21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

  It’s a gourmets’ gang bang!

  There are no separated tables. You sit at a long table among perfect strangers. Everybody shares their wine and food.

  I don’t know if it’s all a dream or if this is for real. I feel like a young teenager. Excited and overwhelmed. Hubert doesn’t look like an enemy. I don’t need to be careful with him. Not tonight. Tonight, he’s my partner. He’s the one I can rely on. The one who will protect me and see me right.

  We’ve ordered food but I have no idea what I have asked for. The waiter puts a large, deep platter in front of me that contains something that looks like giant dead slime in sauce. I hear Brian laugh out the word kidney and I feel instantly sick and claustrophobic.

  I need oxygen. I stand up and start to push people out of my way.

  I try to smile as I pass by the owner. She sits like an old queen behind the till. She controls who pays and who tips. Money and whiskey on ice are her two things. I smile, so she’ll think I’m all right and still a young lady. But you can’t fool people like her. She knows that I’m as drunk as a pig and sick as a dog. She tosses me a condescending smile. She has no time for people who can’t hold their liquor. I push open the door and reach the street. It’s a hot night. I’m disappointed. I expected a fresh cool supply of air and all I get is a warm blanket charged with pollen.

  “Do you want to go?” Hubert has followed me outside. He puts one hand on my shoulder and the other on my cheek. I’m trapped. I feel possessed by him and very safe all at the same time.

  “Yes,” I say, looking back into the restaurant.

  “They’ll be fine,” he says as he pushes buttons on his cell phone.

  “Don’t call Dave, please. I need to walk a bit.”

  “Whatever you like,” Hub says as he smiles at me. “Lynn, I need to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t felt like this in years.”

  “Sick and drunk?”

  “No.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I don’t know if I have ever felt like this before.”

  “Oh, come on!” This has to stop right now. Even as drunk as I am I know a line when I hear one.

  “Listen! I felt like this…tonight. With you.”

  “Is that the best you can do?” I snap defensively. I’m caught off guard. Men like Hubert Barclay don’t speak like this. Not to women like me.

  “In fact, you’re right. I can do much better.” He stops me by grabbing my arm gently. I don’t want to see his eyes. I look farther down the street. I look at the passing cars and the traffic lights as they turn to red.

  “I want to do much better, Lynn.”

  I turn back to him. I shouldn’t have.

  He kisses me. Very fast. On the tip of my lips.

  No, no, no! This is not happening. This is not what friends do on friends-dates.

  “I don’t…” I try to say something to stop Hubert’s kiss.

  “Shh!”

  Oh, don’t fool yourself, Lynn. I feel the pressure of his hand on my back as he comes back for more. I made a mess out of this friends-dating thing. I’m overwhelmed by his charm, by his strength, by his desire. I don’t want it to happen but I can’t fight it either. I kiss him back.

  He breaks our embrace and calls Dave on his cell phone. We both know that the walk is over. We need a ride.

  I wake up at dusk. At first it’s hard to remember where I am. Then it hits me like a torpedo.

  Boom!

  I’m lying in bed and the Hub is asleep beside me. This is not a hotel room. It’s more like an apartment and as I ease up I see the Seine through the panoramic bedroom windows.

  Oh, my God!

  I turn to look at him. All I see is his very large shoulders, his face smashed against the pillows.

  Alarm bells go off in my head. I’ve got to get out of here.

  I slide out of bed. The last thing I need is for him to wake up and ask me how I feel.

  Oh, my God!

  Help me!

  I find my panties on the floor. My Kazo dress lies like a neglected kitchen towel nearby. My shoes didn’t make it farther then the living room. I pick them and tiptoe to the door.

  I can’t even pretend that I don’t remember a thing. I remember all the dirty details.

  Him all over me.

  His body.

  His skin.

  How could I have done this? The guy just asked me out on a date, a little restaurant dinner, and now I’m running out of his apartment after a night of passionate mating and multiple orgasms.

  Help me, help me!

  It’s not what I wanted. I just wanted a medium-rare steak. Maybe some béarnaise sauce.

  I try to open the door as discreetly as I can, but I make an awful racket trying to figure out how to operate the lock.

  “Lynn!” I hear him calling from the bedroom. “Lynn!”

  I slide out onto the staircase and close the door. I run down the steps like a thief. My heart is racing. I imagine him running after me. I imagine that I will never make it to the street. I press all the buttons to get the front door to open and finally there is a bip noise and I run out and away barefoot.

  I see a taxi and I wave. I finally put on my shoes before I jump in.

  “Vous, vous avez fait la fête,” the driver says.

  “La fête?”

  “Party, party…” He winks.

  Even the taxi driver knows. And…Talking about a party! We didn’t even use condoms!

  Well, it was supposed to be a friends-date! You don’t take condoms to those.

  It didn’t stop me.

  I’m pa-athetic!

  I feel so guilty, but…why? I’m not married to Nicolas. We’re not even together-together. I’m a single, young American girl in Paris with boiling hormones in a hot Kazo dress. I’m going out with high-flying American society and having amazing sex with a Hub. Until Nicolas steps up and tells me he wants a relationship, that’s allowed. Right?

  I run up to my room. I look for my card key in my purse but I can’t find it. Oh, no. Did I leave it in Hub’s apartment? Will he come here later and enter my room? Will he ravage me again and again until I die of ecstasy? Will he—oh! I finally find my card and enter my room.

  I lock myself inside and collapse against the door.

  He has kissed and he will tell! Everybody is going to know what kind of dirty girl Jodie Blanchett’s daughter is. One night, that’s all it takes to have me. You don’t even need to buy me dessert. Just bring me to a bar, fill me up with drinks, and I’m yours.

  I find his business card and go to the phone. It’s 5:30 a.m. but I need to call him and set the record straight.

  I let the phone ring…and get his answering machine. I hang up and phone again. It’s busy. I hang up and phone again. He picks up.

  “Nicolas?”

  He doesn’t answer at first.

  I just hear him breathing and I imagine him trying to figure out who in the world would call him at this ungodly hour while he stands completely naked in the middle of his living room with his phone in his hand.

  “Nicolas, it’s me, Lynn. Wake up, Nicolas!”

  “Lynn?”

  “It’s okay if you hate me.”

  “Lynn. I…Where are you?”

  I’m lying on my bed after a night of frenetic sex with a man I don’t really know and I’m talking to another man I don’t really know but really want to have sex with. Does that make sense?

  “I’m at my hotel. Now, don’t interrupt. Just let me talk. You should hate me, Nicolas. I’m a terrible person. I lie. I lied to you. I lie all the time. I’m not the person you think I am. I—”

  “Lynn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want to have breakfast with me?”

  He opens his door and there I am. I think I’ve set a new world record. It took me less then five hours to get from Hubert Barclay’s to Nicolas’s apartment.

  I follow Nicolas, and the sweet smell of freshly brewed coffee, to the
kitchen. He wears a baggy white shirt and jeans. I have never seen him look so casual. He asks if I want coffee and I tell him I’d kill for some, with a side of aspirin.

  “Did you have a busy night?” he asks while looking for the aspirin.

  Busy? Yeah, you bet!

  “I had too much to drink, I guess,” not mentioning that I hardly slept and that my sense of guilt is squashing my brain to a pulp.

  He pours two cups of coffee and takes them to the living room. I follow and ask myself why on earth I came over here?

  We sit on his sofa. Nicolas’s apartment looks like a student condo. It’s tastefully decorated, but it doesn’t show the signs of wealth that I witnessed at Muriel’s or Hubert’s.

  “I was worried,” he says. “The way you sounded.”

  I look around and realize how little I know about Nicolas. Maybe even less than I know about Hubert, which is sad since I’ve seen him nearly every day since I’ve come to Paris.

  I hear a door slam and look up from my coffee cup. Someone else lives in this apartment?

  Oh, how naive can I be? I don’t even know if he has a girlfriend. I don’t know if he is married, or has been married, or has any children. I don’t know if he is about to drive his wife to work and bring his two little girls to school.

  I’m a mess!

  “You sounded in a state of panic,” Nicolas starts again. He’s clearly waiting for me to explain why I called and where I’ve been.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this. I guess I was a bit freaked out. I had a rough night.”

  I regret immediately having said that. Better change the subject, fast.

  “You have a nice apartment.”

  “It’s small. And too expensive. It’s really hard to find something in Paris.”

  I look around for any signs that will help me to understand who Nicolas is and why I need him so much.

  Everything is very orderly. A place for each thing, each thing in its place. There is a huge collection of CDs covering an entire wall, but absolutely no picture of any kind. I can hear a toilet flush and the sound of running water. Somebody is taking a shower. I naively ask, “Do you live alone?”

  “I live with Marc.”

  “Oh.”

  So what happened to I’m not gay? Damn French!

  “Marc is my flatmate.”

  “Ah.” What does he mean exactly by flatmate?

  “Marc is working at Muriel B,” he says as if he was reading my mind. “I think you two met when you came to the office.”

  “Possibly.” I sip my coffee casually and try to remember a Marc.

  “He is a very talented designer. He spends most of the day in the workshop.”

  “I think I remember him,” I say, but I have absolutely no memory of a Marc, any Marc.

  “You look worried.”

  “Nah, I’m not worried.” I guess my sipping wasn’t as casual as I had thought.

  “If you’re worrying about the position, you should stop. I told you before, Muriel’s crazy about you. I’m supposed to prepare a contract for you today.”

  I want to tell Nicolas I’m not here to discuss the contract, I’m here to understand why I feel so guilty about last night. I’m here to see if I can be that person in the shower one day. I’m here to see if he wants me to be that person in the shower. But instead I say, “What about Fran Wellish?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s weird. She refuses to talk to us anymore.”

  I should be relieved. But in fact, I don’t care about Fran Wellish right now. All I care about is the shower and the distinct sound of Marc the Mysterious Flatmate groaning and vocalizing under the spray.

  “It’s a rather small apartment, I mean, to share,” I say.

  He shrugs again. “I’ve been here since I was a student. I like the district.”

  I don’t care about the lodging problem in Paris, either. I want Nicolas to describe fully his relationship with Marc-in-the-Shower, and I want him to tell me that Muriel is wrong and he didn’t lie to me the other night just to toy with my feelings. I want him to confirm that I’m not crazy. I want him to say that even though he is an angel, he still looks down at me and sees…and sees…Oh, dammit! I want him to say that there is something going on between us!

  But Nicolas doesn’t say any of that. He’s waiting for me to speak again. “I guess I’ll have to start looking for an apartment as well,” I say.

  “I can help you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We can include a relocation package as part of your contract. I have to discuss it with Muriel, though.”

  “Ah, bonjour!”

  I turn to see a tall, handsome man standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts on a very athletic body. Now I recognize him immediately. He is one of those very effeminate creatures I’ve met in the workshop.

  “Bonjour,” I reply.

  “Quelle surprise! C’est gentil de venir nous dire bonjour comme ça.” Nicolas smiles at Marc.

  Okay, I know Nicolas says he’s not gay, but still, I can immediately sense the dynamic in their relationship. Nicolas is the reasonable husband, always reliable and serious, and Marc is the crazy wife, exuberant and unpredictable. They live on the sixth floor and I feel like jumping through the window.

  “Lynn needed to talk to me about the job,” Nicolas says, switching the conversation to English.

  “Oh, I see. Business, all the time business, business, business. Oh, but you must be starving.” He has a very strong accent. “Nicolas, the croissants!”

  “Are you hungry, Lynn?”

  Paris has been very good for my figure. I never eat and I spend my time running in all directions.

  “I’m starving.”

  “Elle a faim, ça se voit!” Marc gestures at me dramatically with his hand.

  Nicolas stands up.

  “Non, non, I’ll go,” Marc says. “You two talk…business, and I make breakfast.”

  He disappears back into the corridor from where he came, like an actor who’d jumped onstage then receded backstage.

  “He is a lovely guy,” Nicolas says.

  I feel so stupid. I should have stayed in bed with Hubert. I should have tried to see if I could love him or even only like him, once the Bloody Mary had worn off.

  “Are you still worried about the position?” Nicolas asks again.

  “I feel better now,” I lie. “It’s been a crazy roller-coaster ride since I landed.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lynn. Everything is so confusing right now. I hope that soon we will see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Croissants pour tout le monde?” Marc asks. He has thrown a long black coat overtop a pair of sweatpants. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just jumps out of the apartment and closes the door saying, “A tout de suite, les amoureux.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Nicolas says. “He likes to act bigger than life.”

  I’m not exactly sure what Marc said. I recognized the word love or lovers. Maybe he said, Bye, love. Or, I love you, Nicolas, we had really great sex yesterday night, pity the American girl is here, we could have done it all over again before breakfast.

  We have one of our silences and Nicolas breaks it by saying “On the phone, you said that you lied to me.”

  “I was confused,” I mumble.

  “When did you lie to me?”

  “I was lost, I have…” Oh, what the hell. “I was confused, so I guess I needed to talk to someone. It doesn’t matter anymore, I was just…stupid. I thought, because of the night we had together…I guess, I thought…But I didn’t know about you and Marc, so you see I was wrong.”

  “What about me and Marc?”

  Oh, I’m so embarrassed. You’d think for a man in fashion it would be no big deal, but he obviously wants to stay in the closet, and I opened it, uninvited.

  “No, I mean, I didn’t know you were together.” I cross two of my fingers to represent their relationship. “I mean together-togethe
r.”

  He looks at me. Silence.

  “I thought that you and me might have started something. But…I’m…It’s ridiculous, of course, because…”

  How could I ever think a guy like him would ever consider a girl like me. Or, apparently, a girl.

  Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

  “I was wrong. And I shouldn’t have come here this morning.” I stand and I say, “I should go now.”

  “Marc and I are not together.” He stops me. “Marc is my flatmate,” he repeats.

  “Nicolas, you don’t have to—”

  “What part of I’m not gay didn’t you get? I’m starting to find this very offensive, Lynn!”

  What’s happening here?

  “I also thought that something happened between us that night.”

  “Really?” For a brief moment I’m thrilled, but then the guilt comes rushing back.

  “Lynn, answer my question. When did you lie to me?”

  But I can’t answer him now. I’m too embarrassed, too confused. “I am so sorry. I need to go.”

  “Wait! Lynn, what did you want to tell me?”

  “No, no. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I had a rough night. I’m better now.” I walk to the door. “I’m sorry if I have offended you.”

  “Lynn, this is crazy. Stay!”

  “I’ll see you at the office. We have to discuss…the contract and stuff.”

  When I come out of the elevator, Marc is standing there. “Lynn, les croissants!” he says, showing me the paper bag from the bakery.

  There will be no more croissants for Lynn.

  She has been a bad, bad, bad girl!

  Step #11:

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

  “They’ve been in the boardroom for the last two hours.” And Nicolas has been waiting for me at the Muriel B reception desk all that time.

  “Oh, God, I can’t do it,” I tell him, cringing at my own whininess.

  “You have to do it,” Nicolas tells me as he grabs my arms and walks me upstairs.

  “Do we have to move so fast?”

  “Do you need to wear sunglasses?”

  I take them off. The light strikes straight into my brain and I panic I may have just been stricken blind.