21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

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

  Step #10:

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

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

  Oh, God!

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

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

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

  Hub?

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

  A Hub can’t possibly manage a media empire.

  I lie on my bed looking at the two notes.

  “The Hub,” I say out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Lynn?”

  Yes, it’s him.

  “Hi, Nicolas.”

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

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

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

  Postponed?

  “Postponed?”

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

  Thank you, God! You’ve vaporized her!

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

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

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No…Why should I be angry with you?”

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

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

  “That’s funny.”

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

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

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said no, of course.”

  “They must have been sad.”

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

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

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

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

  “Nicolas, Hubert is just a friend.”

  It’s you that I want, silly.

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

  Damn! Why am I screwing this up?

  “Lynn?”

  “Nicolas?”

  We sink into another of our famous embarrassing silences.

  “I…” Nicolas starts, then stops.

  “Yes?”

  “I…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Well, have a nice evening,” he says.

  Whatever.

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

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

  Yes, I shopped at Kazo…you know.

  But seriously, look at me!

  Front. Back. Three-quarter. Profile.

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

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

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

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

  Har har har!

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

  It’s so incredible!

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Of course, Nicolas could have asked me out…

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

  “Hey, Hubert.” Or Hub or the Hub.

  “You look…perfect.”

  He looks “perfect”, too.

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

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

  “Tacky kills, Lynn.”

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

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

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

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

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

  I love this friends-date!

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

  “Should we go for an aperitif first?”

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

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

  Er? “Classic?”

  “Good. Do you like Bloody Marys?”

  “Mr. Barclay? Can you read minds?”

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

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

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

  “We never met before, Hubert.”

  He considers that and smiles. I smile back.

  “You’re something different, Lynn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sure. What’s the boy drinking?”

  The boy looks up at Hubert.

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

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

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

  Roxanne brushes his cheek.

  “Je me sens pas bien!”

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

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

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

  “If you say so.”

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

  “I think it’s past his bedtime.”

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

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

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

  “Oh, j’ai dormi!” Guy jerks back to life and looks around.

  “It’s all right, darling. We didn’t miss you.”

  “I’m sick. I want out,” he manages to whine in English.

  “You’re a big boy. You can go out by yourself.”

  “It’s all right,” Hubert says. He helps the boy to his feet and drags him through the crowd.

  How decent of him! If this wasn’t a friends-date, I would be so charmed.

  “Lynn, let me say this—stay away from Hubert.”

  “Nothing will happen. This is—”

  “There’s no such thing as a friends-date.”

  I’m about to protest and explain the terms of a friends-date, but a man falls into Hubert’s seat, stares at me and says, “Hey, I know you.”

  He is an elegant, overweight guy in his midforties. He has curly red hair and the round red face of somebody who enjoys his beer with lots of potato chips.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Everybody knows her,” Roxanne tells him. “But nobody knows you. Is that your best pick-up line?”

  “Hey, don’t be so uptight, lady. The name’s Brian. Brian Ferguson from Boston. Are you from Boston?”

  He is kind of cute, if you like them chubby and cuddly.

  “What do you do for a living, Brian Ferguson from Boston?” Roxanne asks.

  He shows his glass of beer.

  “I buy and sell wine. That’s what I do.”

  “That’s beer.”

  “I’m unfaithful.”

  “Lovely job.”

  “Simply the best. Cheers to that,” he toasts, then empties his glass. “Hey, can I buy you ladies a drink?”

  Roxanne studies him more carefully. “Married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Well off?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Make it two Bloody Marys.” She shoos him away. “Doesn’t he look like the common Joe for a Brian? I like him.”

  “I’m not sure Guy is going to like him, too,” I say, reminding Roxanne she’s here with a date.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Hubert comes back alone.

  “I had to put the boy in a cab,” he says.

  “Now, Hubert, that’s nasty. I had plans for Guy tonight.”

  “Hey, I was here first, buddy,” Brian says and puts our drinks on the table.

  “Hubert, meet Brian Ferguson from Boston. Brian sells wine.”

  “And who are you, buddy?” Brian asks like somebody about to lose his parking place.

  “Brian, I have new plans for you tonight. You’re going to be my date,” Roxanne purrs at Brian.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “Good boy. Sit.”

  Brian sits with a big smile on his face. Give him beer and women, and he feels complete.

  “Can we join you tonight?” Roxanne asks.

  “We have a reservation at La Tour d’Argent.”

  “La Tour d’Argent!” Brian spits his beer back into the glass. “That’s for tourists and sitting ducks, buddy.”

  “Oh behave, Brian.”

  Brian freezes and gives Roxanne a sleazy look. “Lady, I like it when you talk nasty.”

  Look a
t her. She can’t stop a so un-Roxanne Green smile. He slams the table and says, “I know another tour, but this one is Tour de Montlhéry and, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the real thing.”

  I look at Hubert and say, “Why not?” So Hubert smiles courteously and says, “Why not, indeed?”

  But we’re not ready. We’re not ready until we drink enough Bloody Marys to kill a small pony, and when we get out of Harry’s Bar, I see nothing wrong with Hubert having his arm around my waist. Because that’s exactly what friends do when they go out on friends-dates.

  He calls Dave on his cell phone. He looks so much in charge. I feel that for once I can rely on someone else and I’m so touched that I could cry (yes, I’m drunk!).

  I turn to Roxanne. I need her moral support.

  She’s useless.

  She laughs and laughs! Roxanne Green laughs a normal, earnest laugh. Not the hyena cry she normally uses to punctuate every sentence. She finds the round Brian hilarious.

  “Where’s that cab?” he yells, but suddenly, the sight of Hubert’s Mercedes shuts him up. But just for a moment.

  “Oh, wait a minute, buddy! Are you trying to impress us?”

  “No, that’s just our ride,” Hubert answers, so naturally detached I want to kiss him. But I guess that I shouldn’t because first, this is a friends-date and I need to remind myself to feel very guilty from time to time.

  Dave offers his hand to help me out when we arrive at the restaurant.

  “I told you, it’s the real thing,” Brian says.

  “Lynn, this is going to be by far the worst evening I have ever had in Paris,” Roxanne says, but, by God, she’s smiling so much she even forgets about the wrinkles it makes on her face.

  We enter the small restaurant. Copper pots and various-shaped and -sized salamis are hanging from the ceiling. A woman, apparently the owner, is guarding the entrance. She recognizes Hubert and they shake hands. He speaks in French to her. He makes a joke and she laughs and calls one of the waiters. They start shuffling things around in the tiny restaurant to arrange a table for us.

  It seems like there is a special private function going on in there, like a wedding or corporate party, but Brian says, “It’s like this every night, a big party with strangers.”