by F. G. Gerson
We arrived at the Champs-Elysées, and I could see a large crowd packed around the theater entrance. I could hear them scream and see the flashing lights.
I was going to get the red-carpet treatment! Our car stopped and a security man opened the door and helped me out. I was out first. Kazo followed. He didn’t pause for the press. He just walked straight into the cinema.
It was insane!
You couldn’t see or hear a thing. Your instincts told you to smile and look happy, but walking those hundred feet to the theater was like crossing a battlefield.
A hand grabbed my dress and stopped me. I turned toward the press stand.
“Who are you? Who are you?” somebody shouted. A few microphones and tape recorders were shoved straight in my face.
“Lynn Blanchett. I work at Muriel B.”
The hand let go of me and even pushed me forward. The microphones disappeared just as fast. Not important enough. Not important at all. I looked around for Muriel. I couldn’t see her. I was disoriented. Where was the entrance? A young woman with an earpiece and a clipboard walked to me.
“Vous avez votre invitation?”
I didn’t have any invitation. All I had was Muriel picking me up in a limousine.
“Do you have an invitation?”
“I’m with Kazo.”
“Your name is?”
First she looked through a pink list and didn’t find me there. She lost her smile. She looked through a green list. I wasn’t there, either. I was going down and down on the color-coded social hierarchy.
She found me on a plain white list, the last one on her stack of documents. She passed me a credit card-size badge.
“Use this to get in.” She pointed in the direction of the entrance. “And please move on. You’re stopping the real VIPs from getting into the theater.”
She was very annoyed with me. I was stealing precious press exposure. I walked on and I could see Muriel and Kazo entering the theater in front of me. They didn’t seem to care that they had lost me.
I had to flash my white pass about a dozen times to different security staff. I was pushed and kicked and yelled at before finally being forced into the first row and seated all the way to the left. Great! From where I was, I could only see the top right corner of the screen.
“Ah, Salut,” I heard, and turned to see the young Frenchman Roxanne was dating sitting in the next row up. I had forgotten his name. All I remembered about him was that he was in one of those French-TV reality shows.
“Oh! How are you doing?”
“Tu es avec Roxanne, toi aussi?”
“Roxanne? No, I’m with Muriel B.”
I turned to show him who Muriel was. Dammit! Roxanne. She was actually sitting next to Kazo and Muriel, and among the other celebrities. They had great seats, right in the center of the theatre. While Mr. Reality Show and I were seated in the servants and gigolos section.
“C’est Roxanne qui m’a invité,” he went on.
I was looking at Roxanne, trying to attract her attention, and suddenly I realized the incredible truth. Brian—wine-dealer Brian—was making his way along her row to sit beside her. Roxanne had invited the two of them, her young gigolo and the funny wine dealer. Only she had seated one in the outcasts section, beside me, and had put the other one at her side.
“Tu travailles dans la mode, non?”
“I don’t speak French that well.”
“You work fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Can you help me work fashion?”
“What’s your name again?”
“Guy, I was in L’Appart. You know, the French Big Brother.”
“Guy, I’m not interested.”
“Okay,” he said and eased back in his seat, clearly forgetting all about me. It didn’t disturb him to be rejected. He was very much like a prostitute trying to turn tricks. Sometimes he got lucky, sometimes he didn’t.
After a bit, the film director came out and made a short speech. I gave Roxanne a last look before the lights went out. She didn’t see me.
I would love to tell you that I was like a Buddhist monk, in touch with my inner self, but thinking of wine dealer Brian up there with Kazo and the gang, and me down here with the Guy type, I couldn’t stop feeling jealous and humiliated.
“Enjoy the movie!”
Yeah, right.
I met Martin Villiers at the after party. I was lucky enough to have regrouped with Muriel and Kazo and I had shaken off Guy. As for Roxanne, she disappeared with Brian before I had a chance to talk to her.
Kazo presented me to Martin. He didn’t know what to say about me exactly so he said, “My friend Jodie Blanchett’s daughter.”
“His friend Lynn,” I said.
“My very good friend Lynn,” Kazo corrected.
“It’s fantastic to meet you,” Martin said, looking around for a possible escape route from a complete nobody like myself. “I…your mother…you know!”
“Sure.”
“It was lovely talking to you,” he said as if we’d been at it for hours. “I have to leave you now, I have to see one of my clients.” He pointed in a random direction. “You know how these parties are. Work, work, work! Right?”
“Yeah, right.”
He smiled and walked away.
“You see,” Kazo said. “I prefer to buy houses and go to bed early. Vulgar movies very tiring, yes.”
I stayed with Kazo for most of the evening. We found a sofa to sit on and we watched people without saying much. I just made sure that his glass of mineral water was kept full, and I think that he appreciated me for that.
“Your mother. Great genius,” he finally said.
“Thanks.”
“I see it in you. You can be great genius, too. It’s in waves around you.” He moved his hand around me, describing the invisible waves of geniusness surrounding me. “I like you. I like silent-type woman,” he concluded, and offered me a ride back to my models flat in the white limo.
“Yes, Martin, I was with the Kazo group,” I say. “I hope that I’m not waking you up.”
“No, but…did I ask you to call me?”
“Yes, don’t you remember?” I lie. “We were supposed to go through the list of your clients coming to Muriel’s show tonight.”
“Ah.”
“Do you remember?”
“Yes,” he lies in turn. “Refresh my memory. Who was supposed to come?”
I give him five of the top names I’m after.
“Mmm?”
Mmm sounds bad.
“Is there a problem?”
“Muriel B is too small to get these people.”
“Maybe they will just enjoy being there.”
“No, they don’t enjoy being anywhere. There must be something in it for them. Did I give you the names myself? Surely I didn’t.”
“There will be a lot of press coverage.”
“I can send Samantha Cock. She is attracting lots of publicity and I’m sure she would love to go.”
“Samantha who?”
“She’s getting big in the adult industry. Trust me, they are the new stars.”
“A porn star? You must be joking!”
“It would be perfect—a porn star coming to a fashion show on Rue Saint Denis.” He laughs like someone possessed.
I repeat the five names. “Those are the ones I need. Help me out here.”
Curse! Never use the word help. They hate it.
“You can’t have them. I’ll send you Fernando Galton.”
“Who’s he?”
“A writer. He likes catwalks. He’s really interested in meeting models.”
“A writer and a porn star, that’s all you can do for me?”
“It’s a perfect match.” He sounds deeply annoyed by now. “Listen, I don’t remember promising you anything, especially not anyone you mentioned, so—”
“Kazo will attend,” I lie.
“Kazo…What is Kazo doing at a show by an unknown designer?”
“He likes us. Muriel B could become big, you know. She will remember every bit of help she got along the way.”
Shit! I said “help” again!
“Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back.”
Getting a call back is never a good option. They never call back. I give him my phone number and he hangs up.
I close my eyes and recompose myself.
I dial a new phone number.
“Résidence Kazo.”
“Hi, Jean-André, this is Lynn Blanchett from Muriel B.”
“What do you people want now?”
Now?
“I need to talk to Mr. Kazo.”
“He is busy.”
“He’s expecting my call.”
“What is the purpose of your call?”
“It’s about Mr. Kazo’s attendance at Muriel B’s show.”
“What about it?”
“Well, will Mr. Kazo attend?”
“We’ve already had this conversation. Mr. Kazo will attend.”
Already?
“Mr. Kazo and I start to be annoyed by the constant harassment from you people at Muriel B.”
I haven’t talked to Kazo since the vulgar movie. I mailed him an invitation, but that’s it. Jean-André hangs up on me before I can discuss his definition of harassment.
I look at what I have: Kazo, a list of question marks, a writer and a porn star.
How can the journalists resist coming?
I look at my watch: 9:00 a.m.
I pick up the phone and dial the cell-phone number of Marie Matisse. She’s probably the most important fashion editor in town. I call her every day. One day, she says that she will be at the show with her team, the next day she says that she is tied up with something else.
“Lynn Blanchett? Isn’t that a funny coincidence? Guess who I am having breakfast with? Come on, guess! We were almost talking about you.”
Almost? “Well…”
“Hubert!” Marie says impatiently. “I’m having breakfast with Hubert Barclay. You bad girl! Do you want to talk with him?”
The Hub.
I guess I need to take you back a few weeks again.
The Hub and I are not seeing each other anymore, but somehow we keep bumping into each other all the time. Paris is a very small city for two highflyers like us.
Anything that has to do with Hubert confuses me enormously.
Well, he is a lovely guy.
Very attractive, too.
Intelligent.
Rich and successful.
He says he’s crazy about me and nobody—I mean nobody!—has ever been crazy about me before.
Yet, I know that our relationship was wrong, that we shouldn’t push it any further, but I like him. Actually I like him very much.
About a week ago, Hubert left a note for me at Muriel B. It said:
You should have told me you moved out of the George V. Do you want to come with me to the Riviera? Hub.
It was written on a Post-it and waiting for me on my computer screen. It was the last of many unanswered messages he sent me.
So I decided to meet him.
So we could put a full stop to our story.
But it’s hard to let go of the Hub.
I told him we should meet for tea. I didn’t want it to be too private, so I chose a public park. We met at Le Jardin du Luxembourg. He wanted to see me at the Lovers’ Fountain. I suggested the tennis courts as it’s more neutral ground.
He was already waiting for me when I got there. He was looking at a couple of young tennis players yelling at each other.
“I think he’s right,” Hubert said. “The ball was out. But she won’t let go. And now she’s telling him how unfair he always is. They’re going to break up over it. How are you, anyway?”
“They were probably ready to break up before the match started. They just waited for the right moment.”
“Are you coming to the Cap d’Antibes with me?”
He knew I hadn’t come to discuss the details of our trip south. He was like the doctor advising you to take your pills and rest, knowing you wouldn’t make it through the night anyway.
I sat beside him. The guy on the tennis court gave up and granted his partner the point.
“That’s the same old story. We give up before you do.”
“Women have more endurance and a higher pain threshold. We give birth, you know.”
“I have another theory,” Hubert said. “Women need to put their partners on trial. But the trial never ends. The jury will never reach a verdict. The trial will go on forever and ever. While we want to reach a settlement fast.”
“I’m not putting you on trial, if that’s what you mean.”
“This week has been one of the worst in my entire life.” He looked at me with this sad-sad-sad look and it was hard not to fall for it.
“I can’t think. I can’t sleep, and I don’t want to go down that road. I have seen other men crawling like this before and I want to believe I’m better than them. But then I think, what the fuck! I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I don’t care if I’m tacky or stupid or vulgar, or even ridiculous. I want to be with her, I want to be with Lynn. That’s all I can think about. But you don’t even return my calls.”
“I needed to think,” I said, and it sounded so shallow. I had thought that breaking up would be much easier. I had pictured him distant and blasé saying, Well then, goodbye, dear. I have a rendezvous with a young model of about your age after this. She’s Asian and I’ve been told she does things to die for with her tongue! I hadn’t expected it to be these heartbreaking emotional gymnastics.
“I thought we were not playing a game.”
“It wasn’t a game, Hubert. But it didn’t work. I mean, it didn’t work in my head.” I didn’t make any sense, did I? “Oh, Hubert, why skirt the issue. I don’t love you. I like you. But I don’t love you. I can’t do this.”
“Love wears off. We can have everything else but love.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Give it a chance.”
We both looked at the young couple on the tennis court. They had stopped playing and they had stopped fighting. She was crying and he was holding her tight in his arms. They hadn’t come on the court to play tennis. They’d come to sort out their problems and it looked as if they had succeeded.
I stood up. I knew that we would go nowhere this way. “We shouldn’t see each other for a while.”
I’m so bad at breaking up with him. I just can’t let go completely.
“You can’t keep me away from you.”
“Please, Hubert. You know that we’re not going anywhere.”
“I have never been dumped before,” he said again. He was right. It didn’t sound obnoxious at all. It sounded desperate and sad.
“I’ll see you around,” I whispered like a coward and walked away. That was the last time we saw each other.
“No, I don’t want to talk to Hubert right now,” I say to Marie. “I’d rather talk to you.”
“You young thing! You’re driving our Hubert crazy. I’ve never seen him this way.”
“Yes, well. That’s the way it is. But I’m calling regarding tonight’s show.”
“What show?”
There you go.
“Muriel B’s.”
“Oh, when is it?”
I’d told her about fifteen times already.
“Tonight, at five. It must be written on your invitation.”
“Tonight? Oh, God, no! I’m busy tonight. I’m going to the Dior party. Bad luck!”
Is there any point in telling her that yesterday she confirmed that she would come? Rather, I say, “Well, Kazo will be there and…” And I tell her the names that Martin wouldn’t give me.
“Is that right?” she says, sounding impressed.
No, actually it’s not right, so I choose not to answer at all.
“I might arrange some time to see the show then. Really, we wouldn’t li
ke to neglect Muriel B, would we? I’ll see what I can do. Do you want to talk to Hubert now?”
“Marie, if you’d ask Hubert, he’d tell you that he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“You are so wrong about that!”
“See you tonight, then,” I say and hang up. I hate fashion people.
I look up to see Catherine coming into my office with a beautiful bouquet—small but delightful. “For you,” she says briefly. She’ll never forgive me for pushing her Nicolas out. The day she realized I was to move into his office and she was to work for me, she developed a permanent speech impediment—inability to address me with sentences longer then three words—and called in sick for the rest of the week.
I look at the card, it reads:
Good luck. Can’t make it this time. Very sorry. Jodie.
I ponder the message. This time!
If it wasn’t so tragic it would be kind of funny.
She probably means she was there for my birth, so I can’t complain if she can’t make it to the rest of the events that add up to my life.
It’s not like it’s a surprise.
I met up with Jodie a few days ago. Well, met—more like crashed into her trajectory. She was on her way to a something-something in Moscow connected to her new perfume. She called me from Charles de Gaulle Airport. She was connecting in Paris and thought it would be nice to catch up while she was waiting in the terminal.
“It’s a real headache. It will be hours before I can board my next flight. I’m going to kill Nathalie (her PA) over this one.” Please note that she’s been killing Nathalie for many, many years over absolutely everything. “Anyway—be fast.”
I was running through the terminal when I caught sight of her. She was sitting on the other side of a glass wall, all alone in her bubble, staring obsessively at a TV screen listing the next departing flights.
I knocked on the wall. She turned. She tapped her watch. Not a lot of time left. She stood and came to the wall. She looked tired and upset.
She said something but she was all moving lips and no sound, so I shook my head and pointed at my ears. She looked around and waved over a security officer like she was calling a waiter in a busy restaurant.
Once they identified who and in what awful mood she was, they arranged a private room for us—one of those tiny cells they normally use to strip-search suspects.