F. Gerson - 21 Steps To Happiness

He looks at me and gives me his am-I-supposed-to-know-you smile. He finally makes up his mind and says, “Of course, how are you, Laura?”

“Lynn,” I correct him.

“Yeah, right, Lynn. Sorry. How have you been, since…since last time?”

“I’ve been good, Hubert,” I say, trying to keep my breathing at a socially acceptable speed.

“Lynn is working for Muriel Boutonnière, you know, Francis’s daughter.”

“Muriel, huh? Her father and I, we go way back,” he says and the world keeps getting smaller. “Is she still not talking to him?”

How would I know?

“She doesn’t…talk about that with me.”

We all shake our heads. Damn Shame is the consensus.

“Anyway, I don’t want to spoil your all-girl…thing,” he says and walks back to his seat for the takeoff.

“Look at him. He owns half the newspapers and magazines published in this country and he is still scared of me. Men are scared of women who reject them…. Men are scared of rejection, period.”

I smile but my heart is rushing while I try to look calm and poised. I recognize him now. This is the Hubert Barclay, the billionaire, the media mogul, Barclay the Great, and he actually said Hi, Lynn (or Laura, but oh who cares!) and How are you and My favorite color is green, just like yours (I know, I made that one up).

“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.”

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.