21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

  “Nicolas, it doesn’t need to be like this.”

  He had prepared a notepad with each point and ticks them as he goes. “She wants to propose a salary of thirty thousand euros per year.”

  “Are you just going to talk to your notepad or talk to me?”

  “We will help you find an apartment. We will help you to obtain a work permit and we can help you open a bank account.”

  He ticks “apartment,” “work permit” and “bank account” on the pad. I reach over the desk and push the pad away from him.

  “Will you listen to me?” I’m trying hard not to scream.

  He looks up at me. I can sense how much he hates me now.

  “I made a mistake, Nicolas.”

  “You sure did. Any questions? About the contract, I mean.”

  “Do you really hate me?”

  He finally closes his pad. He doesn’t need any time to think about it. The answer is there ready in his heart, and he says it. “I don’t care about you anymore.”

  “It can’t be like this, Nicolas, not if we’re going to work together.”

  “We’re not going to work together. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear about you. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

  Did you hear that? It was the sound of my breaking heart.

  “I’ve quit,” he says. “And Muriel has accepted my resignation.”

  I’m just going to walk until I find the Seine then throw myself into it.

  What happened to “He will forgive you—I’ll fix it”?

  I’m starving. If you want to lose ten pounds, don’t start any crazy low-carb diet. Like I said before. Just come to work in France. It’s slimming.

  I find a falafel stand and take my order to a nearby table. I open the contract folder. I read the first lines and then slam it shut again.

  What’s the point of going back to the office, anyway?

  Nicolas is gone.

  He hates me!

  I’ve finished my falafel and it sits in my stomach like a lump. Things are really hard to digest today.

  Call me paranoid, but I’m hesitating before asking for the card key to my room. You don’t put assistants in these kinds of hotels. I picture Nicolas phoning the desk clerk and asking him to cancel my suite and throw me and my things onto the street. Assistants should deal with their own accommodation.

  “You have a message, Miss Blanchett.”

  The desk clerk hands me my card key and a little envelope. I open it and the note says, “Hi. Hubert.”

  “Anything else,” I ask, hoping that there would be something more comforting then just “Hi.”

  “No, that’s it, Mademoiselle Blanchett.”

  I drag myself to the elevator. I’m worn out. I categorically refuse to think. It’s a survival thing. I know that the minute I start to think, I will crumble and collapse. I just take one step at a time, and keep breathing in and out.

  I open the door to my room and I have to clap a hand over my mouth not to scream. First, I thought that somebody was standing in the middle of the room. But it’s not human, it’s flowers. Right there, beside my bed. It’s beautiful. It’s one of those designer compositions. Like a beautiful tall white tree. I can’t believe it.

  “You must think that I am the tackiest person in the world.”

  Oh, it’s the man that was scared of tacky.

  I turn to see Hubert standing in the corridor right behind me. “How did you…”

  “You’re not happy to see me?”

  I’m not sure yet, so I say, “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I tried to contact you today, but…apparently you were busy.”

  I recall my day watching the clock at Muriel B and counting the seconds. “I had a weird day today.”

  “Because of last night?”

  “Because of me. Because of Muriel. Because of everything.”

  He points at his flower tree. “I didn’t know how to do that. I’m not used to the running-after-the-girl game.”

  “Nobody asked you to run after me,” I say and hear how unkind my voice sounds.

  “There’s something real happening between us. You can’t lie about it forever.”

  You know what I really need now? I really need to fall into his arms. I could cry on his shoulder and feel secure again. I could forget everything about Muriel B and Nicolas and just accept being one of Hubert’s girls and getting a choice of cars or apartments later.

  Argh!

  “We had too many Bloody Marys and too much champagne, Hubert.”

  “Give me a chance, Lynn.”

  “Hubert, you’re a nice man. I really mean that. But…” I look at the contract. “I need to think about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About us.”

  “What is there to think about?”

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  He puts his hand deep in his pockets and walks back into the corridor. “I don’t want this to sound shallow, but I’ve never been dumped before.”

  “I’m not dumping you,” I say like a coward, because that’s exactly what I should be doing. “I just need some time for myself.”

  “Well, when you’re done thinking about us…”

  “I’ll phone you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I just came out of the shower. I’m not in anybody’s arms but I have slid into a thick fresh bathrobe. That’s as good as it will get tonight.

  I sit in the middle of my king-size bed and look at the contract folder before me.

  I pick up the phone.

  I dial and listen to the very familiar ring tone.

  “Bill Blanchett.”

  “Hi, Dad, it’s Lynn.”

  “Oh, Lynn, finally! I was beginning to worry. When are you coming back?”

  “I was actually calling to talk to you about that, Dad.”

  “Of course. By the way, Jodie phoned me. She said she met you in France and she was worried about you, too.”

  Jodie? Worrying about me?

  “Are you all right, pumpkin?”

  No, Dad, pumpkin is slowly dying out here. Pumpkin is breaking everybody’s heart, including hers. Pumpkin is a monster.

  “Maybe you should come back if you’re homesick. You have nothing to prove, pumpkin.”

  “I’m all right, Dad, but I’m calling because I won’t be coming back anytime soon.”

  Silence.

  “I’ve been offered the job I’ve been dreaming about all my life. I’m in the middle of a fairy tale,” I say, forgetting to mention that the fairy tale looks more like a nightmare right now. “And I’ve decided to stay in it.”

  “I’m happy for you, sweetie.”

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  “And, Lynn…”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “I love you, pumpkin.”

  Don’t cry, no, don’t!

  Ah shit!

  “I have to go,” I say and hang up before he starts to ask why I’m crying.

  “Well, Muriel, it’s just you and me, then,” I say out loud as I open the contract folder.

  I reach for the pen and sign each of the four pages.

  Step #18:

  You can have talent but no success, but you can’t have success without talent.

  Today is great.

  First of all, it’s 6:00 a.m., and I wake up in my own apartment. My own apartment in Paris! Of course it’s not much of an apartment, but for me it’s just as good as paradise on a second floor.

  It took three weeks to get to this. And don’t go thinking that I could have stayed at the Georges V.

  Yeah, that’s right. I had to give up my suite.

  In the last three weeks, Muriel has moved me in and out of three different apartments including hers. I have flatted with all kinds of crazy young Americans, broke artists and rich kids playing bohemian before going to Yale and then joining Dad at the practice.

  She even put me in a flat for models! Imagine me living with four
Russian, Polish and Estonian models. I felt like the ugly dwarf crawling around the apartment leaving slime traces behind.

  But today, this morning, I’m the happiest person in the world. I have found an apartment in Rue des Martyrs and I just moved in.

  It’s expensive. It’s incredibly small. It’s old.

  But it’s the hottest, hippest district in the city right now and it’s so fashionable. It’s young and bohemian and happening and it’s so lively. Even now at six in the morning, you can hear the market people setting up their stands and shouting at each other joyfully.

  And know why else today is great? Our show is scheduled for tonight.

  My first apartment in Paris and my first fashion show! I am so proud of it! Because, I might be an (executive) assistant, but I pulled this thing up from the ground all by myself.

  During the last three weeks, I’ve had to jump over so many obstacles, I thought I was an athlete.

  Since Nicolas is gone, Muriel expects me to fix absolutely everything. And fixing things is everything in France, because it’s the land of the no!

  No, Lynn, we can’t make the show in the street because we don’t have the authorization.

  No, we don’t have the light equipment.

  No, we don’t have the marquis for the models.

  No, we don’t even have the models, to be honest.

  No, we can’t have the traffic stopped.

  No, the press won’t come.

  And when they come, no, we don’t have enough money to build a press stand.

  We can’t do this!

  We can’t do that!

  No, no, no!

  It’s enough to make a girl go mad, but fortunately I have set clear goals:

  I will have this show take place in the street.

  I will keep Muriel focused and away from any work-site or activities involving crowbars or windows.

  I will forget Nicolas since he hates me, and move on.

  So far, I’ve been good at keeping the first two resolutions.

  I’ll be in Rue Saint Denis all day supervising the preparations. Let me tell you something, I’m the most respected assistant in this business, mostly because we don’t tell anyone that’s my title. Muriel presents me as her collaboratrice. I thought she might give me Nicolas’s title since I inherited all of his duties. But since he left, Nicolas has become complete taboo within the Muriel B corporate world. Especially since everyone knows he works for the enemy now.

  Yes, that’s right, Nicolas works for Xu. We found out when Carolina came back from her modeling agency with an invitation to the opening of the new Xu store, and it was signed Nicolas Bouchez—PR Manager.

  PR!

  He even stole my turf!

  And there was a phone number to confirm attendance. So one day when I was alone in my office, trying to forget all about Nicolas, well, I called the number.

  I asked for Nicolas and said it was Lynn Blanchett from Muriel B, and it was very, very important. I waited for his assistant to tell me that he doesn’t want to talk to me, since he hates me, but instead, I heard his voice say, “Lynn?”

  “Ah, Nicolas!”

  “So, what’s so important?”

  Er…

  “Well, I found an apartment,” I said joyfully.

  Silence.

  “Rue des Martyrs.”

  “Lynn, I’m quite busy right now.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. So, how is it at Xu?”

  “Very busy,” he repeated.

  I needed to think of something to say before he hung up on me. I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head: “I’m in trouble, Nicolas.”

  “Lynn, it’s not really my problem anymore.”

  “I know, but…I would really like to see you. Really really!”

  I waited, and he finally said, “Where?”

  “Why don’t you come to my apartment? I can cook dinner.”

  I heard him breathe. “I don’t think so.”

  “Could we at least talk about it on the phone?” I said, trying to prolong our conversation a bit longer.

  I know. Pa-thetic!

  “Lynn, I agreed to have no more contact with you or anyone at Muriel B when I joined Xavier’s team.”

  “Oh! But it’s not related to Muriel B.”

  “Are you phoning for personal reasons?”

  “Er…yes.”

  “Bye, Lynn,” he said and hung up on me.

  I looked around my office, which used to be his office actually, to be sure nobody had heard me. I was shaking.

  My whole body was shaking.

  I arrive at the office. You couldn’t tell that it’s our big day, except that the dresses are ready, covered in plastic and suspended on racks to be transported out of the workshop.

  I sit behind my desk and look at the guest list. I have printed little question marks in front of all the names of the people who haven’t confirmed attendance yet.

  There are question marks in front of all the biggest celebrities and all the editors from the most prestigious newspapers.

  There are fundamental differences between a major fashion show, like, say, the latest winter collection of Jodie Blanchett, and a fashion show by a young new designer. When Jodie presents her pieces, I know people who would actually kill to be there. Fashion editors would drink their own ink for a word or two with her.

  A show by a wannabe like Muriel is a different game. Nobody wants to come and see it, especially the people who should be the most concerned with fashion and new trends.

  Nobody cares.

  The editors are not interested in going to another semi-to-not-known designer’s show. You need to phone them every day and every day they cancel. So you have to convince them all over again and they have another chance to cancel the following day.

  Muriel, who? Muriel B? Oh, does the young thing still exist? Sorry, we are too busy. We’re going to a brunch with Kazo or another celebrity designer who’s not coming to your show, either. Har har har!

  Your guest list is just melting in front of your eyes.

  And, please, forget about talent.

  Forget about beautiful garments.

  You see, in fashion, fashion is not enough. Editors are not interested in fashion. They are interested in celebrities. You need celebrities on the catwalk, in the audience, at the after party.

  Bring celebrities to your show and the press will come like flies, attracted by…oh well, you know what.

  And it’s sort of a twisted relationship, because in return, celebrities need the press to come and watch them, so it’s my job to bring all these people together.

  But you don’t find celebrities grassing in paddocks.

  I pick up my phone and dial the number to Martin Villiers, one of the most respected publicists and agents in Paris.

  I know how hard it is to get him on the phone. That’s why I came to the office so early. I phone him on his private phone number and get him before he has a chance to put his PA between us.

  “Oui?”

  “Hi, Martin. It’s Lynn Blanchett, you remember me?”

  “Er…Blanchett? Where…”

  “We met at the film premiere the other night. The funny American woman? Me? Jodie Blanchett’s daughter? Do you remember?”

  “Ah…oui, I remember. You were with Kazo.”

  Oh, that’s right. I should take you back a bit.

  About two weeks ago, I was invited to join Muriel for the premiere of some artsy film by Paris’s hottest young director.

  I was still flatting with models and let me tell you, those girls would have killed to be at this premiere instead of going out clubbing with some rich but anonymous serial model-dater. Secretly they all want to be actresses.

  The phone rang. It was Muriel. She was calling from her cell phone and asked me to look down on the street below. When I did, she was standing by a white stretch limo waving at me.

  I flew down the stairs, wondering if I looked good enough in my Kazo dress, and just before
getting in the car, I looked up at the window. There they were, my four flatmates, staring at the ugly little Lynn getting the star treatment.

  Yes!

  I could imagine them cursing me in Eastern-European accents and applying extra foundation.

  Muriel wasn’t alone in the limo. An old Asian man, soberly dressed as a priest, was staring at me. I sat in front of him and began wondering if he was some kind of butler.

  “Hi there,” I said.

  He nodded elegantly and Muriel said, “Lynn, this is Akiro Kazo. I don’t believe you’ve met before.”

  “I’m so pleased to meet you. I love your work,” I said. I couldn’t help wondering if it was okay to wear a Kazo dress while traveling with the man himself in a limo. There might be some kind of etiquette for that, too.

  “You’ve probably noticed, but I’m wearing one of your dresses.”

  The old Kazo looked at me while Muriel was trying to uncork a bottle of champagne.

  “Prêt-à-porter model, yes,” he said.

  “Lynn has a thing for casual clothing,” Muriel explained as the cork popped. “Champagne?”

  “No alcohol, yes. De l’eau.”

  Muriel poured him a long drink of mineral water. “Sorry, Akiro, but we are two alcoholic ladies,” she said and handed me a flute. “Cheers.”

  Kazo didn’t toast with us. It seemed as if he was living inside his own protective eggshell, almost unaware of the world surrounding him.

  “Are you looking forward to the movie?” I asked him. It might not have been the most brilliant conversation starter, but at least I was trying.

  “I don’t like movies, yes. C’est très vulgaire.”

  No champagne and no movies in Kazo’s life.

  “What do you do when you’re not working?” Muriel asked.

  “I buy houses.”

  “Is it fun?” She refilled her flute. You had to give her that. She was not intimidated by him.

  He didn’t answer. He probably didn’t know the meaning of the word fun.

  “You must be working most of the time anyway,” I said, coming to his rescue. “Creating magnificent dresses.”

  “I don’t work anymore. People work for me. I buy houses. I travel. I see vulgar movies with alcoholic ladies.”

  He smiled, enjoying his own joke.