21 Steps to Happiness (25 page)

They're part of something for once.

I turn to the press stand. It's invaded. Not only by journalists, but by regular people. They are passersby who want a better spot to peep at the models. But among them, I can see a few photographers and a couple of television cameras.

And I see him. Hubert stands beside one of the cameramen. He looks professional and concerned. He hasn't seen me yet, so I sneak away to hide backstage. I don't know how to thank him. I'm ashamed. I'm really ashamed! Here is the man I pushed away. He comes back to save my butt and I run away.

I make it backstage and regroup with the models.

They slide into the first set of dresses and off they go on the catwalk.

We can hear the crowd screaming. I mean screaming-screaming!

Muriel sees me. She smiles at me. We made it. We're family. I nod. My nerves are wrecked. I need to sit.

Muriel B is all that. Young, crazy, fun, street-wise and in your face.

I go to the far side of the marquis. I turn my back to the mess.

I cry.

You know, a good cry.

I look at them. The girls are jumping in and out of dresses.

I look around.

I wish he was here.

You ungrateful idiot! You should be crawling on your knees to Hubert and beg for his forgiveness but no, all you can really think about is how great it would be if Nicolas was here to see how you triumphed.

I call him on his cell phone.

“We made it, Nicolas.”

“What do you mean?”

“The show, it's going great. Listen…” I walk toward the catwalk. “Do you hear? We made it. They love it.”

“Lynn, Lynn,
c'est mon tour,
” Marc calls for my attention.
“Regarde!”
He has just finished fitting the spider wedding dress on Carolina. She looks amazing.

“I have Nicolas on the phone.”

“Why isn't he here?”

“Talk to him.”

I hand him the phone.

“Bien alors, où t'es mon chéri? Oui, oui, c'est la folie ici. Ils adorent. Ils adorent je te dis!”

He gives me back the phone.

“Come over, Nicolas. Please.”

“You know that I can't, Lynn. But…I'm so happy for you two! So fucking happy!”

“Nicolas! We couldn't have done it without you, you know.”

There's so much noise I can't hear him anymore, so I just shout, “Come right now,” and hang up before he has time to say no again.

I try to get to Muriel but she's too busy making a hit to notice me.

And just before I manage to reach her through the packed models, hairdressers and makeup artists, Carolina grabs her arm and drags her onto the catwalk.

It's their personal dream come true. The groom and the bride. The rest of the models follow. I walk to the edge of the catwalk to see them.

Carolina lifts up her veil and kisses Muriel. I mean, she gives her the real thing. The lovers' kiss. The French kiss. The crowd goes crazy again! They want more, but it's finished. Muriel bows to her audience. She's shining.

I take a good look at the crowd. Even the security girl is cheering up. Obviously, she never had such fun at any event. It's so good, she forgets everything about checking in and checking out, and beside her, I can see Kazo.

He doesn't smile or anything. He claps mechanically. The master approves, emotionless, yet satisfied.

I know! He's going to buy Muriel B.

We're rich!

“J'ai jamais vu ça, chérie, jamais.”
Marc is so excited, he hugs me. Hugging is good. We're all very proud. Muriel B rocks. The girl's a genius. She's better than butter and I'm so proud of her.

 

I open the freezer to get another bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

The caterer has done an amazing job in Muriel's apartment. It looks like a surreal nightclub packed with fancy drunks.

“Lynn!” Muriel calls. “Don't you leave me like this, bitch!”

She stands among the crowd, getting the attention she's starving for.

“Don't listen to her, she loves me.”

“I love this girl,” she yells. “I LOVE HER!”

She throws herself in my arms. She wants more of everything! More champagne! More love! More of me! She laughs. She's excited. Out of control. Champagne and success do that.

“Lynn, you know what you are?” Oops, she stumbles. She looks up and says, “You're by far the best thing that has happened to me.”

“And you know what you are?”

“A fucking genius,” she yells for everybody to hear.

“You're drunk out of your face.”

A lovely waiter with foie gras canapés comes up to us. “Foie gras?”

Muriel grabs a canapé and looks up at him. “You're cute!”

He gives us his ten-thousand-volt smile and walks away again.

“Hey! He can't walk away from me like that. I'm a genius.”

Muriel forgets that I'm the best thing that has ever happened to her and follows him into the kitchen to convince him that she's better than butter.

Where is Carolina anyway? I look around for her, but instead of Carolina I see Marc and…Goddamn it! Nicolas!

Marc hugs him. Nicolas looks confused and distant.

Poor thing!

He sees me.

I see him, and immediately all my guilt is gone. Hubert is gone. I just think,
He's the one I want. He's the one I need and nothing else matters.

I smile at him. I want him to come over. I want to soothe him. I know I can.

“I'm so sorry,” is the first thing he says.

“Don't worry, everything turned out great, finally.”

“I shouldn't be here.”

“Nicolas, you have to let go. Drink some champagne. This is your moment, too.”

“If Urbain finds out that I'm here, I'm done.”

“Did you hear what I said?” I grab his hand. I drag him into the kitchen. Once we are there, I pass him a flute.

“Drink, that's an order, and listen!”

He takes the flute, but doesn't drink the magic liquid.

“Tonight, we drink to victory.”

“Yeah, you win, Lynn.”

Oh, boy! Enough!

I launch myself at him and kiss. And I'm not talking about those sweet brother-sister sort of kisses. I go for the big one. The Carolina-Muriel official kind.

I know he feels lost because he's on Muriel B territory.

I know he is defenseless here.

I know I'm sort of taking advantage of him.

And so what?

Nicolas eases back, obviously embarrassed.

“It's all right,” I say, and take Nicolas's hand in mine again. We need to get away from the party, find a place for just the two of us.

“I have to go,” he says abruptly.

Nicolas releases my hand. What's the matter with him?

“You just arrived,” I say. “But fine, let's go together. Let's go to my place. And we're going to…” I try to get his hand back but he won't let me.

“I can't do that,” he says and it sounds somehow familiar.

Hey, that's exactly what I said to Hubert, because I…Because I wanted him to know that I didn't love him.

That sobers me up.

“You can't do what?”

“It's just not right.”

“Not right? What do you mean by
not right?
Define
not right!
” I hear the anger in my voice and so does he. He goes for the door and leaves me alone. I run for the door, too. I squeeze through the crowd. I push people away. I don't want Nicolas to go. I don't care what everybody thinks. I don't care how it looks. I just want to be with him.

“Stop,” I order him. Did he hear me? I manage to grab his sleeve and I shout loud and clear, “I want to be with you!” and oops, he actually stops. Only, it's a bit strange. It looks as if he's frozen to the spot.

Am I some kind of witch?

No, just a damned unlucky fool, because when I turn to see what Nicolas's staring at, I freeze just like him.

We stand side by side, looking at Hubert Barclay in the hallway.

I let go of Nicolas's sleeve.

Barclay looks at us, and well, there is no need to make it any clearer for him. “I'm late,” he says. “I wasn't sure you wanted me to come at all.”

“I…”

“It's okay. I'll see you around.”

He leaves.

He didn't even give me enough time to say how sorry I am. Or thank you for saving my ass today, Hub. God! I can't believe how horrible I can be to such an incredibly nice man.

Nicolas turns to me.

I recognize the look on his face.

It's I've-resigned-and-it's-all-your-fault Nicolas.

It's jealous-to-the-bones Nicolas.

“It's never going to go away,” he says sadly and walks off.

You don't need to decide anymore, Lynn.

Hubert or Nicolas?

Mr. Wealthy or Mr. Lovely?

Well, neither, my dear. They're both gone!

 

I push open the door to Muriel's bedroom. It's very quiet in there. Muriel is sleeping. I lie beside her on the bed. She mumbles a few words. She's having a nightmare. I hush her and caress her hair. I close my eyes.

It would be so easy if men didn't exist.

It would be paradise.

F
lip-flap. I look at my feet thrashing in the villa's swimming pool.

“Does anybody want anything? I'm going to town.”

I look up and take off my shades. Carolina has slid into a thin summer dress and wears a straw hat.

“Get me
Paris-Match,
I think they're talking about us,” Muriel says. “And
VSD.
”

“You look sunburned,” Carolina says and she's right. I'm about medium rare.

Muriel drops her copy of
Marie Claire
to look at me. She hisses and
tsk, tsks
at me. She never sits under the sun herself. She lies nonchalantly on a chaise longue, under an olive tree, wears a silk kimono and screams “cancer” each time a ray makes it through her parasol.

“Sunshine gives us vitamin D and—”

“And melanoma and chemotherapy and wrinkles,” Muriel says, shuffling through the pages of her magazine like she was reading those harsh words on each page.

“Listen to this,” she reads. “Muriel B has succeeded where most brands have failed, giving us something innovative and meaningful. Full stop.”

She drops the magazine. “We might be the flavor of the week.”

She can't get enough of it. She picks up French
Vogue
and turns to the article about our show. She wants to read it again.

I duck underwater. Think about it. I'm one of the ingredients that make the flavor of the week. I emerge and say, “Carolina, would you mind buying some of that delicious cassis sorbet?”

“Did you know that so and so was at the show?”

I don't answer. She has asked me the same questions about a hundred times. Yes, we had them all. All the celebrities were there.

“Plus jolies les unes que les autres, les stars sont descendues dans la rue pour assister au défilé haute couture de Muriel B,”
she reads once more.

I drag myself out of the water and sit on the edge of the pool. I look into the
pinède
.

We're back at the Boutonnière villa, and it is really wonderful. The pungent pine smell and the zealous noise of the crickets….

“Did you know that Paco Rabanne said that I'm the best thing that has happened to fashion
this year?
What does he mean by
this year?
Is
this year
a way to diminish the impact of my collection?”

“I don't like cassis sorbet,” Carolina says. Like me, she stopped listening to Muriel talking about herself days ago. Muriel's like the crickets. She's background noise.

“Come out of the sun, Carolina, you're hurting me.” Muriel pats the chaise longue next to her. “Are you in a hurry to look like my grandmother?”

“I'll take the motorcycle,” Carolina says. “Give me some money.” Muriel reaches for her straw bag and passes Carolina a bill. “I should have been paid for the show.”

“It was exposure for you, exposure is everything. Ask our PR expert.”

Carolina hisses at me.

My presence at the villa has been hard on her. The two of them were supposed to escape Paris and come to the Rivier all by themselves. But Muriel insisted that I join them.

“Should we go out tonight?” Muriel asks me.

“I'd rather stay at the villa and get drunk,” I say.

Muriel and I, we're having the time of our life.

We do nothing but eat tuna salad, get drunk on chilled rosé and lie lazily around the swimming pool all day. We declared the villa a no-man's land. Get the men out of the equation and you get a quiet, calm, perfect retreat.

“We've done nothing but drink rosé and watch TV. We should go to town and enjoy a bit of our fame. Let's go to Cannes. We're invited to the Gucci party.”

What Muriel really means is that
she'
s invited. Carolina and I could be her +2.

“I'm not sure….”

“Everybody will be there. Everybody who is somebody! You can get more contacts for us.”

I pick up the
Marie Claire
. I flip through it randomly, but Muriel has tamed the magazine and it instinctively opens onto the Muriel B–collection pictures. I look at Kazo posing with supermodel Magdalena Kurkowa.

“I'm not interested in everybody that's somebody.”

She slides her shades down to take a good look at me. “It's your job to know everybody. That's what you do.”

I hate it when Muriel is right.

 

It's a hot night and all the doors and windows are wide open.

“I wish we'd take the helicopter again, like last time,” Carolina says, looking away from the giant TV screen.

Muriel shrugs. “I don't like flying. Too many people die trying to fly.” She sits in the dark brown leather sofa and flicks through the channels the way someone normally uses a machine gun. We're waiting for our chauffeur to turn up.

“It's the Icarus syndrome,” I whisper and glide to the huge library, which covers a full wall of the living-room area.

I reach for a book in French. By chance, it's called
Villa Triste
and it's written by a French guy with an impossible name. It means
Sad Villa.
I know that much and tonight that's exactly right. I'm sad because Muriel is forcing me to get out of our retreat. I wish I could read the book and find out how the story ends. I open it. I pretend that I'm reading.
French blah-blah-blah
. Oh, we look so civilized. Three rich girls in their perfect Riviera villa waiting to be picked up for a Gucci party while reading books written by impossible-named writers.

We look very high society.
Vanity Fair
's favorites.

“Where's the party?” I ask, exaggerating the annoyed-slash-bored tone in my voice.

“At Palm Beach,” Muriel answers. When she watches television, she responds to everything with a delay, as if her brain needs to register your sentences, filing them first and then returning an answer.

Carolina shakes her head. Where do I come from? “Everything is always taking place at Palm Beach.”

I drop the book nonchalantly on a pile of other books waiting to be read and walk to the terrace.

“You look so…
romantic
.” For a second, Muriel thinks that I'm more interesting to look at than the commercials on TV.

People, you wouldn't recognize me. I'm wearing Muriel B. Muriel had one of the dresses made to fit me.

“It's because of the dress. Anybody would look romantic in that dress,” Carolina snaps, and poses, waiting for her own compliment.

“There is something very…
littéraire
…about you tonight, Carolina. You look like the lesbian heroine of an old book.”

“There are no lesbian heroines in old books,” Carolina says.

“You know what I mean, and anyway, get us some champagne, Carolina.”

She's back with a bottle, when we hear a male voice calling.
Bonjour! Il y a quelqu'un?
It's our driver. He's come to take us straight to hell.

 

“We're in love with you,” somebody says. They mean with Muriel. She is not just the rich Boutonnière heiress anymore. She is the fashion genius that everybody wants to be seen with.

“Your show was just…There are no words for it.”

“Were you there?” Muriel asks while gulping her champagne.

“No, sadly enough! But I heard all about it. Grand, that's what I heard. Grand!”

“I'm not sure
grand
is the right word,” I say.

“And you are…?”

“Lynn works with me. She's is like my right hand,” Muriel says.

“Oh, really?”

“She's Jodie Blanchett's daughter, you know.”

“Mmm?”

“Muriel,
ici,
” a woman calls. She's the same photographer that took our pictures in the Mean Ray in Paris.

Muriel takes my hand and Carolina's. We stick our cheeks together. We send a kiss toward the camera. The picture, if ever published, will be titled Muriel B with Two Friends at Palm Beach.

“Another one, Muriel. Just by yourself,” the photographer asks. We move out of the way. She takes a few snaps while Carolina and I stand, slightly embarrassed, on the side.

I don't want to be the bitter friend. Instinctively, I feel I deserve some of the attention, but I know that I won't get any.

I give up and walk away.

Carolina, unlike me, doesn't give up. She tries to stick close to her girlfriend. She is ready to feel neglected and ignored, just to stay in Muriel's radar.

I'm not happy. I want to go to the bar and wait for this party to be over, then go back to the villa and drown myself in the pool.

“Lynn!”

I turn and see Roxanne Green making her way toward me.

“So you made it, darling,” she says. “I've read all about you, everywhere. You are my prodigy.”

She hugs me.

“You know, until you, I never thought my step book actually worked!”

“I'm not sure it does, Roxanne.”

“What do you mean? It did wonders with you.”

“Roxanne, I'm not happy. It doesn't add up. I am exactly where I wanted to be when we first met, but it doesn't matter to me anymore.”

“Here you go, darling.” Brian passes her a glass of red wine. “Hey, I know you,” he says when he sees me.

“Yeah, you say that all the time.”

“My cocktail days are over,” Roxanne says. “Brian is turning me into a wine expert. Darling, go get a drink for Lynn. Bloody Mary. Go go.”

He is only too happy to comply. “Isn't he adorable?”

Just the perfect lapdog.

“Lynn, I think that I'm in love with this pathetic creature,” she whispers. “How embarrassing!”

“Roxanne, I'm miserable.”

She takes a good look at me. “Did you read the last chapter?”

“Yes, actually. I read it just before coming here tonight. Step #20, success will bring more success.”

“Success schmuccess! You're right. The guide cannot finish like that. One final step is missing.”

“A final step?”

“It's actually the most important one.”

Brian is back with my Bloody Mary.

“Listen to this one….”

Roxanne put her arm around his shoulders. She's much taller than him. They look comical together but they don't seem to care.

“Step #21! Bonus Material! Always remember, only love can bring happiness.”

She winks at me. Brian turns to take a good look at his goddess. Isn't he the lucky one?

 

“A Bloody Mary,” I order at the bar. I end up alone, lost and confused. But I have a plan. Get drunk for the rest of my life. I look at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. That's funny. I look good. Really good. Just looking at me you wouldn't guess the mess that I am inside.

The barman slides the cocktail in front of me.

“I'll have the same, thanks.”

I was so obsessed by my own reflection I didn't see him coming. My heart starts to pound so hard, it's going to explode in my chest. Yes, I knew it from the moment Muriel said that everybody that's somebody will be there.

“Bloody Marys have worked miracles before,” Hubert says as he sits on the stool beside me.

I wave at the barman. “Hey, can you change mine to a virgin.” The barman gives me a
yeah, whatever
look.

I turn to look at Hubert. “Well…”

“Well, what, Lynn?”

“I never had the chance to thank you for saving me.”

“I told you once. I want to be there for you.”

“Are you having fun here?”

“What?”

“Tonight? This party?”

“It's just another silly party.”

“Let's get away.”

 

We walk on the promenade along the beach. He notices that I'm cold. He lays his jacket over my shoulders. The moon is up and full. It's perfect again. Hubert is very good at being there at the right moment. If he knew we would meet at the Gucci party, I'm sure he would have brought a diamond and asked me to marry him.

“Do you want to have a last glass at the Martinez?”

“No, I don't want a last glass, and I don't want to go back to your place.”