21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

  I know, you’re not supposed to empty liquids into trash bins. That’s why it looked so cool.

  She really is the creative one.

  “Nicolas,” she calls.

  She didn’t make it to the toilet. Something more interesting caught her eye on the way. She stands fascinated in front of a gift display.

  “We need this. It’ll be good for concentration.” She grabs a small plastic hedgehog and hands it to him. “Look. It’s really ugly.”

  “It’s some sort of local mascot,” Nicolas explains.

  “I hate it,” she laughs. “Buy it, and ask them to open the bottle, will you?”

  I can’t believe my eyes. The place is amazing.

  Massoud drives along the coast. The skies are not gray anymore. It’s dusk and the sun shines with all kinds of orange above the quiet sea.

  It’s so…Mediterranean!

  On one side of the road, a rocky coastline dives straight into the sea, on the other, pine trees and amazing villas stand proudly.

  We’ve crossed a lovely little village called Saint Raphael, so Muriel says, “We’re almost there.”

  “Presque,” Massoud confirms and yawns, too. “Here!” he says as he takes a right.

  All I can see is a row of secluded villa gates, security cameras, angry-dog warnings and other invitations to shoo. But I can already hear the frenetic sound of what seems to be billions of grasshoppers.

  And the smell!

  It smells of pine trees, hot ground and the sea. If you could bottle that smell, you’d call it Holiday and make millions selling it.

  Massoud stops and takes a remote from the glove compartment. He presses the single button and a massive wooden gate opens in front of us.

  I turn to Nicolas.

  He’s smiling just like me.

  What a place!

  Can we relocate here?

  Forever?

  We come to a final stop in front of what appears to be the mad dream of an architect escaped from a Star Trek convention. The Boutonnière Villa.

  “Shit,” Muriel whispers as soon as she exits the car. “That’s my fucking luck!”

  “What?” I say, trying to see what could be wrong, now that we made it to paradise.

  “Don’t you see it?”

  What?!

  “The lights!”

  “Beautiful,” I say, because I thought she was speaking of the sun finding its way to the villa through the pine trees.

  “The lights!” she repeats then kicks one of the spots illuminating the villa.

  Oh! Muriel is mad because Francis—that’s her absent father, Francis—is already in the villa.

  But when we make it to the swimming pool, it’s my turn to be shocked and furious.

  “That’s impossible,” I say, not because Muriel was right, but because Jodie’s there, dressed in a summer-white ensemble, smiling at me and drinking what looks like a glass of chilled white wine. And that alone kicks me in the gut, because I can’t remember Jodie drinking alcohol ever.

  I ignore the James Coburn look-alike standing beside her, drop my bags and spit “What are you doing here?” in a defensive-teenager tone I’ve never used with her before.

  “Oh, Francis…” She turns to the James Coburn carbon copy and with her detached Jodiesque voice, says, “This is Lynn, my protégée.”

  I look as if I’m unpacking my Adidas bag into the lovely wooden cabinet, but what I’m really doing is trying to look away from Jodie, who, for some reason beyond my comprehension, has followed me into my bedroom and now observes me, calmly sitting on the bed.

  “It’s funny to see you here,” she says as she plays with her wooden necklace. She looks much younger than I ever remembered her. Maybe it’s the brand-new suntan on her face.

  “I mean, Francis and I used to come here centuries ago. I don’t believe you were even a plan then.”

  I’ve already lost my bite. I’m back to my normal Jodie-is-here submissive self.

  “It’s a lovely place,” I say.

  “It wasn’t lovely at all then. It was wild. Your generation would never know. You’re so…”

  I’m finished unpacking. I want to find something else to do to escape her, so I walk to the sliding doors and pretend I need to air the place.

  If only I had a mop, I’d clean!

  Oh, look at that. My room has direct access to a washed-wood terrace falling straight into the swimming pool.

  Everything is wood and white.

  Even Jodie.

  “Are you here on business?” I ask, to try to understand what she is doing here, in my room.

  “I came to see you,” she says, and I have to take a good look at her.

  See me? Come on!

  “There is also this little retrospective of my designs in Saint Paul de Vence. But that’s secondary.”

  Ah! That sounds more like it.

  “But I’m here, aren’t I?” she says. “Isn’t that what’s important?”

  I try to figure out what’s behind Jodie’s sudden interest in me. Hypothesis 1: She’s dying of cancer and is experiencing remorse for being such an absent mother. Hypothesis 2: This is not Jodie and this is just a look-alike convention. Hypothesis 3: I’m dreaming and will wake up screaming and drenched in sweat.

  “We could go together to Saint Paul,” she suggests, and my whole body straightens as she stands up from the bed and walks to the closet. She looks through the clothes I’ve just unpacked. She lifts the Jodie Blanchett dress with one finger, like a scientist looking at some interesting scum. “Oh! That’s an old model. I don’t remember giving you this one. It must have been ages—”

  “You didn’t, I bought it.”

  “You bought one of my dresses? Lynn, that’s so absurd! We’re trashing them by the ton.”

  Why did I even mention it?

  “It was on sale, anyway.”

  She frowns. She obviously doesn’t like the idea of being on sale.

  “I met a friend of yours. Roxanne Green,” I say, to change the subject.

  Jodie drops the dress and tries really hard not to look annoyed.

  “Why on earth do you have to meet people like Roxanne?”

  What?

  “I met her on the plane by accident. She mentioned your name.”

  “Of course she mentioned my name,” Jodie says as she checks her tan in the mirror. “What is the old tramp up to nowadays?”

  “She writes books.”

  “Books? Roxanne? What about? How to live a normal life with gonorrhea?”

  “Self-help books. Quite good ones, actually.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want someone like Roxanne to give you any sort of advice. And don’t accept any drugs from her.”

  “No, Roxanne is a respectable lady.”

  “She’s too old to bed society, darling. That doesn’t make her respectable.”

  I decide right then to keep the copy of 20 Steps to Success for myself. It would be wasted on Jodie.

  “She says she hasn’t seen you in a long while. It’s like you disappeared,” I strike back at her.

  But I’m way too green to play the wit game with a master like Jodie. “I don’t feel the urge to see people like Roxanne anymore. My fascination with prostitutes is behind me.”

  Oh, God!

  “You know what we used to call Roxanne when she used to come down here. The hose. Do you know why?”

  “No, actually, I don’t want to know why,” I snap.

  “Anyway, ask Francis. The hose!”

  I wish I was more like Muriel. Bold, courageous and fast. I would be able to keep up a conversation with Jodie without feeling the need to go hide somewhere. I try to think of something to say next, but Jodie beats me to it.

  “Come with me tomorrow,” she says. “It’ll be fun.”

  Now my doubts dissolve. Hypothesis 1: Cancer! Incurable!

  “We have to work. We don’t have much time before the show,” I say.

  She shrugs it off. “Francis is flying
us back tomorrow night. We’ll soon be out of your hair.”

  The work seminar is collapsing by the minute.

  Instead of laying down big ideas and brainstorming our way to success in today’s fashion scene, we hide in the kitchen, get drunk on rosé and lend a hand to the caterers.

  Nicolas is helping unload their equipment and Muriel and I are making room in one of the three gigantic refrigerators. Next we’ll peel potatoes and do the dishes.

  Muriel would actually make us do anything to avoid being in the monumental living room where Francis and Jodie are having a jolly good time remembering how Roxanne got rebaptized the hose all those years ago.

  Nicolas comes back to the kitchen carrying what looks like a hundred-pound crate full of pots and pans, but he does it in style, as he is dressed in a lovely Gucci summer ensemble.

  “Is it just us and…them?” he asks, pointing at the living room, “The staff has enough equipment to cook for an army.”

  “How the fuck would I know?” Muriel barks back. “He wasn’t supposed to be here to start with.”

  “Let’s just make the best of it. I’m sure Jodie can add her five cents’ worth to our show plans. Why don’t we go speak with them,” Nicolas suggests, brushing off his Gucci shirt.

  “That sounds good,” I say, because strangely, I’m in the mood to see more of this new Jodie.

  Muriel grabs her wineglass and jerks it toward the stairs. “Be my guest,” she says and sits down on a stool, apparently determined never to leave the kitchen again.

  When we arrive upstairs, it sounds unexpectedly quiet. The living room is empty.

  “They’re gone,” I say.

  Maybe I dreamed the whole thing. The friendly Jodie was just a mirage.

  Clap, clap, clap! Jodie’s stilettos beat the wooden floor. She’s back!

  “Where’s Muriel?” she asks as she enters the room. She wears a light coat and her hat, and looks as if she’s on her way somewhere.

  “You’re not staying?” I hear myself ask.

  “Francis is taking me to Cannes. We don’t want to be in your way.”

  “Are you ready to party?” Francis reappears in a white summer suit. “Ah! Lynn. Tell Muriel we’ll be out for the night.”

  Dammit!

  “It would have been great to get your input on our collection,” Nicolas says to Jodie.

  “My input,” Jodie repeats, amused by the word.

  She’s so keen on him. Jodie loves beautiful people, no matter what. “Another time.”

  “It was great meeting you,” he says sadly.

  She smiles at him. “You take care of my…girl.”

  “You’re not coming back?” I’m surprised at the surprise in my own voice. I should be used to being abandoned by Jodie by now.

  “We’ll stay at the Martinez for the night, and then…” She shrugs.

  I feel like telling her, Oh fuck this work seminar, I want to stay with you and come to Saint Paul Something, but she doesn’t leave me the opportunity.

  “The show on the street,” she says vaguely.

  Oh, yes, the proof that I have a spark of her own flair in me.

  “Be careful,” she tells me. “It’s been done before. You need to do more thinking.”

  “Is he gone? Really gone? Gone gone?”

  “They’ll be sleeping at the Martinez,” Nicolas confirms.

  Her face opens up. She breaks into an earnest smile. “So let’s move, then.”

  Muriel’s not disappointed to lose them to Cannes. Au contraire. It’s like someone put the batteries back into her. She’s done hiding in the kitchen. She wants to show us around so we get a good feel of our working environment before getting down to business.

  We leave the caterers to their cooking and head toward the beach, following a lovely little path in the woods.

  Night is setting in slowly, but I can still hear children running, screaming, calling each other names. Female voices are hurrying them to stop drowning their little sisters, or leave the dog’s ears alone, or stop playing with the sprinklers because it’s dinnertime. Things that mothers normally say to their kids, instead of Sit here and by God don’t touch anything and be quiet while I finish working on this piece.

  “Do you know any of the people who live around here?” I ask Muriel.

  “Oh, this one,” she says, pointing to a villa, “it used to belong to President Mitterrand, before he died, of course. Galliano lives nearby. Everybody that’s somebody has a villa here.”

  We don’t make it to the beach. Muriel is ready for another drink and she knows exactly the place. We turn into what looks like the entrance to a villa, but it’s not. It’s a campground packed with tents and people coming back from the beach or playing cards. There are little kids chewing on chicken drumsticks from dinner picnics and rinsing sand off their feet. A sign reads, Camping de la Pinède.

  She keeps surprising me, this girl. When she said, “Let’s get a drink,” I pictured us in a trendy bar in the middle of Saint-Tropez, looking the part. But, no, we’re making our way to the Buvette de la Plage, the epicenter of the campers, surrounded by a crowd of young people very happy to see three new faces and wondering to which tent we belong.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous buvez?” the barman asks, though he doesn’t look like a barman, but like the janitor, corraled into pouring drinks for the night.

  “Un Bloody Mary,” I try.

  No luck. No tomato juice. Orange juice and vodka, he proposes. I say why not, but I’m out of luck again, he’s out of orange juice until tomorrow morning, when he’ll find five minutes to go to the supermarket. Oh, to hell with it. I do exactly as Muriel and Nicolas and order a glass of chilled rosé.

  The Buvette de la Plage is just a wooden shed with a few tables and a dance floor. It’s illuminated by hundreds of colorful lightbulbs. Red, green, yellow.

  It’s packed.

  Noisy.

  I turn to Muriel. “This doesn’t strike me as your kind of place or your kind of crowd.”

  “See that guy, there?” She points at a twenty-something blond guy engaged in a flirtatious conversation with two laughing blondes. “That’s Vincent de la Pinotière, son of Marcellus de la Pinotière. One of the richest families in the country. Real estate. Movies.”

  “Telecommunications,” Nicolas adds.

  “Their villa is just next door to ours. And there—” now she points at a group of teenagers drinking and smoking at one of the tables “—those are the Pouik kids…and friends.”

  “The Pouiks are famous industrialists,” Nicolas explains. “They’re filthy rich. Nouveau riche. Très m’as-tu vu.”

  “And who’s that?” I ask, pointing at a middle-aged man drinking beer and balancing one of his flip-flops on the tip of his toes. “Prince Albert of Monaco?”

  “Nah. The rest of them are…you know…campers.”

  We move to a table.

  “You like it here?” she asks Nicolas.

  He shrugs. “It doesn’t have that exotic charm it has for you.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “This is exactly the type of place I used to go to every year with my parents. As campers, of course. Only, we preferred Bretagne over the Riviera.”

  “Bretagne is so…” Muriel just hisses, not finding the proper word to defame Bretagne.

  “It’s less pretentious than down here,” Nicolas tells me.

  “Boring!” she finally decides.

  “It depends what you’re after.”

  “I’m after more of this,” she says, tilting her still-full glass of rosé. “Go buy a whole bottle, Bretagne Boy.”

  “You shouldn’t be so mean to him,” I say while Nicolas is away talking to the barman, probably about the rest of tomorrow’s shopping list.

  “What?”

  “Treating him like some sort of servant.”

  “You really say whatever pops into your mind, don’t you? Sometimes it’s cute, sometimes it’s just plain dull.”

 
“Nicolas is the best thing you have going for you. Be careful with him. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Listen to you. The best thing. The best thing I have going for me is me. Oh, quit playing the offended mistress and get into the mood.”

  Mistress?

  “What? Do you think I don’t see what’s going on between you two? And who doesn’t, really!”

  Oh, look, the room turned bright red again—must be one of those lousy bulbs.

  “Who’s…who?”

  “That’s the only thing the boys are talking about in the workshop. You broke their hearts, you know. Nicolas was something of an item for them.” She laughs. “What did you call him again? Ah yes, yes, hot! Fizzza, like a blaze! Ha ha ha!”

  Marc, damned Marc!

  “Nothing’s happening between us.”

  “Lynn, what the two of you do in the privacy of his office is your business. Close the door, that’s all we ask. Actually, the boys would love the door to be slightly open to catch a glimpse.” She laughs again. “His poor Catherine. She used to be madly in love with him, you know, like PAs usually are. Ha ha ha!”

  I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understands that there is nothing, nichts, niente going on in Nicolas’s office or anywhere else. But a thin young man pops out of a group of other thin young men and is delicately caressing his suntanned six-pack under a light, open shirt as he says, “You are lovely. Are you English?” with a tasty Italian accent.

  “She’s American,” Nicolas says as he sits down with a bottle of rosé.

  “I’m English,” Muriel says with an inviting smile. That’s all he needs to sit with us, introduce himself as Giorgio and ask in which section we’ve planted our tent and if we want to go for a swim with him and his friends later tonight.

  “I lo-ove your piercing,” he tells Muriel. “I have piercing, too.” He pulls his tongue out and there, smack in the middle, there’s a gigantic stud. “It’s very, very nice. For se-ex.” He laughs.

  “I have tattoos like you, too,” he continues. This time, he needs to stand, and pulls down his shorts and there, just above his crotch two little teddy bears, a blue one and a pink one, are hugging each other.

  “Very cute,” Muriel says. “I bet you show it to all the girls.”