21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

  The workshop is very quiet. Everybody pretends to be very busy, but under the surface they all seem anxious and excited.

  Pierre Boutonnière is in the house and when Pierre Boutonnière is in the house, everybody bows and scrapes. He is the one who gives money for their wages, money for the electricity bill, money for the phone bill, money for the coffee and everything else that makes Muriel B run.

  And Pierre came this morning to put an end to the dream before it’s even really started.

  “On compte sur vous,” one of the workers says as I pass by. Did he just say that they’re counting on me? I ask Nicolas for a quick translation. Yes, yes, they all think that I’m here to save them. They see me as their last resource. That’s why Muriel spent her last dime importing me. To get me inside that boardroom and turn the investors, aka Muriel’s brother, into a thankful money fountain.

  But I’m late, I look like trash and I’m an emotional mess.

  I stink, too.

  I’m in an awful state to save the ship from sinking.

  Nicolas leans in close and whispers in my ear, “Pierre rarely agrees to meet his sister. Especially here, in our office. Mint?”

  He shakes a box in my face.

  “Thanks,” I murmur through closed lips.

  “Pierre grew up in France with their father, Muriel in England with their mother. They’re like ice and fire.”

  “Is there some coffee in there?”

  He doesn’t bother answering. He opens the door to the boardroom and pushes me in.

  Two men sit opposite Muriel. Nobody speaks.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Ah! Lynn! Meet Pierre.”

  Which one of the two cadavers is Pierre? They both look anemic, wear gray suits and have sickly green complexions.

  “How did your…previous meeting go?” Muriel asks.

  “Oh…My previous meeting? Yeah! Very well. I couldn’t cut it short. Very important. I’m sorry.”

  I had decided not to sleep at all, but once I sat on my bed in my suite, I don’t know what happened. Somehow my brain switched off, and I was awoken hours later by a phone call (Nicolas) and some hysterical banging on the door (Massoud). And darling, I look a mess! They didn’t give me a chance to change or shower. I still have the Hub’s scent all over me, along with the vague funkiness of cigarettes and sweat, and alcohol breath. Somehow I don’t think Nicolas’s mint is going to cut it.

  “Pierre Boutonnière,” one of the cadavers says, and stands to shakes my hand over the table. Surprisingly, the hand’s hot. “And this is Georges Duprès, from Finance.”

  I shake the second hand and it’s not only hot but moist.

  Damn, I need coffee!

  “Nicolas, can you arrange more coffee for everybody?” I say.

  He can’t believe it. He just stands there, looking at me as if I have transformed into a beetle.

  “Okay…” he says hesitantly and dials a number on his cell phone. He’s making a ten-meters-distance call. I mean, we can hear the phone ringing in his office and the voice of his assistant answering the call. “Catherine, peux tu nous amener du café dans la salle de réunion?”

  I smile at Pierre. But he doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t find Nicolas’s ego trip funny like I do. But again, he is the one paying the phone bills.

  “I hear that you’re the best thing that has happened to this company,” Pierre says, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t believe it.

  “We’re lucky to have someone like Lynn,” Muriel says.

  “This company has to stop relying on luck.” Pierre looks at me. “Did they brief you on the financial situation?”

  “Lynn is more a creative person than a financial expert,” Muriel cuts in again.

  She’s not herself. She does her best to look calm and fully grown-up, but the way she keeps clenching and unclenching her hands is a dead giveaway.

  “Well, Lynn, I hope your financial expertise is good enough to understand that this company has just enough money to survive for the two next weeks, and then it is bankruptcy.”

  Muriel directs her pen across the table like a cruise missile. Pierre catches it before it falls onto his lap. They’ve probably been playing this game since they were five years old.

  “Do you have to ruin everything all the time?” She’s done playing mature. This is not your everyday meeting with your banker. It’s family business.

  “The situation is slightly different now,” Nicolas interrupts. “We’re expanding. Valuable people like Lynn are joining us. We’re looking into getting some serious investors.”

  “Investors?”

  The word brings back some blood into Pierre’s veins.

  “Who?”

  “We can’t talk about it now. We have agreed to total confidentiality, but a major brand is thinking of becoming our financial backer. With your agreement, of course.”

  “You don’t need to hide anything from us. Every single cent you have spent so far came from Crédit de la Cité. We are Muriel B.”

  “No, Pierre, you’re not Muriel B,” Muriel explodes. “I’m Muriel B! It’s my name on the door. I made this company. I am this company.”

  Pierre opens his mouth to yell back at his sister, but before he can, Nicolas interrupts. “Kazo.”

  Everybody looks at him. “Kazo is thinking of investing in Muriel B?”

  Georges Duprès has actually moved. His head has tilted an inch to the right. That’s how incredible the news is.

  “Is this Muriel B internal gossip or something real?” Pierre looks from Nicolas, to me, to Muriel.

  “It’s real,” Muriel says. “We’re talking. Kazo wants to invest money in a small independent brand, and he is thinking of us.”

  “Just thinking?”

  “More than thinking. They considered a few companies from the start. Now they’ve came down to two. It’s between Xu and us.” Muriel smiles a small but triumphant smile.

  Xu? That explains their hatred for Muriel.

  “Xu is bigger than you,” Pierre says. “I don’t hear certainty here.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure,” I say as if I was in the loop. “If we close the company before the show, we’ll never know.”

  They all turn to me. “How much did you invest so far?” Let’s see how Pierre likes being in the hot seat.

  “Too much,” he answers.

  “Imagine it. When Kazo comes in, all your expenses will be refunded and you get to control the finances of a branch of Kazo’s empire.” I draw a little square on my notepad. “But if we close now, you lose everything.” I tick the square. It really appears as if I know what I’m talking about.

  I turn to Muriel. I detect a smile on her face. Pierre is done listening to her. Or to Nicolas. But he will listen to a new girl from the U.S. with a guaranteed Blanchett pedigree.

  “I was talking to Hubert Barclay this morning,” I continue.

  “You had a meeting with Hubert Barclay regarding Muriel B?” Pierre says.

  Oh, boy! Did I ever.

  “Well, yes. Barclay is an old friend. We talked about Muriel B. And he said…”

  I can’t repeat what he really said, not without an X-rated warning.

  “Well, he was interested in doing a TV show on the birth of a fashion company. You know, reality-TV style.”

  I turn to Muriel. “All this is new to you, but that’s what we discussed last…this morning.”

  I search for Nicolas’s eyes. I look at his notepad. He writes Hubert Barclay on it and then adds three question marks.

  The coffee comes in and Nicolas’s assistant refills all our cups. Pierre sips some. He is thinking. He turns to Georges Duprès. They don’t say a word. They communicate by telepathy like aliens…or twins.

  “But if we’re closing in two weeks, well, all that’s over,” I repeat after sipping some of my coffee.

  Pierre opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a confused guppy before finding his voice. “Do you have a figure in mind?”<
br />
  We won!

  “Nicolas needs to work it out with you,” Muriel says. “We’re the creative people, you do the boring stuff.”

  Oops. Wrong timing, Muriel. That takes Pierre twenty years back, when she broke his bike and went to tell their father that he pulled her hair. “Muriel, we’re going to open another transfusion line for you. But that’s the last one. It will be minimal and will help you to survive until the show. After the show, if nothing major happens, like Kazo backing you up, it’s over. And Dad will agree with me.”

  “That’s why he put you in charge of the family’s finances. Because you’re such a good daddy’s boy.”

  “That’s great, Pierre.” I jump in and turn to Muriel, giving her a stern don’t-fuck-this-up look. “That’s all we needed to hear.”

  My head is about to explode.

  “Which one should we waste?” Muriel asks again.

  The entire staff is standing around the boardroom table. All the sketches are spread in front of us. Françoise Neuton, all the designers, the assistants, even the receptionists, everybody is in here. It’s a moment of pure democracy. We don’t have enough money to produce all the dresses for the show. We need to dump a few. I stay with Muriel who helplessly contemplates the drawings, I really want to go back to the hotel, take a shower and go to bed.

  “Let’s think the other way around,” Nicolas proposes. “Which one don’t you want to waste?”

  “Please, Nicolas, things are already hard enough without you trying to confuse me! Lynn, help me!”

  I look at the drawings once more.

  “I don’t know, Muriel. The red ones give me a headache.”

  “The red ones are my favorites!”

  I cup my head in my hands. “Do you really need me for this? I mean, you know better than anybody which ones to trash.”

  She sighs. She has had enough of me. “Nicolas, take her somewhere else, she annoys me so much right now.”

  “But…Don’t you need me to…make the selection?” Nicolas sounds truly hurt by Muriel’s dismissal.

  “Since when do I need you to make creative decisions? Go. Take her away.”

  I don’t give him a choice anyway. I stand up and wait for him to show me the way out.

  “Lynn, tomorrow, we are going to make this—” she moves her finger in between me and her “—official. Nicolas will see to it.”

  “Sure.”

  Great. That leaves me twenty-four hours to decide once and for all, Xu or Muriel B.

  Life is all about choices.

  “Do you want to go back to your hotel?” Nicolas asks. “You look exhausted. I’ll call Massoud.”

  We’re back in the street. Busy. Chaotic as usual. “Listen. I’m sorry for this morning. Being late for the meeting. It was untactful.”

  “It was…a bit unsettling.”

  “Will you forgive me?”

  “It depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On you. On this afternoon.”

  “Are you blackmailing me, Nicolas?”

  He smiles. Boy, when he smiles, you would give him the moon and ask no change.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat a horse, with you sitting on it.” Suddenly that shower and nap are forgotten. All I want is Nicolas.

  “I know just the place. It’s the best restaurant in Paris.”

  “I hope it’s the best and the closest, or else I might not make it alive.”

  “It’s the best and the most fun. You actually pre-buy your food and cook it yourself.”

  “Can’t we just grab a bite anywhere?” Only the French would think it’s fun to make you work for your own lunch.

  “And we’ll pick up some wine.”

  “Oh, no, no alcohol.”

  “Wine is not alcohol.”

  “No, it just so happens to make people drunk.”

  He stops. He looks at me and smiles.

  “Why did you think that I was gay?”

  Oho!

  “Um…I didn’t.” Maybe I can play dumb.

  He doesn’t buy it. “You’ve asked me if I was gay almost each time we’ve met.”

  Well, when all else fails, there’s honesty. “You’re all sensitive, and nice.”

  “Does that make me gay?”

  “You’re…cute.”

  “I’m cute?” He likes the sound of that. “Well, does that make me gay?”

  “You…Well, you don’t look at me in that way.”

  “That way?”

  “You keep your distance. Like you’re…not interested.”

  “So…if somebody is not interested in you, he is gay?”

  “No!” God, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I’m so not conceited like that. I mean, guys like Nicolas are never interested in girls like me.

  “And if I was looking at you that way, I wouldn’t be gay?”

  “No…I mean. Why? Are you?”

  “What?”

  “Interested?”

  “You’re a funny girl.”

  “Is that interesting? For you?”

  “I guess it is.”

  He didn’t just bring me to any restaurant. He brought me to L’Escargot, his parents’ restaurant. It’s just been through a complete cleanup and I can still smell a mixture of bleach and wet wood.

  “They’ve asked me to get it ready for sale. Lots of people have already asked to see it.”

  He unlocks the front door to let us in. It’s a funny thing to enter a restaurant like that, when it’s completely empty. At least this explains why we had to buy our own groceries.

  “Can you cook?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’m very good at cooking.”

  Well, isn’t he perfect?

  He seats me at a table. Puts two glasses in front of me and opens the bottle of wine we picked up on the way over.

  He toasts: “To success.”

  “I’ll drink to that. What’s on the menu?” I paid little attention to what he’d bought at the market.

  “My specialty: Beans à la Nicolas.”

  “Great!” I hope that sounded as enthusiastic as I intended it to.

  “I’ll take you somewhere else. I just wanted to show you the place.”

  Uh-oh, I guess not. “No. I like it here. Beans will be fine. Beans and wine.”

  I follow Nicolas to the kitchen. The equipment is still well organized, ready for guests.

  “It’s a second home for me, this place.” Nicolas pulls more food from the grocery bags. “Beans and…What do you call these in English?” He passes me a can.

  “Artichokes”

  “I can make a salad with these.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Look, I found a real treasure!” Nicolas smiles broadly as he pulls a lone jar off a shelf.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask, inspecting the glass jar. It looks like a brown-red stew full of white beans and gore.

  “It’s cassoulet. It’s my father’s specialty. This one must be a vintage one. I bet you it’s still edible.”

  He opens the jar. He sniffs it and proclaims the sludge inside “one of the best dishes in the world.”

  I take a whiff. Not so bad.

  “You just need to warm it up. But it’s meat.”

  “I’ll have meat. For once…”

  “Really!”

  “I’m so over being a vegetarian.”

  So that’s what he prepares instead of beans and artichokes. Cassoulet. And we go back to the table with a bowl each of steamy goo.

  I try a small bite.

  God, it’s awful!

  Revolting!

  Yaaaaaak!

  I tell Nicolas “very hot” but I wish I could spit it back into my bowl. Thank God I still have my wine.

  “You don’t like it, do you?”

  Dammit. I have offended him. Again! But honestly, I’m not surprised his parents had to close down the restaurant if that’s the kind of food they served.

  “They’r
e really famous for their cassoulet. People would travel hundreds of kilometers to have my parents’ cassoulet at L’Escargot.”

  “It’s very good, Nicolas,” I say and force another forkful of the stuff in my mouth. It’s fatty, stinky and revolting. But I swallow and smile. God, we’re not in any sort of real relationship yet and I already have to fake a culinary orgasm.

  “Do you want to see upstairs?”

  “Upstairs?” What’s upstairs?

  “There is a studio upstairs.”

  I don’t feel very comfortable about going to a studio upstairs. But it’s going upstairs or eating the freaking cassoulet.

  “Sure.”

  We go through the kitchen and into the courtyard. I follow him up a very old and narrow staircase. It’s extremely dirty, dark and moldy and makes me feel even more uncomfortable.

  He unlocks a tiny red door on the first floor.

  “I used to sleep in here, waiting for my parents to close the restaurant and take me home.”

  He opens the door. It’s a very tiny room with a very small window. It’s very dark inside.

  “Come in.”

  I step cautiously inside.

  “Oh! It’s…” It’s disgustingly dirty and old. “It has a lot of character.”

  “Yeah. It’s special for me. I feel safe in here. I feel protected.” He points at the bed.

  “The bed,” he says.

  There is a bed.

  I mean that’s all there really is in this room—a bed.

  I look at him.

  We have a moment.

  This place is not only a refuge. There is something erotic about it. It’s isolated. Calm. Nicolas’s love for it is practically palpable. And there’s nothing but a big bed looking at us.

  I need to say something. Do something. “It certainly needs a good cleaning.” Oh great, that’s all I can come up with? Something that sounds like another insult.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I’m so close to him. So close. Even closer! I’m so happy! I…I—

  His cell phone rings.

  “It’s for you,” he says and passes me the phone.

  “For me?”

  “Hey, Lynn. Hubert here!”

  No! Not now!

  “How did you…?”

  “I phoned your office, darling. You can’t escape me.”

  “This isn’t a good time.”