Merci, Massoud. Thank you!” I give him my best smile, and I must be doing a good job at it because he smiles back and says, “pas de problème,” which, I believe, means something like you’re welcome.

“This way, mademoiselle,” the porter says, carrying my ugly little bag. He whisks me through the revolving doors.

Holy crap! Look at that. I freeze in the middle of the lobby, petrified. It’s so…

“This way, this way!”

Er, okay….

The porter drops my bag in front of the reception desk and I hand the man my passport.

“Mademoiselle Blanchett, yes. But of course, we have you in our English Suite.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“You are very, very lucky.”

“Really?”

“Really, you are. You were supposed to have an executive suite but then we found out who you were,” he says with a you-know-what-I-mean smile. “We upgraded you, of course! It’s a magnificent suite. André will show you.”

André, my porter, grabs my card key and I follow him to the elevator. I can’t stop staring at him. He is such an elegant creature, with a funny walk. His body remains perfectly still while his legs go wild.

It has to be some kind of professional trick.

“A magnificent suite…” I repeat, trying to imitate the French accent of the receptionist.

“Oh, yes, floor seven. The English Suite. Very beautiful, mademoiselle,” André says and does his funny walk all the way to the door to open it for me.

Mama Caramba!

I take my first step into the room. It’s clotted with antiques, drapes and fancy material, yet an awesome sense of refinement strikes me through and through.

“That will be fine,” I whisper because I want André to go away before I faint.

I find a five-dollar bill in the deepest darkest part of my jacket pocket and pass it to him.

“Merci et bonne journée, mademoiselle.” André hands me my card key and closes the door behind me.

I’m still standing in the entrance. I cannot grasp the fact that this is my room. I feel that at any time the real guests will come in and call the police to escort me out.

Because, let’s be honest: I don’t deserve any of this.

Jodie just said, “I made a couple phone calls. You’re going to work in Paris. It will be good professional experience for you. And please, take off that dress. I cannot be seen with you in that dress.”

She didn’t say anything about being treated like a freaking New York princess.

But then again, that’s how Jodie is.



I slide like a ghost toward the bed. It’s huge and truly beautiful, but I wouldn’t dare touch it. I can see the door to the bathroom. I am like an insect attracted by the light. I push open the door to have a look inside.

I clap a hand over my mouth not to scream. It’s so gorgeous! I have never seen anything so beautiful as this bathroom. All the silver and tiles are shining like diamonds. The towels look so warm and cozy. I need to touch them. I approach them. I reach for them. My skin feels the comfort of them. I turn to the mirror.

Ah!

Something is wrong in this bathroom.

It’s me.

I see my reflection in the mirror and I am the odd one out. Not only do I look exhausted, I look like an ugly little duckling with a mad hairdo.

I can’t believe that I have been seen by all those people dressed like this.

André the porter looks ten times more swish than me. Roxanne must have had a hilarious time with me. I must be her best joke since the invention of the whoopee cushion. She must be talking about me to all her friends—she might even phone Jodie. “Guess who I met on the plane? Your ridiculous daughter. Isn’t she common! She was wearing this ugly dress and hideous jacket!”

I am about to leave the bathroom when the sound of an alarm stops me. I look around and locate the source of the noise. There is a phone above the toilet seat.

Wow, you can sit on the toilet and still talk with your friends and family.

Disturbing.

I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Lynn?” a man’s voice says.

That’s me, so I say, “That’s me.” No, no, that’s not assertive enough. “This is Lynn Blanchett speaking,” I say loud and clear.

“Oh, hi! My name is Nicolas Bouchez. I’m the human resources manager at Muriel B,” the man says with a slight accent.

Oh, God!

First instinct: hang up, run away.

Second instinct: hide under the bed.

Third instinct: change your dress, don’t add disgrace to disillusion!

“Is everything okay? Are you…satisfied with the room?” he asks.

“The room?”

“Muriel wanted to be sure you’d be happy with the room.”

“It’s…okay.”

I have to sit down on the toilet. It’s quite comfortable for a chat on the phone.

“Muriel asked me to welcome you. Check on you. I am downstairs, at reception. You must be starving. Should we meet over lunch? Is there anyplace you’d like to go in particular?”

I try to think, but I can’t remember any restaurant name from my travel guide.

“Somewhere vegetarian,” I say.

Yes, I’ve just decided to be a vegetarian!

Just like Jodie!

Anything wrong with that?




Step #4:

Silence is your finest conversational tool.


“Vous avez reservé?” the maître d’ asks while staring at my mad hairdo and, yes, I also do stink of petrol (I’ll come back to this later).

“Une table pour deux, au nom de Bouchez, ou Muriel B,” Nicolas answers.

I nod. Whatever those people are saying in French, I’m just going to nod.

“Muriel B, mais bien sûr, une table pour deux.” The maître d’ is not surprised anymore. The fashion industry is full of crazy-looking, crazy-smelling people just like me.

Nicolas smiles at me. You see, not a problem, he seems to say.

Nicolas takes my jacket and hands it to the maître d’.

Nicolas waits for me to be seated before sitting in turn.

He fills my glass with water before the waiter beats him to it.

Nicolas jumps on the table, gives me an extravagant French kiss and orders our appetizers (yeah, okay, I made up that one, too).



Well, my original plan was to change my dress, meet Nicholas in the lobby and convince him I’m Miss Perfect.

It didn’t happen quite this way.

I walked down the monumental staircase and there he was, standing right in the middle of the lobby.

“I am dressed all in black, you can’t miss me,” he had said on the phone.

He was dressed in a tight black suit all right, tight black shirt and black tie.

Tight, tight, TIGHT!

I mean, even from a distance I could already see how slim and athletic he was.

I walked a few steps closer and all of a sudden, whoosh, he turned to me.

Wait a minute!

This was not a regular human resources manager. They sent me…an angel!

He was looking around as if trying to find me. Which one of these magnificent women is the extraordinary Lynn Blanchett? Surely not this small creature walking straight toward me, with her mouth wide open and drooling.

I ran through what to say in my mind. “Hi, I’m Lynn Blanchett…Lynn Blanchett…Hello? Ha ha ha!”

That’s not going to cut the mustard. I can’t deal with people like him. Bright blue eyes, dark blond hair and lips already forming into a gentle smile.

“Nicolas Bouchez?” I asked him.

He smiled some more. Some tiny wrinkles formed around his eyes. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.

“Yes….”

“It’s me. I’m Lynn Blanchett.”

Disappointed?

“Oh…Lynn! Sure…. How nice to meet you…finally!”

He shook my hand delicately. I looked up into his very large blue pupils and started to melt.

“Are you…”

“Me?”

“Are you hungry? Tired, Lynn?”

No, I’m speechless, and fascinated by you. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! And you are actually talking to me.

“I…” I began to stammer.

“We will take it easy today. Tomorrow starts the real circus!”

“I…”

“I have booked a table at a nice place, Le Club. It’s not strictly vegetarian, but they have vegetarian options. Will that do?”

You are perfect! I want to fall on my knees and just look at you.

“I…Perfect,” I finally managed to say. “Absolutely, completely perfect.”

“I came on my scooter. I’ll get a taxi for you. I just got this new BMW model. It’s very convenient in Paris.”

I followed him out to a sleek scooter like those I’d seen people riding in movies and TV commercials.

“They are very fashionable,” he said. “And so much easier to park than a car.”

“Can you fit two on them?”

“Well, there is a back seat, but…”

At the rear of the seat is a little space for an attaché case or a Lynn Blanchett.

“So forget the taxi. I’ll take a ride with you,” I said.

He gave me the are-you-sure-about-that-you-silly-woman look.

Yes, I’m sure. Absolutely sure. Like I’ve never been sure before. I’m a scooter-riding Parisian!

“I don’t have an extra helmet for you.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

I smiled at him. We climbed aboard and for a second there, I was probably the funniest public relations recruit he ever met. As we made the short distance from the hotel to the restaurant on his scooter, I realized I’d found the perfect way to…



1 Keep very close to Nicolas.

2 Get another good look at Paris.

3 Get a mad hairdo.

4 Filter the gas fumes, hence protecting the environment.

5 Get unwanted attention from maître d’s.


“Do you need any help?” Nicolas asks once we are seated and have our menus.

His voice is so gentle and sweet. He is always an inch away from a smile or a laugh because angels have a keen and happy nature.

“Sorry, we do have a menu in English,” the maître d’says, trying to snatch the French version out of my hands.

But I say, “Non” (Learn French in 10 Days—Day 1). “French is fine. What vegetarian options would you recommend?”

The maître d’ smiles politely. “We only have one vegetarian option.”

“Good,” I say. “I’ll have that one, then. It looks delicious.”

“Would you mind if I order meat?” Nicolas asks.

“You can order whatever you like.” I laugh idiotically.

He orders something in French, then asks me, “Some wine?”

“Sure!”

He selects the wine and then we have a long embarrassing silence.

“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“No.”

Is that good? Is that bad? Would you like me better if I did?

“Me, neither,” he says.

Oh, it’s good, then.

We have another embarrassing silence.

“I…”

I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a guy like you!

“I…”

Say something clever, Lynn! “I—”

“I’m a great admirer of your mother’s work,” he cuts in.

Shit!

“The paper collection,” he says enigmatically and nods.

Double shit!

Just when I thought my brain was at its emptiest, the simple mention of Jodie’s name bleaches it white.

“She’s a genius, isn’t she?” He digs deeper.

I enter vegetative state.

Say SOMETHING, Lynn!

“Château Haut-Brion, 1997.” Too late, the maître d’ is back with a bottle of wine. Nicolas tries a drop and says it’s perfect. C’est parfait.

“Do you like French wine?” he asks.

“I don’t…Yeah, sure, I love French wine.” I love anything you love, silly!

“Good.”

We have another long embarrassing silence.

If I don’t speak soon he’ll bring up Jodie again.

“I’m very tired, sorry,” I apologize for my lack of conversation, my lack of personality, my lack of…everything.

“Of course, it’s not a problem.”

I try the wine. It tastes weird, like a mixture of dirt, mushroom and mold.

“Perfect,” I say again.

“It has aged nicely, hasn’t it?”

“Mmm…yes, yes,” I approve.

Then he sniffs the wine, takes a sip and makes all kinds of weird noises before swallowing it.

A gurgling angel. How disturbing.

“Une belle robe, quoiqu’un peu riche en tannin.”

I nod. Oui, oui!

“You seem to know a lot about wine.”

That’s right. Compliment him till he bursts.

“Oh, not really. But it’s one of my hobbies. Food…restaurants…wine. You are very lucky in New York. So many good restaurants. Famous chefs. Amazing bars.”

Oh, no, don’t start asking me stuff about New York. I moved to Connecticut with Dad years ago. All I ever do when I go to New York is spend time locked up in Jodie’s amazing apartment, glued to her giant-screen TV. Ask me about cable and I can talk forever.

“I love going to New York just for the restaurant scene,” he continues. “What’s your favorite restaurant, Lynn?”

“Restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“In New York?”

“Yes.”

“I…wouldn’t know. I am not very interested in…food,” I say. “Que me nourrit me detruit.”

“That’s…the…anorexic motto,” he says and smiles cautiously.

Was that humor? Like…Curvy me…anorexic? Ha ha! Damn that French subtlety.

Another embarrassing silence. He smiles but I can tell that I’m making him pretty uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, I am so tired.” I blame everything on the jetlag again. Oh, God. He must think I’m so dull.

“Your goat’s cheese toast on eggplant salad,” the maître d’ says as he places the plate in front of me.

I can’t stand goat’s cheese and I hate eggplant.

“Votre filet mignon,” he says to Nicolas and places what looks like a delicious piece of beef rolled up in a thin slice of yummy bacon in front of him.

He nods approvingly. Angels are meat eaters, apparently.

As for my salad, I just stare at it as if it were trying to speak Greek to me.

“You’re not eating?”

I’m so hungry, I could faint.

“Oh, I’m not hungry anymore.”

“I see,” he says. “Do you mind if I…” He points at his steak.

“Go for it, I don’t mind you eating.”

“You know, this place, this restaurant…” He shows me around with the tip of his steak knife. “It’s one of the hottest places in Paris right now, and you would hardly get better vegetarian food anywhere else.”

“I don’t doubt it, Nicolas. But I am perfectly fine.”

Come on. Make an effort!

I fork a little piece of goat’s cheese and delicately lift it to my lips. I start to chew and the very taste I don’t like about goat’s cheese explodes in my mouth.

I want to spit it out and scream but I manage to articulate, “Excuse me’, stand and walk to the maître d’.

“Toilet!” I bark, trying to keep the cheese in a corner of my mouth and not spit it out on his lovely dark purple tie. He points downstairs.

I walk fast and make it to the toilets. I run into a cubicle and spit out the piece of cheese. I am so pathetic. I’m tired. I haven’t slept for the last twenty-four hours. My nerves are about to snap. I’m having lunch with the cutest man I’ve ever met, and I’m a freak show.

I sit, lock the door and go for it. I just cry. It’s a good thing to cry. Men can’t stand it when women cry. They think something’s wrong. It’s quite the opposite sometimes. Like now. It’s just a way to release pressure and move on.



When I walk back to the table, Nicolas has finished his steak. He must have hurried while I was away.

The maître d’ comes to our table and asks if we have finished.

“Yes, I am finished, thank you,” I say.

He exchanges one of those looks with Nicolas. Those American women, all nuts, they seem to agree.

“Any dessert?”

“Just coffee,” Nicolas says.

“A trim latte, no foam,” I ask, and by the dirty look I get from the maître d’ it’s like I just ordered the murder of his family.

“Trim latte, no foam,” Nicolas repeats and smiles.

Oh, look at that smile. I can spend my life ordering foamless lattes if it has this effect on him.

Then I wonder. What if I was to order a decaf non-steamed soy milk macchiato?



We’re back on his scooter.

Only this time I squeeze my arms around his chest. I close my eyes. I feel him breathing. In, out. Can’t we just drive like this forever?

“You can let go now.”

I open my eyes. We’re back at the hotel.

“Oh, sorry…. I was a bit…gone.” I let go of him and his scooter.

“See you tomorrow morning at the office, then,” he says. “I’ll send a cab. Is eight-thirty too early?”

“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!




Step #5:

Seduction seduction seduction!


So 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.”

“Basic, I’ve never heard of them. It’s really unattractive in a nice way. That is fashion though, isn’t it?”

The rest of them are now whispering about the quality of a Basic white T-shirt.

Stop staring at her tattoos! I scream to myself.

Is she…Yes, she has a huge stud on her tongue. I can’t believe that this is actually Muriel B. My future boss? Nicolas’s employer? I mean, isn’t she supposed to be at school or something?

“We’re working on that piece,” Muriel says. She shows me a dress. It hangs on a wood model behind the group. Yak! It’s sort of…ugly. “What do you think?”

“Oh…It’s sort of…”

“Don’t you like it?” Muriel asks amusingly.

Silence again.

“To be honest, well…no, I find it kind of…”

Kind of what, you idiot? Outdated? Too short? Too long? Too tight? Too brown? Not enough? What would you know?

“Kind of…ugly.”

Did I just say that?

Françoise Neuton looks away. “C’est tout de même incroyable!” She whispers. I must be the most annoying person she’s ever met.

“She finds it ugly,” Muriel laughs out. She thinks I’m very funny. “Everyone, listen up, Blanchett finds it kind of ugly.”

I turn to Nicolas. He’s cupping his chin in his fingers. He needs to take a better look at the dress. Then he looks at me. Me or the dress? Being given the choice, which one would he trash?

“That’s exactly what I think, Françoise! This is not what I had in mind. Redo it! Allez! Comment tu dis, Lynn? It’s…kind of ugly! Merci.”

More whispers. I feel like I’m surrounded by a sea of hissing snakes.

Françoise looks at me. Her lips are so tight you couldn’t slide a needle through.

Muriel comes closer and sniffs the air around me. Sniff sniff! “You’re wearing a very strong perfume. Kazo?”

I cannot tell Muriel she’s smelling my deodorant.

“No, it’s, er…designed just for me!”

“You American women are really getting away with everything. Ridiculous pink colors, horrible white T-shirts and perfectly awful perfumes. I love it.”

I smile, deciding that it’s her way to give a compliment.

“Une minute tout le monde,” Muriel calls, stopping the background murmuring. “Je vous presente Lynn Blanchett, la fille de Jodie Blanchett!”

Hisses, lots of hisses.

“Lynn vient de New York, et travaille comme…”

“Relation publique.” Nicolas helps her remember why in God’s name I’m here if it wasn’t for Jodie’s name.

“Bienvenu, Lynn,” a very effeminate male voice says from the snake pit and, even though I cannot see who said that, for the first time since I left New York, I feel good.



Oh la la!

Muriel acts as if I’ve already been working for her for hundreds of years. She thinks I’m all clued up.

She drags me around in the office and tells me about what we’re going to do to bring our company to the top and how my work is essential for making us the newest, funkiest brand on the market.

“But we need money, Lynn. Lots of money. And you’re going to help me get it.”

She laughs.

I laugh along, without knowing exactly why.

“You will talk to them. Once they realize we’ve got somebody like you on board, they will give me all the money I need. Imagine, a Blanchett working at Muriel B! Won’t they buy into that, huh? Nicolas?”

“Mmm…” That’s what Nicolas thinks about me.

I am just very “Mmm.”

Back home, I imagined Muriel B to be a mature woman, elegant, well traveled, drinking champagne like I drink water. Somehow, I imagined her like Roxanne Green.

And look what I get.

A teenager with tribal tattoos and delusions of grandeur. She doesn’t drink champagne. Instead, she opens one can of sugar-free Red Bull after the next and never misses an occasion to burp. Her hair has been fashioned into a set of well-defined short black spikes. She looks very sexy but at the same time very dangerous and free spirited.

“That’s my office. That’s the only place where I can get some peace. You like it?”

Her office is a large room, very bright, with high windows and ceiling. It’s amazing. It’s stripped of any furniture but for a low floor table, on top of which is a streamlined portable computer, some documents and a few electronic gizmos. Behind the table is a huge Buddha statue, suspended against the wall. His eyes are closed and he holds up his hands, pointing to Nirvana.

“It’s very…Zen. I love it.”

There are no chairs. She sits on the wooden floor, in front of the table, and invites us to join her.

“We need to talk to Him, Nicolas. Get Him on the phone.”

Nicolas looks at his watch. “Catherine has arranged a phone conference. It starts in only five minutes.”

“Did you explain to Lynn what’s going on?”

“Well, we need to talk to the bank now and, er, we…Maybe Lynn doesn’t need to know everything right now, Muriel.”

Muriel shakes her head. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Tell me what?

Nicolas sighs. “We’re broke, Lynn.”

“And you are our last hope,” Muriel explains.

Me? But…I don’t have any money! Alarm bells sound in my head.

“Bonjour! Muriel? Tu m’entends?”

A voice has just come out of a weird triangular black object in the center of the table.

“Pierre?” Muriel asks. “Can we make this conversation in English, because we have Lynn Blanchett from New York with us.”

“Pas de problème, I mean, yes, Muriel.”

She presses a button on the gizmo.

“Pierre can’t hear us now. Pierre is the financial manager of Crédit de la Cité.”

“It’s our bank,” Nicolas explains.

“It’s my father’s bank. I mean, my father owns the bank and every cent in it,” Muriel clarifies.

“We’ve asked them for a lot of money,” Nicolas whispers even though the phone is on mute.

“And you are going to help us get it.” Muriel releases the button and I feel like I am falling into a bottomless hole.

“Muriel?”

“We’re back, Pierre. Sorry, we had to go to another conference room.”

She presses the silence button again.

“Ah! And, by the way, Pierre is my brother, and we can’t stand each other.”

Brother? But…he speaks with a French accent.

“I heard that, Muriel,” the triangle says. “Ha ha ha! Don’t listen to her, we love each other. Who is with you?”

“Nicolas Bouchez, Lynn and me. Lynn is our new recruit and she is a major asset for the company. She’s Jodie Blanchett’s daughter, you know!”

I am money in the bank.

“Hi, Lynn. Nice talking to you. So go for it, Muriel. Pitch me, because here, we’re not very happy with the last business plan you have sent in. It’s very…em…naïf…questionable.”

“Well…I believe Lynn would be the best person to talk to. She has lots of brilliants ideas! Lots! She’s…you know…has all those brilliant ideas about…new business strategies, exactly.” Muriel turns to me and rolls her hand to invite me to speak to the triangle. “Lynn?”

Who are these people? What do they want from me? I don’t know anything about their business strategies! So what does she want me to say?

“Lynn?” the triangle asks. “Can you hear me? I can’t hear you. I think we’ve been disconnected!”

Muriel points at the triangle. I need to talk to the triangle and say something brilliant to convince it to spit out millions of euros. So I bend over the gizmo and mutter, “Bonjour, Pierre. It’s nice talking to you, too.”

There is a silence on the other end of the line. Apparently I need to say more. But I have no idea what I should say to the triangle and the silence only becomes heavier.

“Muriel?” Pierre snaps and cuts me from the conversation.

Muriel gives me a dark look, as if I have just missed an obvious opportunity.

“Yes, Pierre.”

“Georges from Finance is sitting here with me. He went through your accounts. You’re spending too much, and we can’t see you making any sort of income in the near future.”

“Building a name takes courage, Pierre. You know…it takes balls. And Lynn Blanchett will help us now. I’ll forward her CV. She is quite amazing.”

“Yeah, do that. Send me her CV and my people will check her out.”

Check me out? Oh, God!

“Pierre. I need the money. You know it. We’ve come too far to stop now.”

“We all need money. Listen, I’ve got to go and…Well, it was nice to talk to you, Lynn. I’m, er, a big admirer of your mother.”

They start to speak in French. I just listen to the melody and keep nodding.

I can feel cold sweat running along my spine. Check my CV? What CV? Nobody ever asked me for a CV. Jodie didn’t mention any CV! She just said, “Try to look like you know what you’re doing,” or something like that.

Muriel presses a button on the triangle and it dies.

She looks at Nicolas and shakes her head. Then she looks at me.

“So, that’s all you had to say to him? Thank you for your help, Lynn.”

“Lynn might need more preparation.” Nicolas comes to my rescue again.

“Preparation! We have no time for preparation! We are broke, Nicolas! Broke!”

“I know. But we’ll find solutions. We always do.” He looks confident and calm but in a super-sexy kind of way.

She stares at him. She is about to eat him alive, bones and clothes included.

“Listen, Muriel,” I say hesitantly. “I didn’t come here to convince your brother to give you some money. I didn’t even know you were broke.”

That’s it, Lynn, swap responsibilities.

“Well, why don’t you explain to me why you are here!”

What? Is she serious?

“But…you’re the one who made me come here,” I stammer.

“She’s right,” Nicolas says and looks at me as if I was some sort of doom she had forced upon them. “Inviting Lynn was your call,” he reminds her, making it obvious he never wanted me here in the first place.

I feel the need to defend myself. “I came here to…”

To what?

“To…help you,” I try.

“Help me?” Muriel nearly shouts.

Think, Lynn. What do you mean by help her? How does she need your help? Remember what Roxanne said.

“Well, we all know…that…you’re just spending your father’s money for this…fantaisie…right?”

Oho, don’t go this way, Lynn! But it’s too late. I already am.

“And…this is just, like, a rich-dad-financing-his-daughter thing. Nobody really believes that you’re for real. So…I came here…to make people believe that you’re for real.”

Bravo moi!

They both look at me. Then they look at each other. It’s clear that she hasn’t been addressed like this…ever!

She is going to kill me. They are all going to kill me. She is going to press the ‘kill the ugly American bitch’ button on her intercom and a herd of gay Asian designers will pour into the office to crush me!

“Mais de quoi elle parle, celle la?” she yells out. “Do you listen to yourself?” She grabs the triangular gizmo and throws it at the poor Buddha.

“Muriel, calm down,” Nicolas says. “This is not the right time or the right place for one of your tantrums!”

He looks perfectly used to this. She yells. He hushes. She breaks. He fixes.

“Nicolas, tais toi!” She points at me. “You, you are coming with me!”

I must have hit a sensitive spot. She stands and leaves her office in a fury. I look up at the Buddha. I just want to check if he has opened his eyes, but no, he still pretends that he can meditate amidst such mayhem. I turn to Nicolas for an explanation but he just shrugs.

“I guess you better follow her. And, Lynn…”

“Yes?”

“I’ll need a copy of your CV, you know, for Pierre.”

Shit.

“Lynn!” Muriel yells all the way from the reception area.



I just want to go back to the hotel, take a last shower and return to the airport to catch the next plane home.

Paris. The city of love. Yeah right. It’s the city of people going bonkers!

I’ll just tell Jodie I caught the flu.

Or dysentery.

Jodie’s so scared of microbes, she’ll forgive me for giving up so fast.

I have no idea where we’re going. I have to run after Muriel and she makes a point of walking a few steps ahead, but then, all of a sudden, she stops and turns to me.

“I am not just spending my father’s money. I have been in this business for five years. I have talent! Everyone says that I have talent. So who are you to talk to me like that?”

I swear, she is about to cry. Just like the silly little teenage girl that she tries not to be.

“Muriel, I don’t want to play this game with you, we’re both too old.”

“What game?”

“The little-spoiled-girls game.”

“I’m not like this! I’m…I am just so stressed. Merde, tout va mal!”

She walks away. We’re on the run again, only this time I grab her wrist and stop her.

“Things are never as bad as they seem.”

“You’re wrong, Confucius! Things are generally much worse.”

Confucius?

I smile at her. I like her. She is wild but I like her. And she smiles back at me. She’s cute when she smiles.

“What is there to smile about?” she asks.

“You. You’re funny. Confucius!”

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Saying whatever pops into your head?”

Please. She should take a peek in my head! So far, this is nothing.

“You’re weird,” she says and resumes the chase, sliding among the tourists and passersby to disappear inside a coffee shop. Only, it’s not a coffee shop, and once I follow her into the place I immediately understand a thing or two about Muriel B.

The coffee shop is a tiny secluded bar. It’s full of women. Tall women. Short women. Fat women. Thin women. Young. Old. Dark. Blond. Women only.

Muriel is at home in here. She kisses the barmaid on the lips.

“C’est ta nouvelle copine?” the barmaid asks.

“She thinks you’re my girlfriend. Do you think we would be a nice match?” Muriel says, smiling at me over her shoulder.

Oh, God!

“She is not my girlfriend. Lynn is from New York.” She explains to the barmaid.

“Quoi? J’parle pas anglais, moi.”

“Do you mind talking in French, Lynn?”

Shit!

“Non,” I say.

The barmaid asks me something in French, so I just smile mysteriously. I do a smile that’s neither yes nor no. A kind of undecided smile. She asks me again, and looks at Muriel, seeking an explanation.

I decide to say oui, and they laugh. I laugh with them. And I nod, of course.

“So? What do you want to drink then?” Muriel asks.

Oh, I see.

“Just a coffee. A trim latte. Something like that.”

The barmaid looks at me as if I had just landed from outer space.

“Donne lui un café.”

That grants me a horrible short-black and a disapproving face. It’s 11:30 a.m. Coffee time is over. Muriel orders a perroquet. It’s like a strange anise cocktail with mint syrup. The barmaid takes the same thing but without the syrup. She doesn’t take it too sweet.

“Ça fait combien de temps que tu es à Paris?”

“Muriel, we need to talk. In private.” I take her glass and walk to a booth far away from the bar. I want to take her away from the barmaid and all this maddening French language.

She caresses the barmaid’s face and comes to sit with me.

“Do you like it in here?” she asks.

Two Japanese girls have just entered. They are dressed in school uniforms, only their skirts are far too short and reveal their underwear. Their faces are covered in colorful makeup. They look like two little porcelain dolls out of an sleazy old man’s fantasy.

“The place has character,” I lie. I feel so inappropriate. Hell, I’ve never been in a place like this before.

Once, with Delia, we went into a sauna parlor, but apparently they didn’t even have any real saunas and their masseuses were not really masseuses either. But that was an accident!

And I don’t want to judge anyone. Damn, I just feel very uncomfortable watching girls engaged in passionate kissing at lunchtime.

“Is this your kind of place?”

“Well…”

“See those two Japanese girls?”

I nod. They’re sitting right behind us, sharing a pink milk shake with two straws. “Yes, I noticed them.”

“Those two are really sick. They like weird games. They enjoy pain. I played with them last New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t sit for a week without shrieking.”

She smiles at me.

“Do I shock you?”

“Muriel, I am from New York,” I lie again.

In fact, I don’t know anyone like Muriel and yes, I am shocked and uneasy. Why did I think that all successful people should be elegant and refined like cheese crackers? Instead, I find myself with crazy young punks and unbalanced teenagers.

“Can we talk about the job? That’s why you flew me to Paris, isn’t it?”

“American women! Business! Business! Is there anything else that counts but your careers? Business was back there, when we talked to Pierre and you blew it. Now it’s time for something else.”

Like kissing sadomasochist lesbian Japanese girls dressed in school uniforms?

“It seems…” I start again.

Oh, just say it, Lynn!

“It seems that Nicolas wasn’t too keen on having me in Paris.”

“Nicolas! He has lots of neuroses, that boy. His mind is full of no, no, no! My mind is all yes, yes, yes!” She laughs like a hyena and the two Japanese girls turn to check what she’s drinking and order two of the same.

“I wanted to get a big name from New York,” Muriel continues. “A person that everybody would know in the business. Just like you.”

“Just like me? Muriel, nobody knows me.”

“Your name, Lynn, everybody knows your name. Your name is going to open all the doors. And I spent a fortune getting you here. So now you need to convince me that you were a good investment and that Nicolas was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“To think you were a waste of our time and money.”

She drinks her perroquet with a large smile on her face. She really enjoys toying with me.

“After talking to your brother, it’s rather odd that you would try to convince me to stay, Muriel. It looks like you’re broke. And by the way, how come he talks with a French accent?”

“He grew up with Dad in Paris. I grew up with Mum, in London. Mum was a model.”

“That’s…very nice.”

“No, they’re horrible parents.”

“Oh…”

“Lynn, we’re not here to discuss my parents. We’re here to talk about me! Me! Me! Me! You see, I’m going to take off. I know it. It’s my destiny. I am the next Coco Chanel.”

That or locked up in a mental ward.

“I am not a businesswoman. I am an artist. I am crazy. I want to be crazy. And my company should reflect my personality. That’s why I need people like you. An American businesswoman with a big name that can help me reach the top.”

“I’m not sure that I’m the person you are looking for, Muriel.”

“Your mother vouched for you. Your mother is a genius.”

I have this picture of Jodie working in her little workshop when she was still unknown and broke. I was very young but I remember her hard face looking down at me, snatching the fabrics away from my hands. “I told you not to touch! You’re going to mess everything up again!”

Suddenly, someone’s singing a catchy French tune in Muriel’s pocket. She fishes out a sleek-looking cell phone. “Nicolas,” she sneers. “Work, work, work!” She throws the phone on the table.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“He probably needs me to go back to the office and help him with something.” She finishes her perroquet shaking her head.

Actually, I would love to help Nicolas with something, like…anything. “Let’s go back to the office,” I say when the phone is done singing.

“Oh, no! We did enough work for today. Let’s go to my place. We can talk some more at my place.”

“What about Nicolas?” I ask, nodding toward the phone as if he was trapped inside and needed immediate attention.

“We’ll phone him back. We can meet him at my place. Nicolas loves my place.”

Mmm? Nicolas loves her place. I didn’t think of that. Nicolas and Muriel? She has such short hair. That’s definitely an advantage over me when taking a ride on his scooter.



I love privacy.

Being inside your home is like being inside a safe nest. You close the door and you can recuperate from the mad and stressful goings-on of the real world. Your home is your only chance to get peace and quiet. I love my home.

Muriel is completely different. Her home is like a train station at rush hour. It’s full of people from various walks of life, some of them she doesn’t even know by name.

Muriel lives in a huge modern flat not too far from the office. I swear, the minute she opened the door, it seemed more busy and hectic inside than on the streets below.

There is this guy from Spain. He wants Muriel to fix a meeting for him with Fjord Model Agency. Muriel met him in a club in Paris and doesn’t even remember his name anymore. She told him that she could help him become a model or, eventually, get him a part in a porn film. She introduces him to me as her beautiful Spanish Stallion.

He sleeps on her sofa.

“You are Fjord Agency?” he asks me.

“No, I’m Lynn Blanchett.”

Sprawled out in front of the giant TV screen are the Fat Breeders, a band from London. The whole band is crashing in Muriel’s apartment. From the drummer to the backup singers.

According to Muriel, they’ve been here for two weeks. By the looks of it, they’ll never move out.

“Lynn is from New York, she’s Jodie Blanchett’s daughter,” Muriel presents me proudly.

“Hi,” they say lazily, as if they didn’t really give a damn, or were already so used to meeting all kinds of real celebrities.

In the kitchen, two girls are sharing a frozen yogurt. They look like twins. They both have long blond hair in a tight ponytail and wear identical sweatpants and T-shirts. And, of course, they have bodies to die for.

“You must know Irena and Jacky. They’re from New York, too.”

Irena and Jacky are dancers, temporarily making their living in Paris as topless waitresses. Muriel forgot how they came to live in her apartment.

“They’ve been here forever. I am not even sure they’re really gay. They bring all kind of weird men in here. Macho types. They’re very, very loose girls.”

In Muriel’s bedroom, we need to whisper. Carolina is asleep in her bed. She has just arrived from Nigeria and models for Elite. Carolina is not her real name. Her real name is too hard to pronounce and sounds vaguely like Carolina.

“I like her. We’re not very serious about each other yet, but I could fall in love with her. She has the potential to become big. Who knows? She’s so young.”

We bend over her like two fairies watching over the little sleeping princess, planning her bright future. Muriel pushes me into her private office.

Only, it’s not private—or an office—at all. There is a sofa, clearly being used as a bed, and a horribly messy desk. Seated behind the desk is a very thin man of indefinite age. He’s typing on a laptop computer. He finally stops and takes a look at us. We are part of another world to him, like he really can’t see us, but merely feels our presence.

“Bonjour,” he says.

“That’s Stephan. He’s my favorite writer.”

Stephan lives in the apartment, too. He never ever leaves it, apparently. He is the only French person in here. He has been writing for years and, in the opinion of all the editors he has sent his prose to, he is the most untalented writer of his generation.

“That’s exactly why I love him. He doesn’t compromise.”

Stephan’s skin is yellow, turning green, like his eyes. He looks sick.

“He never eats. That’s worrying,” Muriel says, sighing in a maternal way. Or at least as maternal as someone like Muriel can get.

He wears nothing but an old, very dirty bathrobe, and his skinny limbs coming out of it make him look like a dying insect.

“Lynn is from New York,” Muriel tells him. She speaks slowly and loudly as if he were her deaf grandfather.

“New York! Yeah! Bagels!” That’s all he has to say about New York before resuming the frenetic typing.

“He doesn’t do drugs. He is naturally like that. Isn’t he great?”

“He is fantastic,” I say and I look around the office. I have been looking for traces of Nicolas’s presence. The apartment is in such a mess that it would be hard to say who lives here and who doesn’t. It should get mentioned in travel guides: If you are in Paris, look cool and are searching for a free place to stay, just move to Muriel B’s flat. All welcome!

“The flat used to belong to my grandmother. They gave it to me when she died. She had such terrible taste. Very bourgeois.”

“Shouldn’t we call Nicolas?”

“Relax, Lynn. One thing at a time. Today, we’re getting to know each other. Tomorrow, we can talk business and money.”

By now, I have learned quite a few things about Muriel B. She frequents lesbian bars, runs a crazy bankrupt company and lives in an even crazier apartment. She still knows nothing about me but assumes that I can help her.

We’re back in the living room. The Fat Breeders have found something more interesting to watch than MTV. Carolina has gotten out of bed wearing nothing but a tiny electric-blue G-string, hiding absolutely nothing of her long, beautiful, ebony body.

She stretches and rubs her sleepy eyes and smiles when she sees Muriel. She does a few joyful leaps to take her in her arms. You would swear she still believes she is eight years old and doesn’t yet notice that she has a pair of amazing breasts.

“Hello, darling!”

“Pourquoi tu me parles en anglais?”

“This is Lynn. I told you about her. She’s Jodie Blanchett’s daughter.”

Carolina doesn’t need more information. She bends over me and gives me a big kiss on the lips. And yes, I feel her naked breast against own less perky ones. I can feel the blood coming to my cheeks and I am sure that I am red as a tomato.

“J’ai faim!” Carolina yells and leaps happily toward the huge stainless-steel fridge.

Muriel shrugs her shoulders. “She’s hungry all the time. And she stays so thin. She’s lucky.”

Carolina comes back with Irena and Jacky’s frozen yogurt. She dips a spoon in it and sucks it provocatively. Muriel pats her bum.

“Where does she put it?” Muriel says.

“One wonders,” I mutter.

The Fat Breeders must love it here. I’m sure that they are going to write songs about Carolina’s butt.

Muriel pushes Carolina playfully. “Go take a shower. You smell! I need to talk to Lynn.”

“I don’t smell. It’s her that smells,” Carolina says, pointing her spoon at me. She realizes she might have been a bit too rude so she’s back licking the spoon provocatively to make me like her again.

Abruptly Muriel takes my hand and drags me to the bedroom.

She closes the door behind us. She leaves the heavy curtains closed and switches on the bed-top lights.

The room smells of sweat. I can actually feel the lack of oxygen. I am very uncomfortable.

Muriel sits on the corner of the huge bed. She pats the space beside her to invite me to sit.

“Are you hungry?”

Actually I am starving. I am so hungry that I feel light-headed. Add to this the caffeine and the stress, and I am about to burst.

“No, I am fine.”

I sit very cautiously beside her. She makes a slight hop to get closer.

“For what it’s worth, I like you.”

“So you said.”

“I mean I really like you. I feel…you are like…my big sister.”

She gets even closer. I don’t believe sisters look at each other that way!

“I think we could work together.” She hops even closer.

I try to move away slightly, but she puts her hands on my leg. “You, me, Nicolas. We can be a great team. Do you like Nicolas?”

I can feel the weight of her hand on my knee. It’s sliding up now. I close my eyes. “He idolizes me. It’s very flattering.” She tickles my thigh with the tips of her fingers. “He is so cute, isn’t he?” I hear her say.

I grab her hand and put it back on her own lap.

“He is rather cute,” I confirm clumsily.

“Pity he is gay.” She puts her hand back on my knee.

Gay!

“Gay?”

“Gay! Comme un phoque!”

She looks up at me. She caught me by surprise and it excites her.

“Of course he is gay. Everybody is gay.”

She takes advantage of my stupor and goes for the kiss, only she stops when the door opens. We look like two lovers caught by the husband—or the wife—who knows?

“Ah, quelle salope!”

Carolina drops her yogurt pot and runs to the bed. Before I can explain that it’s not what it looks like, she jumps on Muriel and throws a couple of punches. But instead of fighting back, Muriel laughs her head off.

Oh, God!

I stand and step away from the bed.

“I…I need to go back to the hotel.”

They don’t listen. They just fight on the bed, and now Carolina is laughing, too. They find everything hilarious.

I walk out of the room. The Fat Breeders are watching them fighting. They are in heaven.

I walk to the door. As I pass in front of the office I can hear Stephan, the worst writer of his generation, yelling, “Bagels!”



I put up the Do Not Disturb sign and lock the door to my room. I don’t ever want to go out again. Here, in the room it’s safe and comfortable. Out there is madness. Crazy Japanese girls, Pierre the banker, frozen-yogurt Carolina and the Fat Breeders.

And Nicolas!

He betrayed me!

Somehow…Okay, so I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.

But come on. He took me on his scooter. Everyone knows a scooter ride means something. It’s like a secret bond. You cannot seduce a girl with your scooter and then tell her that you are gay.

Bastard! Oh, I hate him.

I sit at the desk. I see the Air France flight coupon and my passport. I can leave…whenever. And now would be a good time.

This job, this place, these people, it’s all way out of my league. It’s not at all the way I pictured it, not even in my worst nightmare.

I pick up the flight coupon. I see Roxanne Green’s bible: 20 Steps to Success.

I open the book. Roxanne wrote a phone number on the first page. “You can phone me in case of emergency,” she said.

I dial and I recognize Roxanne’s voice.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s…Lynn. You know? We met on the plane.”

“Mmm?”

“Jodie Blanchett’s daughter.”

“Yes, I know. Listen, I’m in the middle of something, darling.”

“It’s an emergency, like you said.”

“Did they fire you already?”

“No, it’s much worse than that.”

I am about to cry. I don’t want to cry. That would only annoy her more and she would hang up.

“Are you crying?” she asks.

No wonder her books are such hits. She reads people’s minds.

“Listen to me, darling. Remember what I told you? Step #6.”

I remember how good and easy it felt in the plane, listening to Roxanne going through the different steps. And how miserable I feel now. I start to cry. I can’t help it. Please don’t hang up. Please!

“Can you read step #6 for me?”

“Yes,” I sob. I turn the pages to the sixth chapter. “Step #6. Sometimes it’s hard to be successful.”




Step #6:

Sometimes it’s hard to be successful.


I’m eating my fourth croissant, drinking my fifth coffee and I’m pretending to read the same French newspaper for the gazillionth time and there is still no sign of Massoud.

“Can I have another pot of coffee?”

“Sorry, breakfast service is actually closed.”

How rude!

I look at my watch. I’m the last guest in the restaurant and I’m getting on the waiter’s nerves. I decide to take another look in the lobby.

“Have a good day, mademoiselle,” the waiter says. Trust me, he really means good riddance.

I check myself once more before I enter the lobby. Look at this gorgeous young woman. It’s Blanchett’s springtime, I’m blooming. After talking to Roxanne, I went on a shopping spree. The funny thing is, I did find a shop called Basic selling Basic T-shirts.

I am dressed in the same fashion as yesterday, but with a brand-new pair of Diesel jeans (175 euros), a simple white Basic T-shirt (39,90 euros) and I have a pink H&M scarf (9,90 euros) on my shoulders. I even splashed myself with some Kazo cologne (80ml/39,95 euros). “We American women can get away with everything!”

Where is everybody? Where is Massoud? How unprofessional of him. I try reception again.

“No, Mademoiselle Blanchett, there are no new messages.”

“Phone calls?”

“No phone calls.”

Aren’t they supposed to be worried about me? I feel like the ugly little duckling, you know, the smelly little girl that nobody wants to play with.

“Can I make a phone call from here?”

The desk clerk points at the phone booth across the lobby. He doesn’t even bother talking to me. What happened last night? Did I get disgraced while I was asleep, and all of a sudden everybody knows that it’s okay to be rude to me?

I walk to the phone booth and place my call.

“Muriel B, bonjour!” says a voice at the other end of the line.

“This is Lynn Blanchett,” I snap.

“Who?”

Is she joking?

“Lynn Blanchett. From New York. Can I speak with Nicolas, please.”

“Mr. Bouchez is not in the office.”

“Let me speak to Muriel, then.”

“Mademoiselle Boutonnière is not in the office either…I’m sorry.”

“Is anybody else but you in the office?”

Silence.

“Goodbye, then.”

I hang up. I’m so frustrated. I imagine Muriel and Nicolas locked in their offices, shaking their heads. No, no, no! We don’t want to speak to any Lynn Blanchett. She’s an ugly little duckling. Shoo, shoo!

“Can you get me a taxi?” I ask the concierge.

“Certainly. Where will you be going?”

“Muriel B. Office. It’s somewhere…” I point toward what I believe is the direction to the office. “This way.”

“I am sure we can manage to find the address for you.”

He smiles. Or is that a smirk?



I’m furious. They took me away from home. They flew me across the Atlantic. For what? To forget about me like yesterday’s favorite flavor?

And Nicolas? Mr. Backstabbing-Bouchez! Does he think that it’s all right to flash his pretty looks, his charm and his suave accent right in my face, just like that?

Mademoizelle Blanchett, yu are zooo delicioze, I wanta iit yu!

And now that I’m really dazzled and want a taste of it, too, it turns out he thinks I’m a waste of time and he’s gay! I am going to strangle him with his tie.

The taxi drops me off in front of the office.

“Just move, all right!” I say to the prostitute. It’s the same girl. She must be leasing this spot. She doesn’t dare to spit today. She feels I’m about to blow and she’s not willing to pay for it.

I press the intercom and cross the courtyard. I’m not impressed anymore. I’m not this ridiculous American girl that can’t handle the glitz and glamour of it all. I’m Lynn Blanchett, heir of the Blanchett empire! Lynn Blanchett, daughter of a genius! I am a complete bitch with a new wardrobe who is about to OD on caffeine!

I walk straight to the receptionist. I don’t say hello, I don’t say please, I don’t say sorry, I don’t say anything but “Nicolas Bouchez! Now!”

“Oh, he is out of the office.”

“Like hell he is!”

I don’t wait for more lies. I head upstairs and make my way to his office.

“Mademoiselle Blanchett! Please!”

I open the door to his office. It’s empty. “Nicolas,” I call. He’s hiding. Coward! I walk to Muriel’s office. It’s empty too.

I make my way to the workshop. I push the door. Where is everybody? Where are all the punks?

Back in Japan?

Françoise Neuton looks up at me. She’s working on a new version of the dress that I trashed yesterday.

“Can I help you?”

She’s alone in the workshop and something’s up, because she seems too happy to see me.

“Where is everybody?”

“Is it any of your business?”

“Oh, believe me. I’ll make it my business.”

She takes off her glasses. She wants to take a better look at me.

“I talked to Muriel this morning. You’re over, Mademoiselle Blanchett.”

What?

“Didn’t they tell you yet? Mmm?” She brushes the dress with her hand. “Do you like it better now?”

“Where is Nicolas?”

“Oh…He will be out all day, at the Carrousel du Louvres.”

“Where?” He didn’t even bother contacting me. He just discarded me as if I didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m sure that you can meet him there. After all, it’s his job to tell you you’re out.”

I don’t find the strength to strike back. I turn my back to her and focus on breathing.

“It was nice meeting you, anyway,” she says. “I’ve always admired your mother.”

I crawl back downstairs.

“You were right, nobody’s here,” I say to the receptionist. “Can you get me Nicolas on his cell phone?”

“Sure.” She dials and passes me the phone.

“Oui?”

“Nicolas? How are you, darling? Lynn Blanchett talking here. You remember me?”

“Yes, Lynn. I remember you.”

“Guess what? I’m at the office. And guess what else? Nobody’s here but me.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have phoned you.”

“How thoughtful of you!”

How do you say fucking bastard in French!

“Listen…” Nicolas tries to sound consoling. “Why don’t you go back to your hotel, and I’ll come as soon as I’m finished. We’ll talk.”

“No, don’t bother. I’m coming to see you. Right now.”

“Lynn, wait.”

“I’ll see you in a minute.”

“Lynn!”

I hang up. “Gosh, I forgot,” I say to the receptionist. “They were waiting for me at the Carouzal Louvres.”

“Le Carrousel du Louvres,” she corrects and gives me the I’m-so-sorry-for-you look.

“Can you get me a taxi?”



The Carrousel stuff is like a shopping mall right under Le Louvres. And Le Louvres is…oh, you know what Le Louvres is. Isn’t that crazy? They have so many castles over here that they have shopping malls under them. Imagine that. Upstairs, their kings used to carry on their despotic businesses, while now, downstairs, there are gift shops, tourists and the mixed smells of French fries and cinnamon buns.

I’m sure I’m in the right place, it’s like Fashionworld down here. They have dresses and fashion displays hanging all over the place. Dior. Chanel. Gucci. Gaultier. Christian Lacroix.

I take a closer look at the Christian Lacroix dress. It looks like something from the distant past, but at the same time, it feels real. Not like a theater costume, but like a real thing. I love it!

I walk faster to the showrooms. I want to keep this feeling. Cinnamon buns and Christian Lacroix. It will give me some strength to confront Nicolas. I walk to the two men guarding the entrance to the showrooms.

“Hi, I’m with the Muriel B group.”

“Sure.”

They don’t need any other form of credential. They open the red velvet rope and let me in.

I walk into the first showroom. It smells of wood dust and glue. All kinds of technicians are playing around with wires. Carpenters are building wooden structures. Everybody looks very busy and I’m walking in the middle of it all, unwelcome and purposeless.

I…I can’t do it. I just saw Nicolas, and I immediately stopped breathing.

I have no defense mechanism against a guy like him.

He stands among a group of Muriel B’s finest Asian punks, talking with a little man with short gray hair and a beard. Oh, and he’s dressed like a catholic priest.

Muriel’s with him and whatever happened before I arrived, it took the jam out of her doughnut.

“Muriel, dear, there are no two ways about it,” the priest says with a strong British accent. “You won’t get the afternoon spot. It’s already booked for Dior! You can’t compete with Dior, darling.”

“Hi,” I whisper, but nobody notices me.

“The nine o’clock spot is very nice anyway. People are fresh at nine o’clock.”





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