21 Steps to Happiness

by F. G. Gerson

  “I received your invitation,” Jodie said. “For Muriel’s show. It’s very unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate?”

  “The date’s all wrong. I can’t make it. We’re launching JB2 that week.”

  A satellite?

  “My new perfume. I’m all tied up. Anyway, how are you for money?” she asked as she took one of her it’ll-fix-it-all envelopes from her purse.

  “Wait a minute. How can you not make it?”

  She looked awkward, frozen in midmovement, holding an envelope I wouldn’t touch.

  “Are you going to take it?”

  “No.”

  She put the envelope back in her purse. “You make it personal, Lynn. It’s ridiculous. It’s business. I’m launching a product. I’m busy. Point.”

  “Oh, that’s funny.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I didn’t receive your invite.”

  “What invite?”

  “The one for the launch of the perfume.”

  “I never…What are you talking about? You never liked being dragged to those things.”

  “I’m not eight years old anymore and it’s not like you have to bring me to a nightclub and abandon me in a corner because you couldn’t find a baby-sitter.”

  “Why are we talking about that now? I’ll ask Nathalie to send you an invitation, if it’s what you want.”

  Her phone rang.

  “Look. It’s probably her,” she said. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Please, don’t pick it up.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re not finished here.”

  Oh la la!

  “Do you realize I’m too tired to do this right now?”

  “Oh, Jodie, trust me, I’m very, very tired, too.”

  She looked at her cell-phone screen. “Nathalie,” she confirmed, sounding annoyed. “I thought it would be nice to see you, I didn’t know you’d make it such a pain.”

  “It’s important for me to have you there, at the show.”

  “Even if I wasn’t so tied up, I generally never go to other designers’ shows.”

  “The problem, Jodie, is that it’s not just another designer’s show. Another graduation ceremony. Another birthday party. The problem is that it’s me.”

  Her phone rang again.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, to put an end to the conversation, and took the call.

  “Don’t think about it, please, just come.”

  “Ah! Nathalie!” She stood up. “I am going to kill you this time,” she said on the phone. “Do you have any idea what I’m going through?”

  She was about to leave me in this white, sterile cube, when she looked at me over her shoulder and said, “You’re becoming very confrontational. Very French! Muriel is having a very bad influence on you.”

  I’m very French!

  Very confrontational.

  Ask Jodie!

  That’s why I stand on the Champs-Elysées right in front of Martin Villiers’s agency about to press the intercom even though the plate reads: CCA—Sur rendez-vous uniquement. By appointment only.

  Obviously I don’t have an appointment. He wouldn’t even return my call.

  I ring.

  “Oui?” the intercom says.

  “Delivery for Mr. Martin Villiers,” I say, looking away from the camera lens.

  The door buzzes and opens. I take the elevator and walk into the CCA reception area. Oh, but I’m not in yet. The real treasure is behind two monumental wooden doors tightly locked behind the reception desk.

  The receptionist, one of those long thin snake all-skin-no-muscles types, looks up from her computer and seems puzzled not to see a courier.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Villiers,” I lie before she has time to press her get-this-woman-out-of-here-right-now button.

  “And…you are?”

  “Tell Mr. Villiers…”

  Tell him what? That I have a gun, his address and a picture of his children in my purse?

  “Tell him it’s very important.”

  She shakes her head as if it was as impossible for her as sprinting up and down the Himalayas. “Mr. Villiers is out of the office,” she says.

  Like hell he is! “Can you tell me where I can find him then?”

  “I can’t give you that information.”

  I’m feeling frustrated. “You might get fired over this,” I threaten her.

  “No, but I will certainly get fired if I tell you his whereabouts.”

  Smart-ass! I’m about to change strategy and start to cry and beg, when the gigantic doors open and the breath is knocked out of my body.

  Nicolas!

  Even more gorgeous than I remembered.

  And not alone.

  He is all smiley and touchy-touchy with a tall blond girl, walking out of Villiers’s office as if it’s a natural thing to do for beautiful, successful people like them. While the toad-kind like me stays at the reception desk begging for an interview with the god of agents!

  I want to kill them both.

  So that’s what he’s doing with his days since he resigned from Muriel B, huh? Dating a blond goddess when I spend my life crying at the memories of us.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks when he finally notices me.

  Well, dying of humiliation, obviously!

  I just shrug because I can’t manage to get my voice back.

  “You remember Clarice,” he says clumsily, pointing at the blond bombshell.

  Wait a minute!

  I recognize her.

  She’s not a movie star. She’s the beautiful blonde that was flirting with me in Kazo’s garden.

  “You really should have come to the Gucci Party,” she says with a moue. “It was, like, completely mad.”

  “I should have, shouldn’t I?”

  “We’re going down to the Dior breakfast right now. Do you want to come with us?” she asks.

  Yeah, that would be great, so I can refill your coffee while you French-kiss Nicolas.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Nicolas says.

  “Oh, but why?” She pouts seductively at him.

  “Sorry. Can’t, anyway,” I say, trying not to yell.

  “We’ve just signed a deal with Clarice,” Nicolas explains. “She will be the new face of Xu.”

  Ah! Does it mean that she has to have sex with you, too?

  “So tonight is the big night?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I sent you an invitation.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Too bad!”

  The elevator doors open and Nicolas jumps in dragging Clarice along, happy to have an escape route.

  “Wait!” I scream.

  “What?” Nicolas holds the elevator door open and stares at me.

  “Did you see Villiers in there?” I ask, pointing back at the magic doors.

  “Martin? No, he is at the Dior breakfast like abso-fucking-lutely everybody!” Clarice says before Nicolas has a chance to pinch her.

  Clarice manages to get me inside Le Troyen. This girl should get my job. She’s everyone’s little darling. She even kisses the security hunks.

  “This place is very special,” Nicolas says annoyingly.

  Since she wanted to invite me and insisted that he come along, he has no choice but to take this ride with me.

  It’s a sunny day. Le Troyen is like a little white castle slash greenhouse slash wedding cake in the middle of a flowery part of the Champs-Elysées. It’s lovely, with blooming roses and hummingbirds.

  “It’s been open since the French Revolution,” he says. “I think that it’s one of the rare restaurants in the world to have three Michelin stars.”

  Oh, God almighty! I’ve stopped caring about the beautiful restaurant setting, and the history of French gastronomy. I’m onto something much bigger. Past the entrance of the white castle slash wedding cake, there is a perfect concentration of i
nternational celebrities.

  “What is this,” I ask Nicolas, “the annual who’s who convention?”

  Hey, I got a smile out of him!

  Clarice turns to me. “Ha ha ha!” She overheard me and finds me very funny. She is so perfectly gracious and at ease among the stars, like a little celebrity fairy.

  “So how long have you been together?” I ask Nicolas.

  “We just signed her an hour ago.”

  “No, I mean together,” and I make my famous finger together-sign.

  “Oh, that together,” he breathes. “Sorry to disappoint you but we’re not…” He does my finger trick.

  “Oh, it doesn’t bother me if you date models,” I say, and mentally jump for joy that they aren’t together.

  “She’s not a model! God, don’t you know her?”

  Apparently, I am the only person in the world not to know Clarice.

  “Come on! She’s the heiress of Kleron. You know. The hotels.”

  Ah! That explains the name! It’s not just a funny coincidence.

  “And now she’s Mademoiselle Xu!”

  Clarice turns to him, laughs, winks and runs into Miller Yourt’s arms. Yes, Yourt the rock star, who happens to be standing by the champagne bar. He calls her babe. She calls him sugar, and she forgets all about us.

  Nicolas leads us into the ballroom. A small catwalk is surrounded by large tables set for a lovely continental breakfast.

  Champagne, coffee in real silver pots and mini-croissants!

  “Isn’t Dior’s show supposed to be this afternoon at the Carrousel?”

  “This is not the show. This is the preshow breakfast,” Nicolas explains.

  A preshow?

  “It’s a sneak preview for VVIPs.”

  Here’s the thing. To get into the top show, you need to be a VIP or well connected to one. But these days there are too many VIPs so they have invented VVIP, and special exclusive breakfast fashion shows to accommodate. Weird!

  “Here he is.” Nicolas spots Villiers sitting at one of the front tables eating a croissant all by himself.

  I cruise like a torpedo toward Villiers.

  “Oh! Vous!” he says when he sees me.

  “Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?”

  “Well. Yes, I’m waiting for my real guests.”

  I sit down anyway.

  “Is it about Muriel B again?”

  No, it’s about saving the whales of Australia!

  “You said you would call back.”

  “Are you kidding me?” He looks up at Nicolas who stands right behind me. “Did you explain to her how this game is played?”

  “I have nothing to do with her,” Nicolas says, lifting his hands. “I’m not even working for those people anymore.”

  Villiers sighs. “Well, that’s not the way we play the game, here.”

  “We need to talk,” I start.

  “Elle est incroyable celle là! I don’t care what you need. Look around. Nobody cares what you need. The day Muriel B will be like Galliano, I will call you darling and love you for real. In the meantime, I want you to leave me alone. Bye now.”

  “I don’t want to give up,” I reply.

  Maybe Villiers is like some Jedi Master testing my willpower, and if I hold on long enough, he will break into a smile and teach me how to control the force.

  “Trust me, I will make you give up!”

  And then comes a real surprise.

  It comes from my shoulder.

  It’s Nicolas’s hand on my shoulder. It’s both an encouragement to give up and a comforting touch.

  Come on, Lynn, he seems to say, you’re disturbing all these good people. Give up. Get out. Leave my life! Because I hate you, you know.

  I turn to look at him.

  He doesn’t look like he hates me. He just looks plain sad for me.

  He has been there, you know. Working for Muriel and trying to get people’s attention. Now he is hanging out with celebrities and getting the real thing at Xu.

  “To be continued,” I say to Destouches.

  “Au revoir et à jamais, mademoiselle!”

  That means goodbye forever. I didn’t need a translation.

  I stand and look at the catwalk. The models have started to glide around, clothed in the latest Dior collection. It’s not like a real show. They are more like fish in an aquarium in a Chinese restaurant.

  “Oh, Lynn! Nice to meet you again.”

  I turn to see my favorite toilet pal, Marion. “I’m awfully alone. Can I join you?” she asks.

  I look down at Martin. His mouth hangs half-open. “Is it all right with you if Marion joins us?” I ask him.

  “Sure! Sure! Great!”

  I sit back down, and push out a chair for her. “Martin, you must have met Marion,” I say.

  Marion looks at him. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t think we have.”

  Even for Superagent Martin Villiers, Marion is big news. “Oh! Yes we did, Marion. We met numerous times.” I swear there are large sweat drops forming right under his wig.

  “I’m sorry, I…don’t remember.”

  I put my hand over Marion’s as if we grew up together in the Brooklyn Covent School for Girls and ask, “Marion, are you coming to Muriel’s show tonight?”

  “Oh. Well…”

  “You know, it’s the street show. It’s going to be quite something.”

  “Well…”

  I press her hand real tight. “Tell me you are. It would mean the world to her.”

  “I guess…well, yes, sure.”

  I turn to Villiers. I know he heard her but he pretends to be looking at the dresses on the catwalk now. He is actually the only person in the whole ballroom looking at the poor models.

  “How’s everything, anyway?” Marion asks while glancing quickly at Nicolas.

  “Things are…well…you know…” I shrug and turn to Villiers. I know exactly what he is computing in his rotten brain. If Marion goes to Muriel B’s show, why shouldn’t my clients?

  “Martin! Darling!” Miller Yourt has set Clarice free and she decided to join our group. “Hi, Marion! What’s up?” she asks casually.

  “You know, Dior in the morning, Muriel B in the afternoon.”

  “Ma-artin?” Clarice whines. “Are you going to Muriel B’s show, too? Because I think I want to go now!” She sucks her thumb thoughtfully.

  We turn to him.

  He stares at me, so I grab the pastry basket and offer him one. He finally chooses the one with raisins, smiles and says, “Oh, well, how couldn’t I?”

  “Well,” Marion says. “I haven’t seen Muriel’s father for ages. It will be a kick to see him again. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Thank God Muriel’s not here!

  As others at the table chat with Marion I let her hand go.

  I have more important business. I slide my hand under the table and grab Nicolas’s.

  I squeeze it.

  But instead of squeezing back he takes it away and gives me a dirty look.

  I try to keep smiling at him.

  I try so hard, my face hurts.

  Nicolas says, “We need to talk,” with a serious face, so we leave Villiers, Marion and Clarice Kleron to their breakfast.

  We go backstage, out of everyone’s sight.

  He shakes his head and sits down on a carry box. “What was that all about?”

  “It was nothing. Just a friendly handshake, for old time’s sake.”

  I sit beside him and draw my biggest card in this game. “Hubert Barclay is out of my life, if that makes any difference to you.”

  “It’s too late, Lynn. Why don’t you understand?”

  Because I don’t want to!

  “Please, Nicolas. Barclay was…”

  “Was what?”

  What was Barclay, indeed? Why didn’t I just prepare a neat speech, huh, full of emotional picks and heartbreaking gimmicks?

  “Barclay was a dream. Barclay was…like this job.”

>   “What job?”

  I point at the part of the catwalk we can see from under the seat stand. The models are still turning absently. “This job! What we do. I dreamt of something like this all my life, you know. I looked up to Jodie and thought, I want glamour. I want the glitz, the spotlights. I want to be a part of it. And now that I’m here, I realize that there’s no glamour. There is no glitz. It was just a stupid dream.”

  “Barclay was just a stupid dream?”

  He wants me to say it.

  “It was a charming dream,” I tell him the truth. “But yes, it was just a dream.”

  Can we kiss now?

  “You know what? You’re right, Lynn, this is all a dream.”

  God!

  “And I want to wake up and realize that you never existed, that you never came into my life and made a complete mess of it.”

  When I feel this way, there’s only one thing—rather one person—who can save the day—Muriel.

  I’ve located her. She gave me an address on the flashy outskirts of Paris, near Le Bois de Boulogne.

  The taxi leaves me in front of some threatening-looking gates. I go through the scrutiny of yet another security camera and make my way toward a tall, dark mansion covered in moss and surrounded by a spooky English garden. Muriel is just inside, waving at me from behind one of the French doors.

  “What is this place? The Parisian residence of Count Dracula?”

  “Almost. It’s my father’s house.”

  It couldn’t be more different from the villa in the Riviera. It’s dark and clotted with intimidating antics. The walls are covered with old paintings. Dead people posing for the artist.

  “It’s very intimidating, like a museum.”

  “Typical grande bourgeoisie française, very attached to the things of the past,” Muriel says. “So what is this great news then?”

  “We have Marion and a couple of big cheeses from Villiers coming to see what a genius you really are.”

  “Good,” she says moodily and drops her tush onto a throne.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This.” She hands me a sheet of paper. It’s a printed e-mail. It reads:

  Muriel. I won’t be able to be at your show. Pierre will represent me. I know it will be a great success. All wishes of luck. For F.B.—Lilian Meredith, personal assistant to M. Boutonnière.