by F. G. Gerson
“It never is, darling. I have something arranged for tonight. Dave will pick you up at eight.”
“Wait! No!”
“Got to go.”
Hubert hangs up on me.
It’s gone. The moment between Nicolas and me is gone. Hubert is in the room with us. He lies on the bed looking at us. He sits beside the window and winks at me. He stands by the door, eating my bowl of cassoulet, and asks, “Did you really eat this shit?”
Step #12:
There will be plenty of Mr. Lovelys, very few Mr. Wealthys.
I’m sitting on my bed. It looks like I’m anxiously waiting for my anti-Prince Charming to pick me up, but oh, no, that’s not what I’m doing. I’m rehearsing. I’ve been rehearsing since I’ve come out of the shower and slid into another lovely Kazo garment.
Yes, I know. I’m all dressed up and sexy again.
But it doesn’t matter how sexy I am. It’s not how I look but what I will say. Want to hear my speech? Listen: Hubert, I don’t want to see you again. I love someone else. Yes, love! Leave me alone with your incredible magnetism, your fame and fortune. Just fuck off, will you!
And I’m going to deliver the message in my lovely Kazo outfit.
Knock knock.
I jump to my feet and mentally run through my speech again, because I already feel a bit terrified and empty minded at the idea of seeing the Hub.
It’s Dave, the driver. Hub sent him to bring me to his master and he says, “You look lovely, Miss Blanchett,” and smiles warmly at me.
The Mercedes is parked in front of the hotel. Dave opens the door for me. I can feel the looks of the passersby. They try to guess the identity of this amazing lady in Mr. Barclay’s car. Yeah, that’s right, I’m a goddamn princess.
Hubert, will you just fuck off. I repeat it in my head. Get lost. Beat it. Shoo! Shoo!
Dave drives us toward the Eiffel Tower. I need to make some time to climb up there. That’s what tourists do after all.
“Are we going to the tower?”
“No, much better than the tower.”
Better then the Eiffel Tower?
We make a right and the Mercedes slides along the Seine. Dave slows down.
“I wish I could bring my lady here. Mr. Barclay has very good taste,” Dave says.
We stop in front of the Mississippi. Hubert is already on board this reproduction of a genuine American steamboat.
I can’t believe it!
A steward in a white uniform waits for me by the boardwalk, carrying a silver tray with a glass of sparkling champagne. It’s all rehearsed and perfect. I grab the champagne and walk on board.
“Chin chin,” Hubert says and lets his flute touch mine. Only, he leaves the two glasses together and looks at me. You get it? The two glasses are like the two of us. The condensation on them is like the sweat on our skin. Oh, God, this fuck off business is so-o hard.
“Shouldn’t we drink now? I think it’s bad luck to toast without drinking.”
“Lynn, luck can’t touch us.”
“What should we toast to?”
“To us.”
“To Paris, and to the crazy things we did in Paris,” I propose.
“Did?”
We drink the champagne.
He looks at me and lets the silence do the hard work. A guy dressed in a tuxedo breaks in. “Are you ready to leave now, Mr. Barclay?”
“Yes, we can go.”
“Go where?” I ask.
“Who cares where we’re going?” Hub says as the boat leaves the bank and starts its journey.
“Would you care for a top-up,” the steward asks and refills our glasses with Veuve Clicquot. Then he disappears behind the bar and all of a sudden romantic piano music begins to play.
I’m trapped.
“Would you like to dance?”
“No.”
“So let’s go upstairs,” Hub purrs in my ear.
The second deck is a lovely dining room with a panoramic view of Paris. A table is set beautifully for dinner. We’re just above the waterwheel and beside a lovely champagne bar. The Seine is everywhere around us as we glide past the Eiffel Tower. The sky is orange, and the champagne is going straight to my head. Hub tries to kiss me, but I turn away and look at the seagulls following the boat. I pretend to be a keen ornithologist.
“You’re…” I need another hit of champagne before I can spit out my speech to Hubert. I grab the bottle on the bar and refill my glass. The steward’s horrified. He was supposed to anticipate my every desire.
“Hubert, you’re—”
You’re a nice guy but I don’t want to sleep with you again. I’ll swim back to shore.
“I was sad when I didn’t see you this morning,” Hub interrupts. “Last night was very special. We connected.”
Am I everyone’s special night?
“Yeah, we connected big-time,” I say.
Like really big-big time! Okay, I have to focus and tell Hub this isn’t going anywhere.
“I’m not the kind of girl that ends up in somebody’s bed on the first date. I find it…depressing.” Depressing? God, I sound so lame.
“I’m not judging you, Lynn. Yesterday was magic and it ended up…magically.”
Magic, that’s right. Hocus-pocus and shazam! Multiple orgasms!
The steward doesn’t even wait for us to finish our drinks. More champagne flows in.
Is that Bowie playing on the lower deck? Bowie can be so romantic.
“Did you know that Bowie is my favorite artist?”
“Bowie is a friend,” Barclay says.
Bowie?
Does he actually know Bowie, the real Bowie? My Bowie?
I stay very silent and sip more champagne. Remember, Lynn, you’re on a date with a legend.
“I like his music, too. I think it can be very romantic. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a horse, with you sitting on it.”
Oops.
I said the same thing to Nicolas earlier, didn’t I? And I got my mouth full of greasy gore for it.
Hubert turns to the tuxedo man and nods. He was hiding there, by the dining table, invisible, but as soon as Hubert nods he lights the candles and slides to the lower deck, gliding like a hovercraft.
“Let’s take a seat.”
The boat makes its way under a bridge, and when we come out the other side, we’re in the middle of Paris.
My, oh, my!
“You look astonishing in this light,” Hub says, and as he says it, another boat overtakes ours. It’s one of those tourist boats, with very strong spotlights. We’re blinded for a second. We disappear in the white light. We’re dead and in paradise. Hubert vanishes. The boat passes by and his face reappears a few inches from mine. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect. I wish it was a dream, because if it was a dream, I could indulge in a kiss and not feel guilty about it.
Come on, blame it on the champagne…and Bowie. I lean over and kiss him. It’s a gentle kiss. He traps my lips. I feel his hand on my shoulder again. Is this one of the tricks he uses? He knows the right spot to press on my back and I’ll be his. I’m melting. I ease back in my chair. The steward and the tuxedo man gently lay our starters in front of us. They must have been waiting for the kiss to be over. Those people are extremely well trained for romance dining.
In the middle of our plates is a little golden coffee cup with a tiny portion of orange soup. The smell couldn’t be more delicious.
“This is your amuse-bouche, consommé of pumpkin. It’s just an appetizer from our chef.”
“Do you know that amuse-bouche means mouth foreplay?” Hubert says.
“Oh, that’s very appropriate,” I say and feel blood rushing to my cheeks.
What was I supposed to tell him, again? Something about going our separate ways because I have another love interest that I haven’t slept with yet? I think about it and decide to…to eat my consommé.
“I’m invited to the Sony Music party tomorrow. Would you like to be my date
?”
Tomorrow? No, I promised Nicolas I’d go to his place for a dinner party. “I have to work tomorrow night,” I say. “Sorry.”
“What about the Louis Vuitton party on Friday?”
Friday?
“Are you invited to parties every single night?”
“Yes, but I’m only going to the most dazzling ones.”
Ah!
“I own Sony Music stock. And…well, I’m a good client of Louis Vuitton. Lots of handbags.”
“Lots of breakup gifts?”
He frowns at the “B” word.
“Generally, I give away cars for breakups. Interested?”
Well, actually…But then, how many days of relationship do you need before you can count it as a real breakup? I mean, a car-compensated breakup?
“Cars or apartments,” Hub says with a smile.
You even get a choice of breakup packages when you let go of the Hub. That’s very different where I come from. The only breakup gifts I ever had were a long-lasting sense of desperation and worthlessness, coupled with unpaid phone bills.
“That’s very generous of you. Especially knowing the number of breakups you must have gone through.”
“Oh, is that what you heard?”
“Isn’t it, like, what everybody hears?”
“The less people know about me, the more they pretend they do.”
“Meaning?”
“I have fought to avoid every single breakup I’ve ever had, and all of them have been devastating but unavoidable.”
If I had to give away a car or an apartment each time, I would go by the same principle.
But I don’t tell him that.
I don’t even make a joke about it because Hubert is staring straight at me. He leaves a deep meaningful silence to explain it all. I know. It’s a technique men like him use. They let you know how much they have suffered in the past. It gives them depth and emotional reliability.
And for a second there, I even wanted to believe him.
I’m running out of excuses to explain why I keep ending up in bed with the Hub.
I wake up in my suite. The bed is empty beside me, but the shower is not. It’s full of a singing Hub.
But make no mistake. Members of the jury, this woman is guilty as charged. She was sexed so much and so well, her vocal cords hurt. She won’t sing today. She won’t sing any day soon. Unlike the man who is taking a shower in her bathroom right now.
I’m so confused. I messed up again. I achieved exactly the opposite of what I wanted. It’s this city. This charming guy. This romantic feeling. His voice. His kisses. His touch.
I’m so weak. That’s exactly why I have messed up my life so far. Look at Jodie. That’s a strong woman! Unlike me, she says no when she has to and she has been perfectly happy for the last forty years.
I’m a tramp!
And unless this room has soundproof walls, everybody in the hotel will know that by now. Soon all Paris will know. And soon Nicolas will know.
Why did you force me to eat your goddamn disgusting cassoulet instead of being the one to bring me on board a boat, supply me with unreasonable amounts of champagne and declare your love to me?
I ease up on my elbow to look at Hubert as he comes out of the bathroom. He has wrapped a towel around his waist, and is drying his hair with another towel. He looks like the man in the shower-gel ads.
“I’m sorry I woke you up.”
He sits beside me on the bed and kisses me on the forehead. “I have to be in London for the day. Come with me?”
I shake my head. “I have a job, too.”
He kisses me on the forehead again. “Tonight, then?”
“I told you, I have to work.”
Who took the jam out of my doughnut?
He shrugs and goes back in the bathroom. “Can I use your toothbrush?”
“No!”
There is something amazing about being in a bad mood. You can see yourself being a bitch and you hate it, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. “It’s not hygienic,” I say and immediately hit my own forehead. Lynn, you schmuck! Not hygienic, really? After last night?
Thankfully he is gentlemanly enough not to protest.
“You have to promise to come with me to the Louis Vuitton party.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe is better than no.” He comes out of the bathroom with his black shirt on. He smiles at me. “You should go back to sleep. You sound very tired.”
Give me a knife! I want to jump on him and stab him in the face. Tired? Sleep more? What part of “I have a job, too” didn’t he understand?
He tries to kiss me before being on his way, but I turn away.
“Okay…” he says, not really complaining. He has a you’re-just-in-one-of-those-moods look on his face. “I’ll phone you when I’m back from London.”
That’s it! Get out of my room! Get out of my life!
I hate you!
I hate Nicolas!
I hate myself.
I hate myself the most!
Nicolas asks me to come to his office.
“We need to arrange some office space for you. We can share my office in the meantime.”
I look at him and it hurts so much I could cry. How could I do this to him when I know that he is the One? How could I do it twice? I’m so…
“It’s…not very practical, is it?” I snap.
That’s the way it is going to be. I make all the mistakes in our relationship and Nicolas will pay for them.
“Just for the time being and—”
“I cannot work in a shared office. I need to…” What do I need exactly? “I…need privacy.”
He nods. “I’ll arrange something.”
And stop being so nice. It drives me nuts.
He gives me a white cardboard box. I open it. It’s a cell phone.
“The company will pick up the bills,” he says encouragingly. “But don’t go too wild with the calls. We’re not that rich yet. The number is on the box.”
“Thank you,” I hiss, drop the phone in my purse and throw the box in the bin.
“We need to be able to contact you all the time. And—” he picks up the box “—the number is on the box.”
“Yes, you said that already.” I snatch the box from him.
I sit in front of his desk.
“I tried to phone you yesterday but you weren’t in your room,” he says gently.
I stare at the wall because there is no way I can look at Nicolas.
“I left a few messages for you.”
God, don’t I know. The concierge passed them on to me but I just trashed them and then felt more ashamed and enraged.
“So it was you phoning again and again,” I bark. “When I don’t pick up the phone, Nicolas, it means that I don’t want to be disturbed.”
I would jump through the window if we weren’t on the first floor and therefore perfectly useless. How maddening!
I look at him again.
You’re all I ever wanted, and I’m losing you for a fling with Mr. Wealthy.
I’m so sorry!
“I’m sorry, Nicolas. I’m…so tired…again.”
That’s the thing with men. They know that they should forgive everything when we are…well, tired. They know they shouldn’t investigate more.
“I don’t want our morning to be like this,” Nicolas says.
“What?”
He smiles. “Let’s start again. Good morning, Lynn. How are you?”
He caught me by surprise: I smile back. I can’t believe it, he made me smile. “I’m good, Nicolas, and what about you?”
“Well, I couldn’t be better. Would you care to have breakfast with me?”
“No, Nicolas. I had breakfast already. But a cup of coffee would be nice.”
“A coffee would be nice indeed, Lynn.”
We look at each other. The first one to laugh loses. I crack up first. I have never been good at holding back emotions.
He laug
hs with me. “That’s much better.”
His assistant brings us coffee and passes him a document she has printed for us. Nicolas wants to go through it with me.
It’s Muriel B’s road map. I look at him. I listen to his voice. He sounds like my English teacher. He explains what’s to happen every single day all the way to the show. I’m not too focused. His voice sounds like music. I forget last night. I forget this morning. There is a ray of light that breaks through his office window. I look up from the document and nod. It’s just an excuse to stare at him. I wish he would close the folder and say, “Look, let’s take my scooter and drive around all day.” Instead, he points at a figure and says, “That’s our estimated budget.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Do you want me to go through it with you?”
“Well, listen…”
“I know. It’s probably way under what you expected. But that’s all we have.”
“It’s not what I wanted to talk about, Nicolas. What I wanted to say is…Do you want to take your scooter and go for a ride? We can consider it as apartment scouting, you know, for my relocation to Paris. Does that sound crazy?”
“Oh…No, it doesn’t sound crazy, but—”
There is a but.
“We should be meeting Muriel at Fjord—” he looks his watch ‘—about now.”
“Well, another time maybe.”
“Yes, another time.”
Instead of a scooter ride, we got Massoud to drive us to the Fjord Agency to select models for the show.
“Prague is everything America isn’t. Americans love it,” one of the girls says. I nod and take a bite of my blueberry muffin. The girl tries to be overfriendly with me because I’m part of the selection process.
“You must go to Prague,” she insists. “Promise me that you will go to Prague!”
She sounds like a travel agency.
“I must visit you when I come to New York. I often go to New York.” She laughs. Is she drunk? She swallows her tea nervously. “New York is great.”
She doesn’t know what to do with her long, slim arms. Her body language is very disturbing. She is trying to be sexy and intriguing but her lack of confidence is slipping through. How can she lack confidence? She’s gorgeous. Next to her, I look like an ugly dwarf. So does Muriel. Not to mention Louise, our booker at Fjord.