F. Gerson - 21 Steps To Happiness

“It’s very…beautiful,” I say.

“Paris, Paris!” Massoud stars to whistle, turns away from the Seine and stops the car.

Before I realize that we have arrived at my hotel, a porter opens my door and offers his hand to help me out.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, bienvenu au Georges V.”

“Bonjour…”

I look at the hotel. It’s magnificent. Way beyond what I expected.

Massoud gets out of the car and passes the porter my ridiculously small luggage.

“Voilà! Goodbye.”

“Hey!” I call after him. “Massoud?”

“Oui.”

“Merci, Massoud. Thank you!” I give him my best smile, and I must be doing a good job at it because he smiles back and says, “pas de problème,” which, I believe, means something like you’re welcome.

“This way, mademoiselle,” the porter says, carrying my ugly little bag. He whisks me through the revolving doors.

Holy crap! Look at that. I freeze in the middle of the lobby, petrified. It’s so…

“This way, this way!”

Er, okay….

The porter drops my bag in front of the reception desk and I hand the man my passport.

“Mademoiselle Blanchett, yes. But of course, we have you in our English Suite.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“You are very, very lucky.”

“Really?”

“Really, you are. You were supposed to have an executive suite but then we found out who you were,” he says with a you-know-what-I-mean smile. “We upgraded you, of course! It’s a magnificent suite. André will show you.”

André, my porter, grabs my card key and I follow him to the elevator. I can’t stop staring at him. He is such an elegant creature, with a funny walk. His body remains perfectly still while his legs go wild.

It has to be some kind of professional trick.

“A magnificent suite…” I repeat, trying to imitate the French accent of the receptionist.

“Oh, yes, floor seven. The English Suite. Very beautiful, mademoiselle,” André says and does his funny walk all the way to the door to open it for me.

Mama Caramba!

I take my first step into the room. It’s clotted with antiques, drapes and fancy material, yet an awesome sense of refinement strikes me through and through.

“That will be fine,” I whisper because I want André to go away before I faint.

I find a five-dollar bill in the deepest darkest part of my jacket pocket and pass it to him.

“Merci et bonne journée, mademoiselle.” André hands me my card key and closes the door behind me.

I’m still standing in the entrance. I cannot grasp the fact that this is my room. I feel that at any time the real guests will come in and call the police to escort me out.

Because, let’s be honest: I don’t deserve any of this.

Jodie just said, “I made a couple phone calls. You’re going to work in Paris. It will be good professional experience for you. And please, take off that dress. I cannot be seen with you in that dress.”

She didn’t say anything about being treated like a freaking New York princess.

But then again, that’s how Jodie is.

I slide like a ghost toward the bed. It’s huge and truly beautiful, but I wouldn’t dare touch it. I can see the door to the bathroom. I am like an insect attracted by the light. I push open the door to have a look inside.

I clap a hand over my mouth not to scream. It’s so gorgeous! I have never seen anything so beautiful as this bathroom. All the silver and tiles are shining like diamonds. The towels look so warm and cozy. I need to touch them. I approach them. I reach for them. My skin feels the comfort of them. I turn to the mirror.

Ah!

Something is wrong in this bathroom.

It’s me.

I see my reflection in the mirror and I am the odd one out. Not only do I look exhausted, I look like an ugly little duckling with a mad hairdo.

I can’t believe that I have been seen by all those people dressed like this.

André the porter looks ten times more swish than me. Roxanne must have had a hilarious time with me. I must be her best joke since the invention of the whoopee cushion. She must be talking about me to all her friends—she might even phone Jodie. “Guess who I met on the plane? Your ridiculous daughter. Isn’t she common! She was wearing this ugly dress and hideous jacket!”

I am about to leave the bathroom when the sound of an alarm stops me. I look around and locate the source of the noise. There is a phone above the toilet seat.

Wow, you can sit on the toilet and still talk with your friends and family.

Disturbing.

I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Lynn?” a man’s voice says.

That’s me, so I say, “That’s me.” No, no, that’s not assertive enough. “This is Lynn Blanchett speaking,” I say loud and clear.

“Oh, hi! My name is Nicolas Bouchez. I’m the human resources manager at Muriel B,” the man says with a slight accent.

Oh, God!

First instinct: hang up, run away.

Second instinct: hide under the bed.

Third instinct: change your dress, don’t add disgrace to disillusion!

“Is everything okay? Are you…satisfied with the room?” he asks.

“The room?”

“Muriel wanted to be sure you’d be happy with the room.”

“It’s…okay.”

I have to sit down on the toilet. It’s quite comfortable for a chat on the phone.

“Muriel asked me to welcome you. Check on you. I am downstairs, at reception. You must be starving. Should we meet over lunch? Is there anyplace you’d like to go in particular?”

I try to think, but I can’t remember any restaurant name from my travel guide.

“Somewhere vegetarian,” I say.

Yes, I’ve just decided to be a vegetarian!

Just like Jodie!

Anything wrong with that?

“Vous avez reservé?” the maître d’ asks while staring at my mad hairdo and, yes, I also do stink of petrol (I’ll come back to this later).

“Une table pour deux, au nom de Bouchez, ou Muriel B,” Nicolas answers.

I nod. Whatever those people are saying in French, I’m just going to nod.

“Muriel B, mais bien sûr, une table pour deux.” The maître d’ is not surprised anymore. The fashion industry is full of crazy-looking, crazy-smelling people just like me.

Nicolas smiles at me. You see, not a problem, he seems to say.

Nicolas takes my jacket and hands it to the maître d’.

Nicolas waits for me to be seated before sitting in turn.

He fills my glass with water before the waiter beats him to it.

Nicolas jumps on the table, gives me an extravagant French kiss and orders our appetizers (yeah, okay, I made up that one, too).

Well, my original plan was to change my dress, meet Nicholas in the lobby and convince him I’m Miss Perfect.

It didn’t happen quite this way.

I walked down the monumental staircase and there he was, standing right in the middle of the lobby.

“I am dressed all in black, you can’t miss me,” he had said on the phone.

He was dressed in a tight black suit all right, tight black shirt and black tie.

Tight, tight, TIGHT!

I mean, even from a distance I could already see how slim and athletic he was.

I walked a few steps closer and all of a sudden, whoosh, he turned to me.

Wait a minute!

This was not a regular human resources manager. They sent me…an angel!

He was looking around as if trying to find me. Which one of these magnificent women is the extraordinary Lynn Blanchett? Surely not this small creature walking straight toward me, with her mouth wide open and drooling.

I ran through what to say in my mind. “Hi, I’m Lynn Blanchett…Lynn Blanchett…Hello? Ha ha ha!”