21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

“No, not to all the girls. Only to the be-eautiful ones, like you.”

  “Do you have a tattoo?” I ask Nicolas, hoping and smiling.

  “Never got the time to arrange one,” he says and looks tense because the rest of Giorgio’s gang is slowly invading our table, about seven or eight lively young boys, all of them ready to display their secret tattoos to the two new girls. The rest of the girls at the Buvette de la Plage, the German, the Dutch and the Swedish ones, have already seen all their teddy bears and other brandings many times around.

  “I want to bring you to a very special pla-ace,” one of the boys says to me. “It’s very be-eautiful, like you.”

  “Hey, don’t mind me,” Nicolas tells him.

  “Okay,” he agrees. If it’s so kindly proposed, he will just ignore Nicolas. “You like Italy?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never been.” I laugh.

  “I could take you to Italy, after.”

  After what?

  “That’s nice but…hey, listen, I’m with him,” I say and put my hand on Nicolas’s knee.

  “I’m not jealous.”

  “I am,” Nicolas says, and now that I have my hand on his knee, he takes this Italian invasion more lightly and smiles earnestly.

  After all, if the entire workshop at Muriel B is commenting on our sexual prouesse, we might as well get to it.

  I look around.

  I know why all the rich kids are coming down here even if the toilets never work.

  They get the kind of spice that has been cleansed from their existence since birth.

  The dirty spice.

  The one of life.

  “Can you dance?” I ask Nicolas.

  “Like a brick.”

  “Oh, who cares? Come on!” We go and dance like two happy bricks.

  We found Muriel, finally.

  She’s lying on the beach with Giorgio. He smiles bitterly at us. The poor thing looks exhausted.

  He must have been trying all his tricks for the last two hours, but what works on eurocamper girls doesn’t necessarily work on Muriel. No matter how many times he tells her how beautiful she is, she keeps her own tricks for the ladies.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says suddenly. She has badly dented his self-confidence.

  “Yeah, and then, you’ll take me to Italy, right? Ciao, bello,” Muriel calls to him as she gets up and walks away with us, laughing.

  “What we need now…Oops.” She trips, Nicolas catches her. She looks up at him. “Yeah, we’re getting naked and—” she mimes an expert diver with her hand “—we jump in the swimming pool.”

  She’s perfectly toasted.

  “Naked!” she repeats.

  Naked! I don’t think so.

  I don’t do naked.

  Ask the Hub.

  Lights out.

  “Nicolas,” she continues, “I’ve always wondered how you look in the nude. I’d like to see that. On Monday, the boys will kill me to get all the details.”

  “Sure,” he says. His flat tone tells me he is not amused by Muriel’s antics.

  “Oho! Nico! I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings again. You sensitive thing. Lynn asked me to be oh so careful with your feelings, poor darling. Don’t hurt his feelings. He is the best fucking man in the entire world.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I protest. “I said…oh, who cares what I said. And I’m not getting naked.”

  “What?”

  “I have a lovely swimsuit and I intend to wear it.”

  She shrugs. Whatever perversion rocks my boat.

  Step #14:

  Remember to always look like you’re listening. People will love you for that.

  We all have the same question when we get home: who’s giggling in the living room?

  “Ah, Muriel,” Francis calls when he sees us. “I met your friend Jolanta in Cannes. I brought her back for a snack.”

  “She’s not my friend,” Muriel snaps.

  That’s right—Jolanta. I recognize her from the casting. The girl from Prague.

  “Oh, no, we’re not exactly friends,” Jolanta says. “We’re going to work together. For her show.”

  Somehow, by the look on Muriel’s face, I don’t think so.

  “That’s right,” Francis confirms. “You’re a model, aren’t you, Jolanta.”

  “She’s sixteen,” Muriel says coldly.

  “Actually, I’m nineteen,” Jolanta snaps. “My agent tells me to say sixteen. It’s good for my career. I want to be an actress, you know.”

  “Please, sit down with us. Come on, Nicolas. Did you have any dinner? You cannot think properly on an empty stomach,” Francis continues, ignoring the age controversy.

  Nicolas was right.

  The caterer has cooked for an army and set three beautiful buffets in the living room.

  “Jodie decided to stay at the Martinez,” Francis says for my benefit. “One of the maître d’s, a certain Henri, used to be an old flame of hers. He was working as a beach steward back then. A real Apollo. Oh, God, that is such a long time ago!” He laughs.

  Nicolas and I sit down with Francis and Jolanta. Muriel sits last. I’m thinking of removing the knives from the table for Jolanta’s well-being.

  “Have you been to Prague?” Jolanta asks me again.

  It’s an obsession of hers.

  “It’s definitely on my to-do list.”

  She turns to Muriel. “My agent hasn’t contacted me yet for your show. I’m doing Dior, though.”

  Muriel gives her a dirty look. “Is she for real?” she asks Francis.

  “We know each other from Prague,” Francis says, ignoring Muriel’s question. “Wine?”

  “I have a feeling for you,” Jolanta says to Muriel. “I really hope I’ll do your show.”

  “You’re so beautiful.” Francis touches her hand. “Of course you will.”

  “We haven’t decided yet,” Nicolas tells her.

  “Oh, good! I love to do young new designers. It’s so much fun,” she says and spoons a bit of melon. Her eyes are locked on Francis and she seems not to have heard Nicolas at all.

  “How did it happen?” Muriel breaks in.

  “What?” Francis asks, amused.

  “How did you turn into this fucking joke,” she says calmly, as if we’ve all disappeared and there’s only her and her father left in the room.

  “A joke? Well, darling, I’m happy to keep you amused, then.”

  “Do you hear anyone laughing?”

  Silence. Jolanta is all smiles—she’s not sure if it’s some sort of family joke she’s just not getting.

  “Maybe we should eat something,” I propose.

  “That’s a good idea,” Nicolas backs me up.

  Francis pushes his plate away and wipes his gray beard elegantly. Muriel has ruined his selection of desserts. “Well, it’s getting very late. Jolanta, have you finished? We should let them work.”

  “I wanted more of the chocolate mousse,” she complains and laughs like it was the funniest thing she has ever said. “But…I’m eating too much! I’m a pig.”

  She springs out of her chair and cuddles up against Francis. Look at her. She’s just gorgeous…very, very young, but gorgeous.

  “We’re off,” Francis says.

  “Good night,” Jolanta adds innocently. She probably thinks Muriel and her are just like sisters now.

  Muriel gazes silently at the two empty seats left by Francis and Jolanta. Francis has shut the mirror doors to his wing of the villa. Sleep tight, hope the bedbugs won’t bite—oh, God, I just pictured him helping her into her pajamas and reading her bedtime stories.

  Stop, Lynn! Think of something else. “Did you try the ham?” I ask. “It’s delicious.”

  Muriel shakes her head and empties another glass of rosé.

  “What are we going to do with all this food?” I try again.

  Muriel shrugs.

  What’s wrong with me? Her father is bedding a girl even younger than herself and all I can think ab
out is food.

  I turn to Nicolas for help but get only an empty smile.

  “I think I upset him,” Muriel mumbles. “It’s a first.”

  She grabs the bottle and empties it into her glass. She shakes it to get the very last drop. “Nicolas!” she moans.

  He stands.

  Tonight, Nicolas! means get me another bottle presto.

  “Nothing upsets him. But tonight, I upset him. Why? Who cares!”

  She drinks the whole glass.

  “Ah!” She remembers something. “What was her name again?”

  “Jolanta,” I say as Nicolas leaves me alone with her. I did it again. I looked up at the closed mirror doors. “Hey, Muriel. Maybe we should call it a night. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “It’s just fucking starting,” she mumbles and slams the empty bottle on the table. “Jolanta? Yes, Jolanta. She’s a funny girl. Very fashionable, isn’t she? She has the debutante touch, the little bitch. What did I read recently? Celebutante. You know, celebrity plus debutante. Celebutante.”

  “I got it the first time,” I say carefully.

  “Celebutante. Debutante. He’d fuck anything. Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t fuck you, too. Do you wonder that too sometimes?”

  Oho! I don’t want to hear any of this.

  “I’ll make us some coffee,” I say and run away to the kitchen.

  Oh, God, oh, God! Nicolas! Help!

  “Hey? Where the fuck is everybody?” I can hear Muriel yell behind me.

  Nicolas is sitting on a stool, holding a bottle of rosé and looking at his reflection on the glass wall. He looks so sad and tired.

  “Coffee?” I ask as a greeting.

  He shakes his head.

  I pour myself a cup from the thermos the caterers left.

  He uncorks the bottle.

  “I think she’s had enough,” I say.

  “She never has enough, Lynn. She needs to go all the way, like with everything else she does.”

  He glances up toward the living room. There. He does it again. Dreamy, silent and introspective. Only, I can tell he has had enough of being pushed around and crushed simply because she’s something special.

  I sit beside him and stare at our reflections.

  “You really look like your mother,” he says to my mirror image.

  “Oh, no, no! Jodie and I are very different. In every way. She’s elegant, beautiful.”

  “You’re charming, too.”

  Hey, look at my reflection. It’s smiling.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  He puts his hand on mine and kisses me softly.

  I needed this so much. His kiss. I can’t stand it here anymore. I just want it to be him and me. Everything else, Muriel, Francis, Jolanta and Jodie—yes, especially Jodie—could disappear.

  He’s such a good—

  Kaboom!

  We stop to turn toward the living room. Some ugly breakage and lots of Muriel’s filthy swearing are coming from there.

  We nod at each other. Better go back to rescue her. But before we can stand, we hear more swearing and the splash of something falling into the pool. “Oh, shit,” Nicolas mutters.

  We’re on our feet and running through the terrace to try to fish Muriel out before it’s too late. It’s completely black out there.

  “Muriel!” I call, then turn to Nicolas. “Do you see her?”

  “I can’t see a thing.”

  I run back to the kitchen and think, oh please God, don’t let her drown. I hear another splash!

  I press every single light switch there is and the terrace and pool finally come to life.

  When I come back, Nicolas is floating in the middle of the bright blue water looking around for Muriel’s body.

  “Where is she?” he asks anxiously.

  Only, there’s no Muriel in the swimming pool. Instead, there’s a sofa floating in there.

  “She’s not in there,” I say and help him out.

  “Dégage!” Muriel yells at her demons in the darkest part of the park.

  It’s easy to find her. She leaves a trail of destruction.

  She unpots trees and plants.

  She kicks African art.

  She fights with the fences surrounding the Boutonnière villa.

  And she swears like a sailor.

  When she finally stops we’re not on the Boutonnière property anymore. We’re on a construction site next door.

  “There used to be nothing here,” she complains when she realizes Nicolas and I are standing beside her.

  I look at her in the moonlight.

  I’m not scared of her anymore.

  I feel sorry for her.

  I imagine her coming here alone as a kid and crying, and now it’s all fucked up because they’re building another villa and there’s nowhere to cry anymore.

  “Let’s go back, I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” Nicolas tries.

  Useless.

  Muriel is already making her way toward the foundation walls.

  “Maybe she just needs some time alone,” I say, thinking privacy might help Muriel make peace with herself.

  But some more glass breakage proves me wrong.

  She’s not making any sort of peace.

  Instead, she has decided to demolish the building, and to turn this place back into the quiet haven she used to come to.

  We run inside the building and there she is, armed with a crowbar, breaking every window that happens to stand in her way.

  “Muriel! Enough!” Nicolas tries to stop her but she turns and almost whacks his hand off.

  I can’t believe it!

  “Who do you thing you are?” she yells at him. “Don’t do this! Don’t do that! Fuck you!” She takes a step toward him, raises the bar as if she wanted to break his head open. “I do exactly what I want!”

  Nicolas just stands there in front of her, ready to take it, so I shout, “Muriel!” trying to wake her up.

  “Oh, fuck it!” She drops the crowbar. “You don’t belong here!” she spits in his face. “Leave me alone.”

  Slowly, slowly, I approach her and take her gently in my arms.

  Oh, she resists a bit, of course. Tries to fight me off with some more cursing and battling, but, by now, I’ve got a good grip and she’s not likely to escape.

  “Leave me alone,” she mumbles.

  Too late. The tears have started.

  I sit her down on the concrete, and rest her head on my chest. I hold her forehead. Hush, hush, little Muriel. I rock her slowly as I listen to her crying.

  Hush, sweetie.

  I look up. Nicolas stands beside us. I know he feels so awkward he would like to run away and jump back into the swimming pool.

  One, because Muriel just tried to kill him and could still change her mind. And two, because this is girl stuff, stuff he doesn’t want to be a part of.

  I reach for him and pull him down beside me.

  That’s exactly what you do during work seminars.

  You bond and break windows.

  Step #15:

  Don’t be who you are, be who you want to be.

  We slept on the concrete, right there in the middle of the construction site.

  I know! A multimillion-dollar property with fresh beds and proper bathrooms was just a few yards away.

  It was cold, so I’m spooning Muriel, my arm still over her shoulders, and Nicolas is spooning me.

  I wake up first, feeling somehow in charge, and take a good look around. What a mess. It’s all broken glass and general mayhem. I turn and murmur Nicolas’s name to wake him up. I want us out of here before the construction workers arrive and start asking questions.

  Muriel brushes her sleepy eyes, yawns, stands up and makes her way back toward the villa.

  “Muriel,” I call. I want to ask if she’s all right, but she doesn’t give me the opportunity. She just walks away without a word.

  I stand.

  Shit! I’m in pain! There’s not a mus
cle in my body that doesn’t cramp.

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask Nicolas and wink in the sunlight.

  Muriel turns back and holds some barbwire for us. “Come on then!” she orders, avoiding any eye contact. She rushes past the pool and darts into the kitchen as if there was nothing to see here. But, in fact, there’s plenty to ponder.

  “The gardeners will fish out the sofa,” Francis says. “Quite a night you had there.”

  “Yeah…er…yeah…” I can’t really concentrate on what to say. He stands by the edge of the pool, a cup of coffee in his hand, completely nude, his…his thing hanging in the blue light. He squats and checks the water temperature. Mmm…Not bad!

  “The sofa! It’s so funny,” Jolanta cries out as her head emerges from the water. She’s an optimist, that girl. She swims to the edge of the pool and drags herself out. She’s also completely naked. “Did you have breakfast yet?” she asks Nicolas.

  Nicolas, darling, close your eyes!

  “The coffee’s still hot,” Francis says, smiling at me.

  “I drink tea. Coffee is bad for your skin,” Jolanta points out and makes a moue. On second glance I see I’m wrong. She’s not completely naked. She wears plain underwear gone utterly see-through in the water.

  “I already had breakfast, but with all the swimming, I’m still hungry.”

  “How’s the water?” Nicolas asks matter-of-factly.

  “Funny! With the sofa! Oh, Francis, can we leave the sofa in?”

  Francis sips more coffee. “We’ll see.” He smiles at his crazy young belle. “Another beautiful day on the Riviera,” Francis comments, turning to the Pinède, flashing me his aging butt. “I want to retire here.”

  The caterers haven’t been back to pick up the leftovers from the three buffets, so we resume breakfast where we left dinner.

  “We should do some work, really,” Nicolas insists, eating some chocolate mousse.

  “We need to go to Saint-Tropez,” Muriel counterattacks, eyeing the empty bottles of rosé. “I need to do some shopping.”

  She looks in a very poor state. She holds her head with both hands trying to keep it from exploding. Work holds no appeal for her today. All she wants is more and more coffee and to go shopping in Saint-Tropez, or boating, or fishing or anything that will get us away from the villa, really.