21 Steps to Happiness (14 page)

Well, when all else fails, there's honesty. “You're all sensitive, and nice.”

“Does that make me gay?”

“You're…cute.”

“I'm cute?” He likes the sound of that. “Well, does that make me gay?”

“You…Well, you don't look at me in that way.”

“That way?”

“You keep your distance. Like you're…not interested.”

“So…if somebody is not interested in you, he is gay?”

“No!” God, I didn't mean for it to come out that way. I'm so not conceited like that. I mean, guys like Nicolas are never interested in girls like me.

“And if I was looking at you
that way,
I wouldn't be gay?”

“No…I mean. Why? Are you?”

“What?”

“Interested?”

“You're a funny girl.”

“Is that interesting? For you?”

“I guess it is.”

 

He didn't just bring me to any restaurant. He brought me to L'Escargot, his parents' restaurant. It's just been through a complete cleanup and I can still smell a mixture of bleach and wet wood.

“They've asked me to get it ready for sale. Lots of people have already asked to see it.”

He unlocks the front door to let us in. It's a funny thing to enter a restaurant like that, when it's completely empty. At least this explains why we had to buy our own groceries.

“Can you cook?” I ask.

“Yes, I'm very good at cooking.”

Well, isn't he perfect?

He seats me at a table. Puts two glasses in front of me and opens the bottle of wine we picked up on the way over.

He toasts: “To success.”

“I'll drink to that. What's on the menu?” I paid little attention to what he'd bought at the market.

“My specialty: Beans à la Nicolas.”

“Great!” I hope that sounded as enthusiastic as I intended it to.

“I'll take you somewhere else. I just wanted to show you the place.”

Uh-oh, I guess not. “No. I like it here. Beans will be fine. Beans and wine.”

 

I follow Nicolas to the kitchen. The equipment is still well organized, ready for guests.

“It's a second home for me, this place.” Nicolas pulls more food from the grocery bags. “Beans and…What do you call these in English?” He passes me a can.

“Artichokes”

“I can make a salad with these.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Look, I found a real treasure!” Nicolas smiles broadly as he pulls a lone jar off a shelf.

“What the hell is that?” I ask, inspecting the glass jar. It looks like a brown-red stew full of white beans and gore.

“It's cassoulet. It's my father's specialty. This one must be a vintage one. I bet you it's still edible.”

He opens the jar. He sniffs it and proclaims the sludge inside “one of the best dishes in the world.”

I take a whiff. Not so bad.

“You just need to warm it up. But it's meat.”

“I'll have meat. For once…”

“Really!”

“I'm
so
over being a vegetarian.”

So that's what he prepares instead of beans and artichokes. Cassoulet. And we go back to the table with a bowl each of steamy goo.

I try a small bite.

God, it's awful!

Revolting!

Yaaaaaak!

I tell Nicolas
“very hot”
but I wish I could spit it back into my bowl. Thank God I still have my wine.

“You don't like it, do you?”

Dammit. I have offended him. Again! But honestly, I'm not surprised his parents had to close down the restaurant if that's the kind of food they served.

“They're really famous for their cassoulet. People would travel hundreds of kilometers to have my parents' cassoulet at L'Escargot.”

“It's very good, Nicolas,” I say and force another forkful of the stuff in my mouth. It's fatty, stinky and revolting. But I swallow and smile. God, we're not in any sort of real relationship yet and I already have to fake a culinary orgasm.

“Do you want to see upstairs?”

“Upstairs?” What's upstairs?

“There is a studio upstairs.”

I don't feel very comfortable about going to a studio upstairs. But it's going upstairs or eating the freaking cassoulet.

“Sure.”

We go through the kitchen and into the courtyard. I follow him up a very old and narrow staircase. It's extremely dirty, dark and moldy and makes me feel even more uncomfortable.

He unlocks a tiny red door on the first floor.

“I used to sleep in here, waiting for my parents to close the restaurant and take me home.”

He opens the door. It's a very tiny room with a very small window. It's very dark inside.

“Come in.”

I step cautiously inside.

“Oh! It's…” It's disgustingly dirty and old. “It has a lot of character.”

“Yeah. It's special for me. I feel safe in here. I feel protected.” He points at the bed.

“The bed,” he says.

There is a bed.

I mean that's all there really is in this room—a bed.

I look at him.

We have a moment.

This place is not only a refuge. There is something erotic about it. It's isolated. Calm. Nicolas's love for it is practically palpable. And there's nothing but a big bed looking at us.

I need to say something. Do something. “It certainly needs a good cleaning.” Oh great, that's all I can come up with? Something that sounds like another insult.

“Yeah, sure.”

I'm so close to him. So close. Even closer! I'm so happy! I…I—

His cell phone rings.

“It's for you,” he says and passes me the phone.

“For me?”

“Hey, Lynn. Hubert here!”

No! Not now!

“How did you…?”

“I phoned your office, darling. You can't escape me.”

“This isn't a good time.”

“It never is, darling. I have something arranged for tonight. Dave will pick you up at eight.”

“Wait! No!”

“Got to go.”

Hubert hangs up on me.

It's gone. The moment between Nicolas and me is gone. Hubert is in the room with us. He lies on the bed looking at us. He sits beside the window and winks at me. He stands by the door, eating my bowl of cassoulet, and asks, “Did you really eat this shit?”

I'
m sitting on my bed. It looks like I'm anxiously waiting for my anti-Prince Charming to pick me up, but oh, no, that's not what I'm doing. I'm rehearsing. I've been rehearsing since I've come out of the shower and slid into another lovely Kazo garment.

Yes, I know. I'm all dressed up and sexy again.

But it doesn't matter how sexy I am. It's not how I look but what I will say. Want to hear my speech? Listen: Hubert, I don't want to see you again. I love someone else. Yes,
love!
Leave me alone with your incredible magnetism, your fame and fortune. Just fuck off, will you!

And I'm going to deliver the message in my lovely Kazo outfit.

Knock knock.

I jump to my feet and mentally run through my speech again, because I already feel a bit terrified and empty minded at the idea of seeing the Hub.

It's Dave, the driver. Hub sent him to bring me to his master and he says, “You look lovely, Miss Blanchett,” and smiles warmly at me.

The Mercedes is parked in front of the hotel. Dave opens the door for me. I can feel the looks of the passersby. They try to guess the identity of this amazing lady in Mr. Barclay's car. Yeah, that's right, I'm a goddamn princess.

Hubert, will you just fuck off. I repeat it in my head. Get lost. Beat it. Shoo! Shoo!

Dave drives us toward the Eiffel Tower. I need to make some time to climb up there. That's what tourists do after all.

“Are we going to the tower?”

“No, much better than the tower.”

Better then the Eiffel Tower?

We make a right and the Mercedes slides along the Seine. Dave slows down.

“I wish I could bring my lady here. Mr. Barclay has very good taste,” Dave says.

We stop in front of the
Mississippi.
Hubert is already on board this reproduction of a genuine American steamboat.

I can't believe it!

A steward in a white uniform waits for me by the boardwalk, carrying a silver tray with a glass of sparkling champagne. It's all rehearsed and perfect. I grab the champagne and walk on board.

“Chin chin,” Hubert says and lets his flute touch mine. Only, he leaves the two glasses together and looks at me. You get it? The two glasses are like the two of us. The condensation on them is like the sweat on our skin. Oh, God, this
fuck off
business is
so-o
hard.

“Shouldn't we drink now? I think it's bad luck to toast without drinking.”

“Lynn, luck can't touch us.”

“What should we toast to?”

“To us.”

“To Paris, and to the crazy things we did in Paris,” I propose.

“Did?”

We drink the champagne.

He looks at me and lets the silence do the hard work. A guy dressed in a tuxedo breaks in. “Are you ready to leave now, Mr. Barclay?”

“Yes, we can go.”

“Go where?” I ask.

“Who cares where we're going?” Hub says as the boat leaves the bank and starts its journey.

“Would you care for a top-up,” the steward asks and refills our glasses with Veuve Clicquot. Then he disappears behind the bar and all of a sudden romantic piano music begins to play.

I'm trapped.

“Would you like to dance?”

“No.”

“So let's go upstairs,” Hub purrs in my ear.

The second deck is a lovely dining room with a panoramic view of Paris. A table is set beautifully for dinner. We're just above the waterwheel and beside a lovely champagne bar. The Seine is everywhere around us as we glide past the Eiffel Tower. The sky is orange, and the champagne is going straight to my head. Hub tries to kiss me, but I turn away and look at the seagulls following the boat. I pretend to be a keen ornithologist.

“You're…” I need another hit of champagne before I can spit out my speech to Hubert. I grab the bottle on the bar and refill my glass. The steward's horrified. He was supposed to anticipate my every desire.

“Hubert, you're—”

You're a nice guy but I don't want to sleep with you again. I'll swim back to shore.

“I was sad when I didn't see you this morning,” Hub interrupts. “Last night was very special. We connected.”

Am I everyone's special night?

“Yeah, we connected big-time,” I say.

Like really big-big time! Okay, I have to focus and tell Hub this isn't going anywhere.

“I'm not the kind of girl that ends up in somebody's bed on the first date. I find it…depressing.” Depressing? God, I sound so lame.

“I'm not judging you, Lynn. Yesterday was magic and it ended up…magically.”

Magic, that's right. Hocus-pocus and shazam! Multiple orgasms!

The steward doesn't even wait for us to finish our drinks. More champagne flows in.

Is that Bowie playing on the lower deck? Bowie can be so romantic.

“Did you know that Bowie is my favorite artist?”

“Bowie is a friend,” Barclay says.

Bowie?

Does he actually know Bowie, the real Bowie? My Bowie?

I stay very silent and sip more champagne. Remember, Lynn, you're on a date with a legend.

“I like his music, too. I think it can be very romantic. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat a horse, with you sitting on it.”

Oops.

I said the same thing to Nicolas earlier, didn't I? And I got my mouth full of greasy gore for it.

Hubert turns to the tuxedo man and nods. He was hiding there, by the dining table, invisible, but as soon as Hubert nods he lights the candles and slides to the lower deck, gliding like a hovercraft.

“Let's take a seat.”

The boat makes its way under a bridge, and when we come out the other side, we're in the middle of Paris.

My, oh, my!

“You look astonishing in this light,” Hub says, and as he says it, another boat overtakes ours. It's one of those tourist boats, with very strong spotlights. We're blinded for a second. We disappear in the white light. We're dead and in paradise. Hubert vanishes. The boat passes by and his face reappears a few inches from mine. It's perfect. Everything is perfect. I wish it was a dream, because if it was a dream, I could indulge in a kiss and not feel guilty about it.

Come on, blame it on the champagne…and Bowie. I lean over and kiss him. It's a gentle kiss. He traps my lips. I feel his hand on my shoulder again. Is this one of the tricks he uses? He knows the right spot to press on my back and I'll be his. I'm melting. I ease back in my chair. The steward and the tuxedo man gently lay our starters in front of us. They must have been waiting for the kiss to be over. Those people are extremely well trained for romance dining.

In the middle of our plates is a little golden coffee cup with a tiny portion of orange soup. The smell couldn't be more delicious.

“This is your
amuse-bouche,
consommé of pumpkin. It's just an appetizer from our chef.”

“Do you know that
amuse-bouche
means mouth foreplay?” Hubert says.

“Oh, that's very appropriate,” I say and feel blood rushing to my cheeks.

What was I supposed to tell him, again? Something about going our separate ways because I have another love interest that I haven't slept with yet? I think about it and decide to…to eat my consommé.

“I'm invited to the Sony Music party tomorrow. Would you like to be my date?”

Tomorrow? No, I promised Nicolas I'd go to his place for a dinner party. “I have to work tomorrow night,” I say. “Sorry.”

“What about the Louis Vuitton party on Friday?”

Friday?

“Are you invited to parties every single night?”

“Yes, but I'm only going to the most dazzling ones.”

Ah!

“I own Sony Music stock. And…well, I'm a good client of Louis Vuitton. Lots of handbags.”

“Lots of breakup gifts?”

He frowns at the “B” word.

“Generally, I give away cars for breakups. Interested?”

Well, actually…But then, how many days of relationship do you need before you can count it as a real breakup? I mean, a car-compensated breakup?

“Cars or apartments,” Hub says with a smile.

You even get a choice of breakup packages when you let go of the Hub. That's very different where I come from. The only breakup gifts I ever had were a long-lasting sense of desperation and worthlessness, coupled with unpaid phone bills.

“That's very generous of you. Especially knowing the number of breakups you must have gone through.”

“Oh, is that what you heard?”

“Isn't it, like, what everybody hears?”

“The less people know about me, the more they pretend they do.”

“Meaning?”

“I have fought to avoid every single breakup I've ever had, and all of them have been devastating but unavoidable.”

If I had to give away a car or an apartment each time, I would go by the same principle.

But I don't tell him that.

I don't even make a joke about it because Hubert is staring straight at me. He leaves a deep meaningful silence to explain it all. I know. It's a technique men like him use. They let you know how much they have suffered in the past. It gives them depth and emotional reliability.

And for a second there, I even wanted to believe him.

 

I'm running out of excuses to explain why I keep ending up in bed with the Hub.

I wake up in my suite. The bed is empty beside me, but the shower is not. It's full of a singing Hub.

But make no mistake. Members of the jury, this woman is guilty as charged. She was sexed so much and so well, her vocal cords hurt. She won't sing today. She won't sing any day soon. Unlike the man who is taking a shower in her bathroom right now.

I'm so confused. I messed up again. I achieved exactly the opposite of what I wanted. It's this city. This charming guy. This romantic feeling. His voice. His kisses. His touch.

I'm so weak. That's exactly why I have messed up my life so far. Look at Jodie. That's a strong woman! Unlike me, she says no when she has to and she has been perfectly happy for the last forty years.

I'm a tramp!

And unless this room has soundproof walls, everybody in the hotel will know that by now. Soon all Paris will know. And soon Nicolas will know.

Why did you force me to eat your goddamn disgusting cassoulet instead of being the one to bring me on board a boat, supply me with unreasonable amounts of champagne and declare your love to me?

I ease up on my elbow to look at Hubert as he comes out of the bathroom. He has wrapped a towel around his waist, and is drying his hair with another towel. He looks like the man in the shower-gel ads.

“I'm sorry I woke you up.”

He sits beside me on the bed and kisses me on the forehead. “I have to be in London for the day. Come with me?”

I shake my head. “I have a job, too.”

He kisses me on the forehead again. “Tonight, then?”

“I told you, I have to work.”

Who took the jam out of my doughnut?

He shrugs and goes back in the bathroom. “Can I use your toothbrush?”

“No!”

There is something amazing about being in a bad mood. You can see yourself being a bitch and you hate it, but there's nothing you can do to stop it. “It's not hygienic,” I say and immediately hit my own forehead. Lynn, you schmuck! Not hygienic, really? After last night?

Thankfully he is gentlemanly enough not to protest.

“You have to promise to come with me to the Louis Vuitton party.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe is better than no.” He comes out of the bathroom with his black shirt on. He smiles at me. “You should go back to sleep. You sound very tired.”

Give me a knife! I want to jump on him and stab him in the face. Tired? Sleep more? What part of “I have a job, too” didn't he understand?

He tries to kiss me before being on his way, but I turn away.

“Okay…” he says, not really complaining. He has a you're-just-in-one-of-those-moods look on his face. “I'll phone you when I'm back from London.”

That's it! Get out of my room! Get out of my life!

I hate you!

I hate Nicolas!

I hate myself.

I hate myself the most!

 

Nicolas asks me to come to his office.