21 Steps to Happiness (13 page)

“Nicolas, it's me, Lynn. Wake up, Nicolas!”

“Lynn?”

“It's okay if you hate me.”

“Lynn. I…Where are you?”

I'm lying on my bed after a night of frenetic sex with a man I don't really know and I'm talking to another man I don't really know but really want to have sex with. Does that make sense?

“I'm at my hotel. Now, don't interrupt. Just let me talk. You should hate me, Nicolas. I'm a terrible person. I lie. I lied to you. I lie all the time. I'm not the person you think I am. I—”

“Lynn?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to have breakfast with me?”

 

He opens his door and there I am. I think I've set a new world record. It took me less then five hours to get from Hubert Barclay's to Nicolas's apartment.

I follow Nicolas, and the sweet smell of freshly brewed coffee, to the kitchen. He wears a baggy white shirt and jeans. I have never seen him look so casual. He asks if I want coffee and I tell him I'd kill for some, with a side of aspirin.

“Did you have a busy night?” he asks while looking for the aspirin.

Busy? Yeah, you bet!

“I had too much to drink, I guess,” not mentioning that I hardly slept and that my sense of guilt is squashing my brain to a pulp.

He pours two cups of coffee and takes them to the living room. I follow and ask myself why on earth I came over here?

We sit on his sofa. Nicolas's apartment looks like a student condo. It's tastefully decorated, but it doesn't show the signs of wealth that I witnessed at Muriel's or Hubert's.

“I was worried,” he says. “The way you sounded.”

I look around and realize how little I know about Nicolas. Maybe even less than I know about Hubert, which is sad since I've seen him nearly every day since I've come to Paris.

I hear a door slam and look up from my coffee cup. Someone else lives in this apartment?

Oh, how naive can I be? I don't even know if he has a girlfriend. I don't know if he is married, or has been married, or has any children. I don't know if he is about to drive his wife to work and bring his two little girls to school.

I'm a mess!

“You sounded in a state of panic,” Nicolas starts again. He's clearly waiting for me to explain why I called and where I've been.

“I'm sorry to put you through this. I guess I was a bit freaked out. I had a rough night.”

I regret immediately having said that. Better change the subject, fast.

“You have a nice apartment.”

“It's small. And too expensive. It's really hard to find something in Paris.”

I look around for any signs that will help me to understand who Nicolas is and why I need him so much.

Everything is very orderly. A place for each thing, each thing in its place. There is a huge collection of CDs covering an entire wall, but absolutely no picture of any kind. I can hear a toilet flush and the sound of running water. Somebody is taking a shower. I naively ask, “Do you live alone?”

“I live with Marc.”

“Oh.”

So what happened to
I'm not gay?
Damn French!

“Marc is my flatmate.”

“Ah.” What does he mean exactly by flatmate?

“Marc is working at Muriel B,” he says as if he was reading my mind. “I think you two met when you came to the office.”

“Possibly.” I sip my coffee casually and try to remember a Marc.

“He is a very talented designer. He spends most of the day in the workshop.”

“I think I remember him,” I say, but I have absolutely no memory of a Marc, any Marc.

“You look worried.”

“Nah, I'm not worried.” I guess my sipping wasn't as casual as I had thought.

“If you're worrying about the position, you should stop. I told you before, Muriel's crazy about you. I'm supposed to prepare a contract for you today.”

I want to tell Nicolas I'm not here to discuss the contract, I'm here to understand why I feel so guilty about last night. I'm here to see if I can be that person in the shower one day. I'm here to see if he wants me to be that person in the shower. But instead I say, “What about Fran Wellish?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. She's weird. She refuses to talk to us anymore.”

I should be relieved. But in fact, I don't care about Fran Wellish right now. All I care about is the shower and the distinct sound of Marc the Mysterious Flatmate groaning and vocalizing under the spray.

“It's a rather small apartment, I mean, to share,” I say.

He shrugs again. “I've been here since I was a student. I like the district.”

I don't care about the lodging problem in Paris, either. I want Nicolas to describe fully his relationship with Marc-in-the-Shower, and I want him to tell me that Muriel is wrong and he didn't lie to me the other night just to toy with my feelings. I want him to confirm that I'm not crazy. I want him to say that even though he is an angel, he still looks down at me and sees…and sees…Oh, dammit! I want him to say that there is something going on between us!

But Nicolas doesn't say any of that. He's waiting for me to speak again. “I guess I'll have to start looking for an apartment as well,” I say.

“I can help you.”

“How's that?”

“We can include a relocation package as part of your contract. I have to discuss it with Muriel, though.”

“Ah, bonjour!”

I turn to see a tall, handsome man standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts on a very athletic body. Now I recognize him immediately. He is one of those very effeminate creatures I've met in the workshop.

“Bonjour,”
I reply.

“Quelle surprise! C'est gentil de venir nous dire bonjour comme ça.”
Nicolas smiles at Marc.

Okay, I know Nicolas says he's not gay, but still, I can immediately sense the dynamic in their relationship. Nicolas is the reasonable husband, always reliable and serious, and Marc is the crazy wife, exuberant and unpredictable. They live on the sixth floor and I feel like jumping through the window.

“Lynn needed to talk to me about the job,” Nicolas says, switching the conversation to English.

“Oh, I see. Business, all the time business, business, business. Oh, but you must be starving.” He has a very strong accent. “Nicolas, the croissants!”

“Are you hungry, Lynn?”

Paris has been very good for my figure. I never eat and I spend my time running in all directions.

“I'm starving.”

“Elle a faim, ça se voit!”
Marc gestures at me dramatically with his hand.

Nicolas stands up.

“
Non, non
, I'll go,” Marc says. “You two talk…business, and I make breakfast.”

He disappears back into the corridor from where he came, like an actor who'd jumped onstage then receded backstage.

“He is a lovely guy,” Nicolas says.

I feel so stupid. I should have stayed in bed with Hubert. I should have tried to see if I could love him or even only like him, once the Bloody Mary had worn off.

“Are you still worried about the position?” Nicolas asks again.

“I feel better now,” I lie. “It's been a crazy roller-coaster ride since I landed.”

“I'm so sorry, Lynn. Everything is so confusing right now. I hope that soon we will see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Croissants pour tout le monde?”
Marc asks. He has thrown a long black coat overtop a pair of sweatpants. He doesn't wait for an answer. He just jumps out of the apartment and closes the door saying,
“A tout de suite, les amoureux.”

“Don't mind him,” Nicolas says. “He likes to act bigger than life.”

I'm not exactly sure what Marc said. I recognized the word
love
or
lovers.
Maybe he said,
Bye, love.
Or,
I love you, Nicolas, we had really great sex yesterday night, pity the American girl is here, we could have done it all over again before breakfast.

We have one of our silences and Nicolas breaks it by saying “On the phone, you said that you lied to me.”

“I was confused,” I mumble.

“When did you lie to me?”

“I was lost, I have…” Oh, what the hell. “I was confused, so I guess I needed to talk to someone. It doesn't matter anymore, I was just…stupid. I thought, because of the night we had together…I guess, I thought…But I didn't know about you and Marc, so you see I was wrong.”

“What about me and Marc?”

Oh, I'm so embarrassed. You'd think for a man in fashion it would be no big deal, but he obviously wants to stay in the closet, and I opened it, uninvited.

“No, I mean, I didn't know you were together.” I cross two of my fingers to represent their relationship. “I mean together-together.”

He looks at me. Silence.

“I thought that you and me might have started something. But…I'm…It's ridiculous, of course, because…”

How could I ever think a guy like him would ever consider a girl like me. Or, apparently, a girl.

Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

“I was wrong. And I shouldn't have come here this morning.” I stand and I say, “I should go now.”

“Marc and I are not together.” He stops me. “Marc is my flatmate,” he repeats.

“Nicolas, you don't have to—”

“What part of
I'm not gay
didn't you get? I'm starting to find this very offensive, Lynn!”

What's happening here?

“I also thought that something happened between us that night.”

“Really?” For a brief moment I'm thrilled, but then the guilt comes rushing back.

“Lynn, answer my question. When did you lie to me?”

But I can't answer him now. I'm too embarrassed, too confused. “I am so sorry. I need to go.”

“Wait! Lynn, what did you want to tell me?”

“No, no. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I had a rough night. I'm better now.” I walk to the door. “I'm sorry if I have offended you.”

“Lynn, this is crazy. Stay!”

“I'll see you at the office. We have to discuss…the contract and stuff.”

When I come out of the elevator, Marc is standing there. “Lynn,
les croissants!
” he says, showing me the paper bag from the bakery.

There will be no more croissants for Lynn.

She has been a bad, bad, bad girl!

“T
hey've been in the boardroom for the last two hours.” And Nicolas has been waiting for me at the Muriel B reception desk all that time.

“Oh, God, I can't do it,” I tell him, cringing at my own whininess.

“You have to do it,” Nicolas tells me as he grabs my arms and walks me upstairs.

“Do we have to move so fast?”

“Do you need to wear sunglasses?”

I take them off. The light strikes straight into my brain and I panic I may have just been stricken blind.

The workshop is very quiet. Everybody pretends to be very busy, but under the surface they all seem anxious and excited.

Pierre Boutonnière is in the house and when Pierre Boutonnière is in the house, everybody bows and scrapes. He is the one who gives money for their wages, money for the electricity bill, money for the phone bill, money for the coffee and everything else that makes Muriel B run.

And Pierre came this morning to put an end to the dream before it's even really started.

“On compte sur vous,”
one of the workers says as I pass by. Did he just say that they're counting on me? I ask Nicolas for a quick translation. Yes, yes, they all think that I'm here to save them. They see me as their last resource. That's why Muriel spent her last dime importing me. To get me inside that boardroom and turn the investors, aka Muriel's brother, into a thankful money fountain.

But I'm late, I look like trash and I'm an emotional mess.

I stink, too.

I'm in an awful state to save the ship from sinking.

Nicolas leans in close and whispers in my ear, “Pierre rarely agrees to meet his sister. Especially here, in our office. Mint?”

He shakes a box in my face.

“Thanks,” I murmur through closed lips.

“Pierre grew up in France with their father, Muriel in England with their mother. They're like ice and fire.”

“Is there some coffee in there?”

He doesn't bother answering. He opens the door to the boardroom and pushes me in.

Two men sit opposite Muriel. Nobody speaks.

“Hello,” I say.

“Ah! Lynn! Meet Pierre.”

Which one of the two cadavers is Pierre? They both look anemic, wear gray suits and have sickly green complexions.

“How did your…previous meeting go?” Muriel asks.

“Oh…My previous meeting? Yeah! Very well. I couldn't cut it short. Very important. I'm sorry.”

I had decided not to sleep at all, but once I sat on my bed in my suite, I don't know what happened. Somehow my brain switched off, and I was awoken hours later by a phone call (Nicolas) and some hysterical banging on the door (Massoud). And darling, I look a mess! They didn't give me a chance to change or shower. I still have the Hub's scent all over me, along with the vague funkiness of cigarettes and sweat, and alcohol breath. Somehow I don't think Nicolas's mint is going to cut it.

“Pierre Boutonnière,” one of the cadavers says, and stands to shakes my hand over the table. Surprisingly, the hand's hot. “And this is Georges Duprès, from Finance.”

I shake the second hand and it's not only hot but moist.

Damn, I need coffee!

“Nicolas, can you arrange more coffee for everybody?” I say.

He can't believe it. He just stands there, looking at me as if I have transformed into a beetle.

“Okay…” he says hesitantly and dials a number on his cell phone. He's making a ten-meters-distance call. I mean, we can hear the phone ringing in his office and the voice of his assistant answering the call.
“Catherine, peux tu nous amener du café dans la salle de réunion?”

I smile at Pierre. But he doesn't smile back. He doesn't find Nicolas's ego trip funny like I do. But again, he is the one paying the phone bills.

“I hear that you're the best thing that has happened to this company,” Pierre says, but the look on his face tells me he doesn't believe it.

“We're lucky to have someone like Lynn,” Muriel says.

“This company has to stop relying on luck.” Pierre looks at me. “Did they brief you on the financial situation?”

“Lynn is more a creative person than a financial expert,” Muriel cuts in again.

She's not herself. She does her best to look calm and fully grown-up, but the way she keeps clenching and unclenching her hands is a dead giveaway.

“Well, Lynn, I hope your financial expertise is good enough to understand that this company has just enough money to survive for the two next weeks, and then it is bankruptcy.”

Muriel directs her pen across the table like a cruise missile. Pierre catches it before it falls onto his lap. They've probably been playing this game since they were five years old.

“Do you have to ruin everything all the time?” She's done playing mature. This is not your everyday meeting with your banker. It's family business.

“The situation is slightly different now,” Nicolas interrupts. “We're expanding. Valuable people like Lynn are joining us. We're looking into getting some serious investors.”

“Investors?”

The word brings back some blood into Pierre's veins.

“Who?”

“We can't talk about it now. We have agreed to total confidentiality, but a major brand is thinking of becoming our financial backer. With your agreement, of course.”

“You don't need to hide anything from us. Every single cent you have spent so far came from Crédit de la Cité. We are Muriel B.”

“No, Pierre, you're not Muriel B,” Muriel explodes. “I'm Muriel B! It's my name on the door. I made this company. I am this company.”

Pierre opens his mouth to yell back at his sister, but before he can, Nicolas interrupts. “Kazo.”

Everybody looks at him. “Kazo is thinking of investing in Muriel B?”

Georges Duprès has actually moved. His head has tilted an inch to the right. That's how incredible the news is.

“Is this Muriel B internal gossip or something real?” Pierre looks from Nicolas, to me, to Muriel.

“It's real,” Muriel says. “We're talking. Kazo wants to invest money in a small independent brand, and he is thinking of us.”

“Just thinking?”

“More than thinking. They considered a few companies from the start. Now they've came down to two. It's between Xu and us.” Muriel smiles a small but triumphant smile.

Xu? That explains their hatred for Muriel.

“Xu is bigger than you,” Pierre says. “I don't hear certainty here.”

“Well, one thing's for sure,” I say as if I was in the loop. “If we close the company before the show, we'll never know.”

They all turn to me. “How much did you invest so far?” Let's see how Pierre likes being in the hot seat.

“Too much,” he answers.

“Imagine it. When Kazo comes in, all your expenses will be refunded and you get to control the finances of a branch of Kazo's empire.” I draw a little square on my notepad. “But if we close now, you lose everything.” I tick the square. It really appears as if I know what I'm talking about.

I turn to Muriel. I detect a smile on her face. Pierre is done listening to her. Or to Nicolas. But he will listen to a new girl from the U.S. with a guaranteed Blanchett pedigree.

“I was talking to Hubert Barclay this morning,” I continue.

“You had a meeting with Hubert Barclay regarding Muriel B?” Pierre says.

Oh, boy! Did I ever.

“Well, yes. Barclay is an old friend. We talked about Muriel B. And he said…”

I can't repeat what he really said, not without an X-rated warning.

“Well, he was interested in doing a TV show on the birth of a fashion company. You know, reality-TV style.”

I turn to Muriel. “All this is new to you, but that's what we discussed last…this morning.”

I search for Nicolas's eyes. I look at his notepad. He writes Hubert Barclay on it and then adds three question marks.

The coffee comes in and Nicolas's assistant refills all our cups. Pierre sips some. He is thinking. He turns to Georges Duprès. They don't say a word. They communicate by telepathy like aliens…or twins.

“But if we're closing in two weeks, well, all that's over,” I repeat after sipping some of my coffee.

Pierre opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a confused guppy before finding his voice. “Do you have a figure in mind?”

We won!

“Nicolas needs to work it out with you,” Muriel says. “We're the creative people, you do the boring stuff.”

Oops. Wrong timing, Muriel. That takes Pierre twenty years back, when she broke his bike and went to tell their father that he pulled her hair. “Muriel, we're going to open another transfusion line for you. But that's the last one. It will be minimal and will help you to survive until the show. After the show, if nothing major happens, like Kazo backing you up, it's over. And Dad will agree with me.”

“That's why he put you in charge of the family's finances. Because you're such a good daddy's boy.”

“That's great, Pierre.” I jump in and turn to Muriel, giving her a stern don't-fuck-this-up look. “That's all we needed to hear.”

 

My head is about to explode.

“Which one should we waste?” Muriel asks again.

The entire staff is standing around the boardroom table. All the sketches are spread in front of us. Françoise Neuton, all the designers, the assistants, even the receptionists, everybody is in here. It's a moment of pure democracy. We don't have enough money to produce all the dresses for the show. We need to dump a few. I stay with Muriel who helplessly contemplates the drawings, I really want to go back to the hotel, take a shower and go to bed.

“Let's think the other way around,” Nicolas proposes. “Which one don't you want to waste?”

“Please, Nicolas, things are already hard enough without you trying to confuse me! Lynn, help me!”

I look at the drawings once more.

“I don't know, Muriel. The red ones give me a headache.”

“The red ones are my favorites!”

I cup my head in my hands. “Do you really need me for this? I mean, you know better than anybody which ones to trash.”

She sighs. She has had enough of me. “Nicolas, take her somewhere else, she annoys me so much right now.”

“But…Don't you need me to…make the selection?” Nicolas sounds truly hurt by Muriel's dismissal.

“Since when do I need you to make creative decisions? Go. Take her away.”

I don't give him a choice anyway. I stand up and wait for him to show me the way out.

“Lynn, tomorrow, we are going to make this—” she moves her finger in between me and her “—official. Nicolas will see to it.”

“Sure.”

Great. That leaves me twenty-four hours to decide once and for all, Xu or Muriel B.

Life is all about choices.

“Do you want to go back to your hotel?” Nicolas asks. “You look exhausted. I'll call Massoud.”

We're back in the street. Busy. Chaotic as usual. “Listen. I'm sorry for this morning. Being late for the meeting. It was untactful.”

“It was…a bit unsettling.”

“Will you forgive me?”

“It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On you. On this afternoon.”

“Are you blackmailing me, Nicolas?”

He smiles. Boy, when he smiles, you would give him the moon and ask no change.

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat a horse, with you sitting on it.” Suddenly that shower and nap are forgotten. All I want is Nicolas.

“I know just the place. It's the best restaurant in Paris.”

“I hope it's the best and the closest, or else I might not make it alive.”

“It's the best and the most fun. You actually pre-buy your food and cook it yourself.”

“Can't we just grab a bite anywhere?” Only the French would think it's fun to make you work for your own lunch.

“And we'll pick up some wine.”

“Oh, no, no alcohol.”

“Wine is not alcohol.”

“No, it just so happens to make people drunk.”

He stops. He looks at me and smiles.

“Why did you think that I was gay?”

Oho!

“Um…I didn't.” Maybe I can play dumb.

He doesn't buy it. “You've asked me if I was gay almost each time we've met.”