by F. G. Gerson
I look through the window. It’s so calm out there. No way I’m going to jump. I’m far too tired for that.
“I don’t know,” I say as I collect all the pillows around me. I squeeze them. I squeeze them and wish I was squeezing Nicolas instead.
Step #9:
There are two kinds of people: those who have their names in the papers, and those who don’t.
I’m not available.
I’m not here.
I’m not in Paris.
I’m not coming out from under my blanket.
I’m supposed to meet Muriel and Nicolas to discuss my contract, but I can’t bring myself to go.
I’ll stay right here, in my suite, until the police pick me up and put me in jail.
Only, I’ll be at the airport before they show up. I’ll be on my way home. And then, I’ll dig a big hole in Dad’s backyard and bury myself so they’ll never find me!
It’s not my fault everybody is so incompetent at Muriel B. Any other normal company would have asked more than just my name before relocating me to Paris.
Oh, but not at Muriel B. No, no. At Muriel B, nothing’s done the right way. My company, after all, should reflect my personality.
So why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel like a stink? Why do I feel like I did something wrong?
Because I’m the biggest freaking fraud in the history of fashion! And Fran Wellish is about to arrive and expose me.
The phone’s ringing. It has to be the police.
Too bad! I’m not answering.
I wait until it stops and the message light flickers. I pick it up, thinking I’m safe, but instead of getting my message, I hear Nicolas’s voice, “Er…Lynn?”
The phone tricked me!
“Lynn, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Nicolas. I hear you. But I’m busy. I have another very important call on hold.”
“Wait…I wanted to—”
“I’ll call you back.”
I hang up before he can say that he has met Fran Wellish and that she said Jodie never mentioned anything about a daughter.
I press my messages button. First I’m going to check who phoned. Then I plan to disconnect the phone and start packing my things.
“A-allo. This is Chloe Destouches. We met yesterday at Kazo’s. I meant to call you. I just talked with my chief editor, and, well, we would love to do a piece on you. It would be a feature. Three thousand words plus. ‘An American Girl in Paris.’ Or ‘Jodie Blanchett’s Daughter Takes Over Paris.’ Or ‘Lynn Blanchett does Paris.’ Something like that, anyway. It would be just wonderful. Phone me at…”
God! A feature on me in Marie Claire?
Can I do the star-makeover segment, too? “Lynn Blanchett: From Swamp Thing to American Princess.”
I force myself to swallow my excitement and think logically for a moment. Don’t do it, Lynn, you’re not up to this. Don’t pick up the phone.
I pick up the phone and dial.
“Yes?”
“Chloe? This is Lynn Blanchett.”
“Oh, wonderful!”
“Are you serious about the article? I mean, who would be interested? It might be boring for your readers.”
“Au contraire. You are a very interesting subject. You are the dream come true. The glamorous heir of a fashion empire, conquering Paris. We could turn it into a series.”
A series about me?
“We can follow your career. We would show your character easing into French high society…Mmm? I think we can do something great with you. What do you say?”
All those years, I’ve been wondering what it would feel like to be one of those celebrities. You know, to be like Jodie, to have stories written about me and my picture taken in a fabulous house in Italy or anywhere sunny and sophisticated.
And now my chance is here. All I have to do is say yes.
“That sounds great.”
“Let’s meet in the Quartier Latin. What about now? We can have breakfast together. I believe this would be the perfect atmosphere.”
“Perfect,” I say. Suddenly I’m excited to leave the safety of my bed.
“I’ll arrange a photographer. But be casual, we want our readers to see the real Lynn, and it’s so-o easy to correct your imperfections with digital imaging.”
I write down the address of her hotel and hang up, when the phone rings again.
“Lynn? Don’t hang up. We need to talk!” Nicolas says.
He really sounds worried.
“Ah! Nicolas, I can’t talk with you right now. I have a very important meeting with Chloe Destouches.”
What a perfect excuse not to meet him.
“I know and I want to advise you not to go to that meeting.”
“How do you know?” I can’t believe that once again I’m the last to hear the latest gossip about myself.
“Lynn, listen to me. I can’t talk right now but I don’t want you to go.”
Is he scared that I’m going to do a disastrous interview? Or…
“Did you talk with Fran Wellish?”
“No, she hasn’t arrived yet. I just don’t want you to go to that meeting. It will be bad for…our relationship.”
“Are you all right, Nicolas?”
“I have to hang up now. Please don’t go.”
“Nicolas, I can handle a reporter. It will be very good publicity for Muriel B.”
“Lynn, this interview is not about Muriel B.”
He sounds very cautious, as if he can’t talk freely. Honestly, it feels a bit awkward.
“Don’t worry. I know exactly what to say to Chloe.”
“Lynn?”
“Yes.”
“If you decide to go…”
“Yes.”
“Whatever they tell you, and whatever you decide, well, I want you to know that last night was very special for me.”
“Are you all right? You’re frightening me now.”
“I have to hang up.”
He does so and leaves me with a feeling of freakiness. He sounded as if this meeting with Chloe was a deadly trap and he’d risked his life to warn me.
It’s all so mysterious and…so romantic!
The taxi leaves me in front of a lovely little hotel. Oh, you should see me now. I’m the mastermind behind the “Twenty-four-hour Blanchett Complete Makeover.”
I have invented sexy-hip-casual wear. You wouldn’t believe what I can do with a pair of sandals, jeans, a simple T-shirt, the proper handbag and a fantastic hangover.
And it works. I saw the looks men gave me as I left the hotel. Even the ones with their wives or partners couldn’t help themselves. They had to turn and give me the who-is-this-woman-I-wish-I-knew-her-better look.
The concierge opens the door for me and, as I walk to the reception desk to ask for Chloe, I feel the insistent gaze of a man seated in the lobby.
“Lynn?”
He drops his newspaper and stands. It’s no one else but Hubert Barclay. You know? The super-sexy-I-would-kill-to-spend-seven-minutes-with-you media mogul. He scans me. He smiles, he is very happy with what he sees.
“How are you? You look…amazing.”
Oh boy, he sure looks happy to see me.
“Are you staying here?” I ask.
“No, I came to see a friend. You?”
“I’m looking for Chloe.”
“Chloe Destouches. Of course. She’s in the restaurant. Is she writing something on you? You deserve it, anyway, for all the good work you’re doing for Muriel.”
All my good work?
“Where are you staying?” Hubert continues.
“The Four Seasons.”
“Le Georges V?”
“Oui.”
“Mmm? A bit tacky. You should check in here. It’s more your style.”
I think to myself that Hubert has no idea what my style is, but I only say, “Maybe next time.”
We look at each other. He smiles but says nothing. Obviously he’s waiting for me to say something interesting and
witty.
“I have to go,” I say. Great, Lynn. Real witty.
“Oh. Are you…?”
“What?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me? If you’re not too busy, of course.”
Dinner with Hubert Barclay?
“Oh! That would be lovely.”
“Good. I’ll phone you at the Georges V then.”
“Sure.”
Sure, sure, SURE!
I walk away. Don’t turn back. I order you not to turn back, Lynn. Imagine you are Roxanne Green. She would never turn back. Dammit! I turned back and there he was, checking me out with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Was that Hubert Barclay you were talking to, Lynn?” Chloe asks, but of course she already knows the answer. Chloe and Barclay belong to the same world. I’m the odd one out.
“Yes, that was good old Hubert. Isn’t it a small world?”
“Do you really know Barclay? I mean, know him well?”
“Hubert has just asked me out on a date, but if you publish anything about us dating, I’ll kill you.”
She pushes out a chair for me and I sit down beside her.
“You keep surprising me, dear. You’re dating the most eligible man on the planet and you don’t want everybody to know. What are you? A Buddhist?”
“I just don’t want details of my private life published in a glossy magazine.”
“But that’s why we’re here!”
“Well…Except if it can help Muriel.”
“I don’t think so, Lynn,” she says while pouring me some tea. “Nobody cares about Muriel. She is a fake, a spoiled brat, une sale gosse. And I won’t waste a single drop of ink to help her get out of the shadow she will never leave.”
My stomach churns with guilt. I wish Chloe would stop bashing Muriel. Muriel has actual creative talent. I’m the fake.
“My real interest is you, Lynn.”
“But I’m representing Muriel B.”
“Oh, come on! You must have realized what a waste of time they are by now. Muriel’s nothing but a rich kid spending her father’s money and pretending she is the best thing since denim. She makes me very angry.”
Muriel must have stepped on Chloe’s stilettos and never apologized for it.
“She makes a lot of people very angry,” Chloe whispers.
“I think she has talent,” I say.
“Talent! What’s that exactly? It takes more than talent to succeed. It takes genius. Your mother has genius. Xu has genius.” Chloe goes back to the whispering mode. “You two should meet again and talk. Xu is a very good friend of mine. I could arrange something. Un rendez-vous.”
“I don’t think so. I’m just starting with Muriel. They trust me. You can’t deceive people like that.”
“Lynn, you’re not a captain. You don’t need to go down with the ship. This is not an honorable battlefield. This is fashion.”
I reach for the sugar and get a dirty look.
She can’t stand sweet!
“It so happens that Xavier is staying here, too. I could call him and you two could meet right now.”
Call me paranoid, but years of rejections have taught me something. I don’t feel naturally desirable. So, when all of a sudden, someone appears very eager to talk to me, I can only imagine that it’s to kill me, dry me, salt me and eat me through winter.
“I’m sure that Xavier Urbain doesn’t want to be disturbed to talk about corporate treason.”
“Not at all, he is actually waiting for us in my room.”
The plot thickens. Didn’t Nicolas tell me not to come? How did he know that this interview for Marie Claire was nothing but a smoke screen?
Chloe stands as if it were a done deal. She promised to deliver my head to Xavier Urbain before lunch, and that’s the way it’s going to be. She doesn’t even turn back to see if I’m following. She is sure that I want to hear what Xavier has to say, and she is absolutely right.
I stand to follow her. I didn’t even have a chance to try my tea. And so much for having a feature article about me published in Marie Claire!
“No, we’re not taking the elevator, dear. My room is on the second floor and my trainer says the stairs are good for my butt.”
Chloe nimbly ascends the stairs as I drag behind.
“Have you had sex with him already?”
“Who?” Does Chloe think I know her trainer?
“Barclay!”
Oh, right. “None of your business,” I say. No article, no details.
“You know that he has a girlfriend back home. They’re talking ring and wedding cake.”
“I hope I’ll get invited.”
“Ooh! That’s so continental of you. Very today.”
“Hubert and I are just friends.”
“That’s right. You’re one of Hubert’s special friends. Believe me, I’m so over those kinds of friendships. Five minutes in bed, two days of running mascara.”
She smiles and knocks on the door of room 212.
Xavier Urbain opens the door. He didn’t bother to dress up. He wears a bathrobe. The little hair he has on the top of his round head is neatly greased and brushed back.
“Ah, Lynn Blanchett! I’m so happy that we meet again. We have so much to talk about.”
We enter Chloe’s room. Yak! It smells of acrid sweat, strong cologne and soapy humidity. There’s very little light and no oxygen at all.
“Please sit,” Xavier says, pushing a chair toward me. God, I can’t stop thinking that he’s the weirdest, most revolting little creature I’ve ever seen.
“This conversation is well overdue,” Xavier says. “You must have realized by now that Muriel is a flake.”
“Well, no actually,” I tell him. “She is…different, but I see potential in her.”
“Wouaf!” Xavier barks. “There’s nothing behind Muriel B. Just wind. It takes years to build a serious fashion house like Xu. She thinks that she can come with all her father’s money, with all her ridiculous tattoos and all those things all over her face and we’re all supposed to clap our hands and call her genius.”
“I don’t understand why she makes you so furious. Chloe and you seem so against her.”
“Pretentiousness is infuriating.”
“She’s not the only pretentious person in the business. Why single her out?”
“Listen. I don’t want to talk about her anymore. I want to talk about you. I want to help you.”
“I didn’t know I needed help.”
He eyes Chloe nervously.
“Lynn, would you just listen to what Xavier has to say?” Chloe seems to have lost some of her icy calm.
“We think that you are an exceptional asset. I mean, your name…and your ideas, of course!” Xavier says in what he must think is a seductive voice.
“And I would hate to lose you to those buffoons. Understand?”
“No, I don’t understand.”
“Well, Xavier would like to offer you a position in his organization. A top position. But that would mean that you would need to stop having any contact with Muriel B.”
I look at Chloe. I can’t believe my ears. I’m the stake in a poker game between Muriel and Xavier Urbain.
“You must be joking,” I snap. “You want to double-cross Muriel by using me?” I began to laugh, quietly at first, but soon I was practically in tears.
“What’s so funny?” Chloe looked at me and frowned. Or would have frowned if all the Botox in her face hadn’t prevented it.
“The situation. And you people. Why do you think I would backstab Muriel?”
“Well, how much is she giving you?” Xavier asks.
“Enough,” I lie because we haven’t discussed money yet. And actually, she might not be giving me anything at all after she speaks to Fran.
“I was thinking of offering you…enough, too.” He writes a number on a little hotel pad and pushes it toward me. I read it. My throat dries instantly.
“It’s in euros,” he says.
&nb
sp; They’re waiting for a reaction but I am paralyzed. Are they really proposing to pay me all this money? He takes back his pad and writes another number.
“And this will be your ipso facto bonus when you sign a contract with us.”
I read the number.
Holly mother of God!
I’m rich! Look at me, Jodie, I made it! I am a freaking European goddess!
“I’m sure that whatever Muriel told you, it will never match those figures,” Chloe says.
I thought she was a journalist, but she seems more like Xavier Urbain’s dark shadow.
“Well…I have to think about it,” I say, trying to stay perfectly neutral.
Think about it? My brain is screaming at me. Are you crazy? Didn’t you read the little pad and the huge numbers? Ask them to show you the money and sign the contract immediately. You don’t owe anything to Muriel or to Nicolas.
Shit! Nicolas! God, he is going to hate me. I’m a horrible mercenary, only excited by the smell of gold.
“We don’t have a lot of time to think, Lynn. Those are the figures,” Chloe says. “Now you have to make up your mind.”
Sign, sign, SIGN!
“I need time to think about it.”
They look at each other.
“You’re not going to try to raise the bid, are you?” Xavier asks.
“Lynn knows she is very valuable, Xavier. But I’m sure she realizes that her name is not worth one cent more.”
A lovely woman, that Chloe, through and through.
“I just need to think about it,” I repeat, managing to sound much calmer than I feel.
They relax. They seem convinced that I will go along with their evil plan and honestly, if it wasn’t for Nicolas, I really might.
“Don’t take too much time thinking, Lynn,” Chloe says. “Opportunities are like trends. They perish fast.”
I hate to admit it, but Chloe has a point. What if they change their minds? What if they realize that I’m not worth all that money?
What if I say yes and never see Nicolas again?
Nicolas! Nicolas! You’re about to ruin the deal of my life.
With all that money I could just buy fifteen guys fitter than you (not that I have seen you without your shirt on). Guys that would fulfill all my kinkiest fantasies. Guys that would go by the name of Alfredo, or Bernardino. Guys that would not only have sex with me on demand but would also be very good at cleaning the swimming pool or spreading sunscreen on my back with their very, very strong virile hands.