21 Steps to Happiness (16 page)

“I think you're wrong,” I say. “We follow the road that has been set for us. Look at me in Paris. It would be impossible if it wasn't a trick set up by destiny.”

He laughs. “Somehow, I believe your being in Paris has a lot to do with who your mother is.”

Touché!

“Sorry,” he immediately says when he sees all the blood leaving my face. “I didn't mean it that way.”

“It's all right, Nicolas, I get it all the time.”

He touches my face gently. That's what I get as compensation for being humiliated. It's better than nothing.

“What I meant is, if I had followed the road set for me, I'd be running a restaurant by now. I made choices, and I worked my own way up.”

“Look at us,” I say because I like to bring back my favorite subject. “Don't you think that somehow destiny has something to do with us being here, drinking corked wine together?”

He opens another bottle and says, “This should sort out the cork problem. As for us…I think…” He sips some. “Mmm! This one is simple but very nice.”

I try the new wine. It's very good. It's sweet and fruity. I like simple.

“Very fruity, don't you think?” he asks.

Beware! Frenchmen avoid real conversation by talking about red wine. Someone should put that in a guidebook.

“You don't think that destiny brings two people together?”

He goes back to his pots and pans. Frenchmen avoid any real conversation by cooking and talking about food, too.

“I told you. I don't believe in destiny.”

Before I can respond, Marc enters with his date.

“Lynn, this is Eddie.
Eddie est banquier.
Moneyman. Ha ha ha! Eddie, this is Lynn. Lynn is a star. Ha ha ha. Cocktails?”

“J'ai ouvert une bouteille de vin,”
Nicolas says.

“Oh, he's so boring with his wine. Anybody wants a cosmo or a mojito?” He turns to Eddie, the moneyman. “Oops! Do you speak English, darling?”

“I studied management in England,” Eddie says to me. “A long, long time ago.”

Look at Eddie. He looks like the perfect boring gray accountant. But once he leaves his office, the gray man becomes crazy Marc's partner. What, if not destiny, brings two people so different together.

“I could trade my wine for a Bloody Mary,” I say.

“But of course! Nicolas, you are so old-fashioned.” He turns to me. “Nicolas is so cute but at the same time so French. Eddie used to be very French, too. But I changed him.” He laughs heartily.

Marc mixes the drinks for us. He and Eddie have set their minds on whiskey sour, with the iced cherry and all. Nicolas sticks to wine. He is
so
French!

“Before I came into his life, Eddie had a girlfriend. A girlfriend! Poor thing. I changed that, too….” He bursts out laughing again.

Before me, Nicolas didn't believe in destiny. Can I change that? If you can change somebody's sexual orientation, can you also change their beliefs?

“Wine is an art. Vodka is just alcohol,” Nicolas snaps.

“
Alors,
look who's upset now!”

“I think that Nicolas is very sexy,” I say boldly. “Old-fashioned is sexy. It's classic. It's beyond fashion and trend. I like that about him.”

“Oho!” Marc and Eddie sing together.

“Thank you, Lynn. I knew that finally there would be something sexy about being ancient,” Nicolas says jokingly.

“An old man trapped in this gorgeous Apollo's body. Mmm! Darling!” Marc is playing suggestively with his iced cherry. “Lynn's right, that's hot.”

“I didn't say hot, I said sexy.”

“Girls say sexy when they mean hot and hot when they only mean sexy. Ha ha ha!”

“I'm hot,” Nicolas says proudly.

And we drink to that.

“Lynn, you look like a fun girl.” Marc points at me. “Let's go out tonight!”

I'm about to tell him that I'm exhausted and that I need some rest tonight, but my handbag starts to vibrate.

I swear. It didn't vibrate when I bought it in Kazo's shop. It's like a weird paranormal phenomenon.

“Your bag…” Marc says and passes it to me.

Not only does it vibrate, it plays a famous dance tune. I open the bag and take my new cell phone.

“I'm so sorry.” I should turn the phone off, but my curiosity takes over. Who could be phoning me?

“Hey, you,” Hubert says. “I'm back.”

“How did you get this number?”

“I phoned Muriel. I told you, I'm a very good friend of her dad's.”

“You phoned my boss to get this number?”

“Actually, she had to phone somebody and she called me back with your number.”

“You're using my boss as your personal assistant?”

“Come on. I've watched the girl grow up. Muriel's father and I, we go way back.”

“Give me a second.”

I stand and walk away from Nicolas. I walk all the way to the entrance and leave the apartment. But that's not enough. I run down the stairs and only start to talk again once I've reached the courtyard.

“I told you that I'm working tonight,” I say.

“I'm happy to hear the sound of your voice, too.”

“Hubert!”

“What's with you? Each time we're separated for more then twelve hours, we have to start all over again.”

And each time I see you, I fall for it again.

“Actually,” he says, “I like it. I feel challenged. Not played but challenged.”

I'm his own private rhino, and he is thinking of adding my head to his collection.

“Hubert, I can not talk to you right now.”

“I need to see you tonight.”

“It's not a good idea.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm with someone.”

I look up. From here, I can see Nicolas's silhouette in his living-room window.

“I'll find you, Lynn.”

It's entirely my fault. I should have stopped this thing with the Hub from the start, so I say it, “We need to talk, Hubert.”

“Who is this
someone?
”

“Does it matter?”

“I have been in this situation before. It's nothing that cannot be fixed.”

“Well,
I
haven't been in this situation before and I sure don't like it.”

I hear some footsteps. The courtyard light comes on. Nicolas stands there, behind me. “Are you all right?”

“Is that him?” Hubert asks.

“Listen, I'll call you later.”

“What's the problem?” Nicolas asks.

I'm frantically looking for a way to turn off the phone. “Don't hang up on me, Lynn!” I can hear Hubert say.

Off, off, OFF!

“Who was that?”

“It was Hubert Barclay.”

“Oh?”

“We needed to talk…and we talked.”

“Okay.”

“What do you mean by…
okay?
”

“You sound weird again, Lynn.”

He comes closer to me.

I feel so confused! “I'm sorry, Nicolas, but I need to go, I'm so…tired.”

“What about dinner?”

“I can't do it, Nicolas. Not tonight. Will you say goodbye to Marc and Eddie for me?”

“You're going to see Barclay, aren't you?”

I don't feel obliged to answer. Instead, I give him a reassuring kiss on the lips. A quick one.

“Stay, please.”

“Nicolas, trust me.”

He comes back at me and kisses me again, the same way. The quick way. He needed two kisses to feel in the safe zone.

Once I'm in back in the street, I finally manage to get basic brain functions going again.

I've kissed him.

For real!

Not a stolen kiss, or the double-cheek trick. The real thing, where he kisses me back and asks for more!

“A
re we there already?” Muriel asks with unusual sweetness. She's been sleeping in the car, but wakes when Massoud slows down to pull into a gas station.

“On vient de passer Lyon,”
Massoud answers.

“Halfway,” Nicolas explains for me.

Yes, we're on our way south to Saint-freaking-Tropez. Oh, we're not going on holidays, no, no! Muriel decided that we needed the isolation of the Boutonnière villa to gather forces and prepare the show in serenity. She calls it a work seminar.

We get out of the car while Massoud starts to pump the gas.

“Nicolas, would you buy me a diet something?” Muriel asks, yawning. She puts on her shades even though the sky is dark gray. “Actually, make it a bottle of rosé.”

To tell you the truth, we don't really look like three young professionals on our way to a seminar. We look like three spoiled kids with money to spend, a deep craving for rosé and a chauffeured car.

“Have you ever been to the Boutonnière villa?” I ask him as we stand in front of a huge wine selection in the gas station.

I know. The French need easy access to wine even on the highway.

“She never did me the honor,” he says and picks up a bottle.

“It's funny all you do for her. You run the company. You deal with her staff. You're even her sommelier, by the looks of it. You must be by far the most versatile human resources manager ever.”

“Yeah, you're right. It's funny.”

We both turn to Muriel. She's standing in front of a row of coffee-vending machines. She looks as if she can't understand how to handle them without involving her PA. She slides her shades down to get a better look at the instructions.

Nicolas and I exchange a quick glance and laugh.

“I'm telling you, she's lucky to have you,” I say.

Muriel turns to us. “What?”

“Do you need help?” Nicolas proposes.

Vending machine conquered, we sit at a table with three horrible plastic-cupped cappuccinos.

“We always stop here,” Muriel says moodily. “I must have stopped here about a million times.”

“Is your father living on the Riviera then?” I dare ask, because mentioning her father always fuels some fire in her.

“Nobody lives at the villa,” she says. “It's there for fun.”

And work seminars, of course.

Nicolas lifts his left eyebrow at me while sipping his coffee.

He's impressed I had the guts to mention the
F
word.

“Is he not living in France, then?” I insist.

“Dad lives in his jet,” Muriel breathes. “He doesn't do anything like normal people.” You can almost see the rage slowly building inside her. “I don't really care where he is as long as it's not in my way. Can we talk about something else now?”

I've ruined her bad-cappuccino moment.

“Fuck it
anyway!
” she snaps. She takes her cup and empties it in the trash bin. “I need to take a piss!”

I know, you're not supposed to empty liquids into trash bins. That's why it looked so cool.

She really is the creative one.

“Nicolas,” she calls.

She didn't make it to the toilet. Something more interesting caught her eye on the way. She stands fascinated in front of a gift display.

“We need this. It'll be good for concentration.” She grabs a small plastic hedgehog and hands it to him. “Look. It's really ugly.”

“It's some sort of local mascot,” Nicolas explains.

“I
hate
it,” she laughs. “Buy it, and ask them to open the bottle, will you?”

 

I can't believe my eyes. The place is amazing.

Massoud drives along the coast. The skies are not gray anymore. It's dusk and the sun shines with all kinds of orange above the quiet sea.

It's so…Mediterranean!

On one side of the road, a rocky coastline dives straight into the sea, on the other, pine trees and amazing villas stand proudly.

We've crossed a lovely little village called Saint Raphael, so Muriel says, “We're almost there.”

“Presque,”
Massoud confirms and yawns, too. “Here!” he says as he takes a right.

All I can see is a row of secluded villa gates, security cameras, angry-dog warnings and other invitations to shoo. But I can already hear the frenetic sound of what seems to be billions of grasshoppers.

And the smell!

It smells of pine trees, hot ground and the sea. If you could bottle that smell, you'd call it Holiday and make millions selling it.

Massoud stops and takes a remote from the glove compartment. He presses the single button and a massive wooden gate opens in front of us.

I turn to Nicolas.

He's smiling just like me.

What a place!

Can we relocate here?

Forever?

We come to a final stop in front of what appears to be the mad dream of an architect escaped from a
Star Trek
convention. The Boutonnière Villa.

“Shit,” Muriel whispers as soon as she exits the car. “That's my fucking luck!”

“What?” I say, trying to see what could be wrong, now that we made it to paradise.

“Don't you see it?”

What?!

“The lights!”

“Beautiful,” I say, because I thought she was speaking of the sun finding its way to the villa through the pine trees.

“The lights!” she repeats then kicks one of the spots illuminating the villa.

Oh! Muriel is mad because Francis—that's her absent father, Francis—is already in the villa.

But when we make it to the swimming pool, it's my turn to be shocked and furious.

“That's impossible,” I say, not because Muriel was right, but because Jodie's there, dressed in a summer-white ensemble, smiling at me and drinking what looks like a glass of chilled white wine. And that alone kicks me in the gut, because I can't remember Jodie drinking alcohol ever.

I ignore the James Coburn look-alike standing beside her, drop my bags and spit “What are you doing here?” in a defensive-teenager tone I've never used with her before.

“Oh, Francis…” She turns to the James Coburn carbon copy and with her detached Jodiesque voice, says, “This is Lynn, my protégée.”

 

I look as if I'm unpacking my Adidas bag into the lovely wooden cabinet, but what I'm really doing is trying to look away from Jodie, who, for some reason beyond my comprehension, has followed me into my bedroom and now observes me, calmly sitting on the bed.

“It's funny to see you here,” she says as she plays with her wooden necklace. She looks much younger than I ever remembered her. Maybe it's the brand-new suntan on her face.

“I mean, Francis and I used to come here centuries ago. I don't believe you were even a plan then.”

I've already lost my bite. I'm back to my normal Jodie-is-here submissive self.

“It's a lovely place,” I say.

“It wasn't lovely at all then. It was wild. Your generation would never know. You're so…”

I'm finished unpacking. I want to find something else to do to escape her, so I walk to the sliding doors and pretend I need to air the place.

If only I had a mop, I'd clean!

Oh, look at that. My room has direct access to a washed-wood terrace falling straight into the swimming pool.

Everything is wood and white.

Even Jodie.

“Are you here on business?” I ask, to try to understand what she is doing here, in my room.

“I came to see you,” she says, and I have to take a good look at her.

See
me?
Come on!

“There is also this little retrospective of my designs in Saint Paul de Vence. But that's secondary.”

Ah! That sounds more like it.

“But I'm here, aren't I?” she says. “Isn't that what's important?”

I try to figure out what's behind Jodie's sudden interest in me. Hypothesis 1: She's dying of cancer and is experiencing remorse for being such an absent mother. Hypothesis 2: This is not Jodie and this is just a look-alike convention. Hypothesis 3: I'm dreaming and will wake up screaming and drenched in sweat.

“We could go together to Saint Paul,” she suggests, and my whole body straightens as she stands up from the bed and walks to the closet. She looks through the clothes I've just unpacked. She lifts the Jodie Blanchett dress with one finger, like a scientist looking at some interesting scum. “Oh! That's an old model. I don't remember giving you this one. It must have been ages—”

“You didn't, I bought it.”

“You bought one of my dresses? Lynn, that's so absurd! We're trashing them by the ton.”

Why did I even mention it?

“It was on sale, anyway.”

She frowns. She obviously doesn't like the idea of being on sale.

“I met a friend of yours. Roxanne Green,” I say, to change the subject.

Jodie drops the dress and tries really hard not to look annoyed.

“Why on earth do you have to meet people like Roxanne?”

What?

“I met her on the plane by accident. She mentioned your name.”

“Of course she mentioned my name,” Jodie says as she checks her tan in the mirror. “What is the old tramp up to nowadays?”

“She writes books.”

“Books? Roxanne? What about? How to live a normal life with gonorrhea?”

“Self-help books. Quite good ones, actually.”

“Trust me, you don't want someone like Roxanne to give you any sort of advice. And don't accept any drugs from her.”

“No, Roxanne is a respectable lady.”

“She's too old to bed society, darling. That doesn't make her respectable.”

I decide right then to keep the copy of
20 Steps to Success
for myself. It would be wasted on Jodie.

“She says she hasn't seen you in a long while. It's like you disappeared,” I strike back at her.

But I'm way too green to play the wit game with a master like Jodie. “I don't feel the urge to see people like Roxanne anymore. My fascination with prostitutes is behind me.”

Oh, God!

“You know what we used to call Roxanne when she used to come down here. The hose. Do you know why?”

“No, actually, I don't want to know why,” I snap.

“Anyway, ask Francis. The hose!”

I wish I was more like Muriel. Bold, courageous and fast. I would be able to keep up a conversation with Jodie without feeling the need to go hide somewhere. I try to think of something to say next, but Jodie beats me to it.

“Come with me tomorrow,” she says. “It'll be fun.”

Now my doubts dissolve. Hypothesis 1: Cancer! Incurable!

“We have to work. We don't have much time before the show,” I say.

She shrugs it off. “Francis is flying us back tomorrow night. We'll soon be out of your hair.”

 

The work seminar is collapsing by the minute.

Instead of laying down big ideas and brainstorming our way to success in today's fashion scene, we hide in the kitchen, get drunk on rosé and lend a hand to the caterers.

Nicolas is helping unload their equipment and Muriel and I are making room in one of the three gigantic refrigerators. Next we'll peel potatoes and do the dishes.

Muriel would actually make us do anything to avoid being in the monumental living room where Francis and Jodie are having a jolly good time remembering how Roxanne got rebaptized the hose all those years ago.

Nicolas comes back to the kitchen carrying what looks like a hundred-pound crate full of pots and pans, but he does it in style, as he is dressed in a lovely Gucci summer ensemble.

“Is it just us and…them?” he asks, pointing at the living room, “The staff has enough equipment to cook for an army.”

“How the fuck would I know?” Muriel barks back. “He wasn't supposed to be
here
to start with.”

“Let's just make the best of it. I'm sure Jodie can add her five cents' worth to our show plans. Why don't we go speak with them,” Nicolas suggests, brushing off his Gucci shirt.

“That sounds good,” I say, because strangely, I'm in the mood to see more of this new Jodie.

Muriel grabs her wineglass and jerks it toward the stairs. “Be my guest,” she says and sits down on a stool, apparently determined never to leave the kitchen again.