21 Steps to Happiness Page 2

  “Can I top you off?” The flight attendant is back with some more champagne as soon as the plane has reached appropriate altitude. She tries to gives us our dinner menus but Roxanne refuses them knowingly. “We will have the Dover sole and the white-chocolate thingy. And Chablis as usual, dear,” she decides for the two of us. “Don’t tell her I said so, but I think Muriel doesn’t deserve to get someone like you. A Blanchett! Imagine! What money can’t buy?”

  Yeah, imagine.

  “That girl always gets what she wants. She wants to become a designer, and voilà! Her father buys her this Muriel B fantaisie. And she never had to work for it. Like the French say, the only effort she ever made was to be born.” She puts her hand on mine. “Oh, and I don’t mean this for you, dear, I’m sure you must have some kind of…talent. Those things often run in the blood. Oh, that reminds me!”

  She starts to shuffle in her handbag.

  “You must remember to tell your mother I say hi, for old times’ sake.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you must give her this.” Apparently she keeps a small library in there, because she comes out with a tiny hardcover book.

  I read the title. Roxanne Green’s 20 Steps to Success. I recognize Roxanne on the cover. She’s dressed in a strict business ensemble. Her arms are crossed firmly against her body. She wears a pair of sunglasses and is leaning against a white stretch limo. It’s a very sunny picture and you can even see some thin palm trees in the background.

  “The perfect image of success when imagined by losers!” she says through a now nearly nauseating laugh while pointing at the cover.

  I open the book.

  “It will give Jodie a laugh.”

  I read the title of the first chapter: “Step #1: Never be ashamed of who you are.”

  “You could read it, too,” she says. “Lynn, can I be so bold to say that you strike me as a nice person.”

  “Oh! Thank you.”

  “No, it’s that…Well, if you want to survive in a place like Paris, you need to be a bit tougher. Go to the third chapter, you’ll see.”

  I turn to the relevant page.

  “Read it,” Roxanne commands.

  The chapter title says: “Step #3: Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.”

  “What I mean is, Lynn…you need to be more of a bitch.”

  Step #3:

  Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.

  I’m it!

  I am the real thing!

  Lynn Blanchett, daughter of famous mother Jodie Blanchett and genius in the making!

  I have picked up my ugly Adidas bag, farewelled Roxanne and, as I cross customs, I find a tall Arab-looking man holding a piece of paper with my name on it.

  “I’m Lynn Blanchett,” I tell him.

  “Je suis Massoud, et je suis votre chauffeur.”

  “Do you speak English?

  “No no, no English! Français!”

  “Right! This—” I point at the name “—is me.” I point at me.

  “Oh!”

  He points at himself.

  “Moi, Massoud.”

  We’re doing the Tarzan-meets-Jane thing.

  “Should we go to the car? The car? Le car!” I turn an imaginary steering wheel.

  “Car! Yes, yes! Par là, mademoiselle.” He walks toward one of the exits.

  I follow him outside and we walk toward a stretch lim— No, that’s not a limousine at all, that’s just a…er…silly-looking car. Like a cross between a hearse and a spaceship. That must be the compact French version of a stretch limo.

  He opens the passenger door for me.

  Mmm? Cream leather upholstery. A phone. A minibar. A little video monitor for the passengers to enjoy a selection of DVDs.

  Not bad at all!

  “Vous voulez aller à votre hôtel?”

  “Er…”

  “You want hotel?” he tries.

  “Yes, let’s go to my hotel.”

  “Good!”

  We’re off and I take my first glance at France. It’s not what I expected. It’s dawn, but the sky is nothing but mud-brown mash. The airport is located in the middle of grimy fields and lines of dirty highways.

  “Paris!”

  “Er…”

  I open my eyes.

  It feels like we have been driving for hours. Horrible traffic jams. I look to my right and all I can see are gray buildings. But…

  I turn to my left and I see it, Paris!

  Paris, Paris, PARIS!

  We exit the highway. “Trop de bouchons,” Massoud repeats like a motto as we slide into the city.

  Bouchons?

  It feels so unfamiliar. The streets are narrow. Everything looks old and hides the dark rainy sky. People are walking along the wet sidewalks, heads down, and dressed in plain boring colors.

  There is a feeling of sadness.

  Nobody plays the accordion.

  There’s no Café Terrace with people drinking wine and eating French bread by their parked scooters.

  But then, we turn and drive along a lovely little river.

  “Is that the Seine?”

  “What?”

  “La Seine?” I ask, tapping my window.

  “No, no, Canal Saint-Martin. Very very beautiful!”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s so beautiful,” I repeat excitedly.

  Now it looks like the city I have been dreaming of. Romantic, slow paced, vibrant and full of culture.

  But before I can take on this perfect image of Paris, we make another turn and we get blocked in a street that might have been in Cairo for all I know. People of all races yell at each other in different languages while carrying racks of clothes, vegetables, meat. Cow carcasses are unloaded from dirty trucks. Animals are hanging upside down above butcher stalls.

  I can’t believe my eyes. Here I am, in the comfort of my hearse-spaceship combo, and outside, it’s mayhem.

  We drive along a huge old monumental arc.

  “Arc de Triomphe?” I ask.

  “No! No! This Porte Saint-Denis. Arc de Triomphe very much big!”

  He shows me how big with his hands.

  The Arc de Triomphe is much bigger, he tries to explain. Apparently Paris is full of arcs. They have an excess of arcs.

  “Ah, Paris,” he says happily and winks at me. “Look, look!”

  When I look outside, I realize that we are surrounded by an army of prostitutes. Most of them are very old, overweight and wear ridiculously tight Lycra.

  Is this Paris according to Massoud?

  But before I can make up my mind about that, we change landscape again.

  This is not a car, it’s a time machine.

  “Et voilà, la Seine!” Massoud points. “Là!”

  Look!

  Paris opens up in front of me. And here is the Seine. Two lines of magnificent monumental buildings run alongside this huge river. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful. I would cry if Massoud wasn’t checking me constantly in his mirror.

  “It’s very…beautiful,” I say.

  “Paris, Paris!” Massoud stars to whistle, turns away from the Seine and stops the car.

  Before I realize that we have arrived at my hotel, a porter opens my door and offers his hand to help me out.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle, bienvenu au Georges V.”

  “Bonjour…”

  I look at the hotel. It’s magnificent. Way beyond what I expected.

  Massoud gets out of the car and passes the porter my ridiculously small luggage.

  “Voilà! Goodbye.”

  “Hey!” I call after him. “Massoud?”

  “Oui.”

  “Merci, Massoud. Thank you!” I give him my best smile, and I must be doing a good job at it because he smiles back and says, “pas de problème,” which, I believe, means something like you’re welcome.

  “This way, mademoiselle,” the porter says, carrying my ugly little bag. He whisks me through the revolving doors.

  Holy crap! Look at that. I
freeze in the middle of the lobby, petrified. It’s so…

  “This way, this way!”

  Er, okay….

  The porter drops my bag in front of the reception desk and I hand the man my passport.

  “Mademoiselle Blanchett, yes. But of course, we have you in our English Suite.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  “You are very, very lucky.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, you are. You were supposed to have an executive suite but then we found out who you were,” he says with a you-know-what-I-mean smile. “We upgraded you, of course! It’s a magnificent suite. André will show you.”

  André, my porter, grabs my card key and I follow him to the elevator. I can’t stop staring at him. He is such an elegant creature, with a funny walk. His body remains perfectly still while his legs go wild.

  It has to be some kind of professional trick.

  “A magnificent suite…” I repeat, trying to imitate the French accent of the receptionist.

  “Oh, yes, floor seven. The English Suite. Very beautiful, mademoiselle,” André says and does his funny walk all the way to the door to open it for me.

  Mama Caramba!

  I take my first step into the room. It’s clotted with antiques, drapes and fancy material, yet an awesome sense of refinement strikes me through and through.

  “That will be fine,” I whisper because I want André to go away before I faint.

  I find a five-dollar bill in the deepest darkest part of my jacket pocket and pass it to him.

  “Merci et bonne journée, mademoiselle.” André hands me my card key and closes the door behind me.

  I’m still standing in the entrance. I cannot grasp the fact that this is my room. I feel that at any time the real guests will come in and call the police to escort me out.

  Because, let’s be honest: I don’t deserve any of this.

  Jodie just said, “I made a couple phone calls. You’re going to work in Paris. It will be good professional experience for you. And please, take off that dress. I cannot be seen with you in that dress.”

  She didn’t say anything about being treated like a freaking New York princess.

  But then again, that’s how Jodie is.

  I slide like a ghost toward the bed. It’s huge and truly beautiful, but I wouldn’t dare touch it. I can see the door to the bathroom. I am like an insect attracted by the light. I push open the door to have a look inside.

  I clap a hand over my mouth not to scream. It’s so gorgeous! I have never seen anything so beautiful as this bathroom. All the silver and tiles are shining like diamonds. The towels look so warm and cozy. I need to touch them. I approach them. I reach for them. My skin feels the comfort of them. I turn to the mirror.

  Ah!

  Something is wrong in this bathroom.

  It’s me.

  I see my reflection in the mirror and I am the odd one out. Not only do I look exhausted, I look like an ugly little duckling with a mad hairdo.

  I can’t believe that I have been seen by all those people dressed like this.

  André the porter looks ten times more swish than me. Roxanne must have had a hilarious time with me. I must be her best joke since the invention of the whoopee cushion. She must be talking about me to all her friends—she might even phone Jodie. “Guess who I met on the plane? Your ridiculous daughter. Isn’t she common! She was wearing this ugly dress and hideous jacket!”

  I am about to leave the bathroom when the sound of an alarm stops me. I look around and locate the source of the noise. There is a phone above the toilet seat.

  Wow, you can sit on the toilet and still talk with your friends and family.

  Disturbing.

  I pick up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Lynn?” a man’s voice says.

  That’s me, so I say, “That’s me.” No, no, that’s not assertive enough. “This is Lynn Blanchett speaking,” I say loud and clear.

  “Oh, hi! My name is Nicolas Bouchez. I’m the human resources manager at Muriel B,” the man says with a slight accent.

  Oh, God!

  First instinct: hang up, run away.

  Second instinct: hide under the bed.

  Third instinct: change your dress, don’t add disgrace to disillusion!

  “Is everything okay? Are you…satisfied with the room?” he asks.

  “The room?”

  “Muriel wanted to be sure you’d be happy with the room.”

  “It’s…okay.”

  I have to sit down on the toilet. It’s quite comfortable for a chat on the phone.

  “Muriel asked me to welcome you. Check on you. I am downstairs, at reception. You must be starving. Should we meet over lunch? Is there anyplace you’d like to go in particular?”

  I try to think, but I can’t remember any restaurant name from my travel guide.

  “Somewhere vegetarian,” I say.

  Yes, I’ve just decided to be a vegetarian!

  Just like Jodie!

  Anything wrong with that?

  Step #4:

  Silence is your finest conversational tool.

  “Vous avez reservé?” the maître d’ asks while staring at my mad hairdo and, yes, I also do stink of petrol (I’ll come back to this later).

  “Une table pour deux, au nom de Bouchez, ou Muriel B,” Nicolas answers.

  I nod. Whatever those people are saying in French, I’m just going to nod.

  “Muriel B, mais bien sûr, une table pour deux.” The maître d’ is not surprised anymore. The fashion industry is full of crazy-looking, crazy-smelling people just like me.

  Nicolas smiles at me. You see, not a problem, he seems to say.

  Nicolas takes my jacket and hands it to the maître d’.

  Nicolas waits for me to be seated before sitting in turn.

  He fills my glass with water before the waiter beats him to it.

  Nicolas jumps on the table, gives me an extravagant French kiss and orders our appetizers (yeah, okay, I made up that one, too).

  Well, my original plan was to change my dress, meet Nicholas in the lobby and convince him I’m Miss Perfect.

  It didn’t happen quite this way.

  I walked down the monumental staircase and there he was, standing right in the middle of the lobby.

  “I am dressed all in black, you can’t miss me,” he had said on the phone.

  He was dressed in a tight black suit all right, tight black shirt and black tie.

  Tight, tight, TIGHT!

  I mean, even from a distance I could already see how slim and athletic he was.

  I walked a few steps closer and all of a sudden, whoosh, he turned to me.

  Wait a minute!

  This was not a regular human resources manager. They sent me…an angel!

  He was looking around as if trying to find me. Which one of these magnificent women is the extraordinary Lynn Blanchett? Surely not this small creature walking straight toward me, with her mouth wide open and drooling.

  I ran through what to say in my mind. “Hi, I’m Lynn Blanchett…Lynn Blanchett…Hello? Ha ha ha!”

  That’s not going to cut the mustard. I can’t deal with people like him. Bright blue eyes, dark blond hair and lips already forming into a gentle smile.

  “Nicolas Bouchez?” I asked him.

  He smiled some more. Some tiny wrinkles formed around his eyes. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.

  “Yes….”

  “It’s me. I’m Lynn Blanchett.”

  Disappointed?

  “Oh…Lynn! Sure…. How nice to meet you…finally!”

  He shook my hand delicately. I looked up into his very large blue pupils and started to melt.

  “Are you…”

  “Me?”

  “Are you hungry? Tired, Lynn?”

  No, I’m speechless, and fascinated by you. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! And you are actually talking to me.

  “I…” I began to sta
mmer.

  “We will take it easy today. Tomorrow starts the real circus!”

  “I…”

  “I have booked a table at a nice place, Le Club. It’s not strictly vegetarian, but they have vegetarian options. Will that do?”

  You are perfect! I want to fall on my knees and just look at you.

  “I…Perfect,” I finally managed to say. “Absolutely, completely perfect.”

  “I came on my scooter. I’ll get a taxi for you. I just got this new BMW model. It’s very convenient in Paris.”

  I followed him out to a sleek scooter like those I’d seen people riding in movies and TV commercials.

  “They are very fashionable,” he said. “And so much easier to park than a car.”

  “Can you fit two on them?”

  “Well, there is a back seat, but…”

  At the rear of the seat is a little space for an attaché case or a Lynn Blanchett.

  “So forget the taxi. I’ll take a ride with you,” I said.

  He gave me the are-you-sure-about-that-you-silly-woman look.

  Yes, I’m sure. Absolutely sure. Like I’ve never been sure before. I’m a scooter-riding Parisian!

  “I don’t have an extra helmet for you.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  I smiled at him. We climbed aboard and for a second there, I was probably the funniest public relations recruit he ever met. As we made the short distance from the hotel to the restaurant on his scooter, I realized I’d found the perfect way to…

  Keep very close to Nicolas.

  Get another good look at Paris.

  Get a mad hairdo.

  Filter the gas fumes, hence protecting the environment.

  Get unwanted attention from maître d’s.

  “Do you need any help?” Nicolas asks once we are seated and have our menus.

  His voice is so gentle and sweet. He is always an inch away from a smile or a laugh because angels have a keen and happy nature.

  “Sorry, we do have a menu in English,” the maître d’says, trying to snatch the French version out of my hands.

  But I say, “Non” (Learn French in 10 Days—Day 1). “French is fine. What vegetarian options would you recommend?”