F. Gerson - 21 Steps To Happiness

Maybe if I fold them like so. Yes, it does give them a bit of character.

Shoes?

What about my Japanese flip-flops? Let’s do that.

I twist and turn in front of the mirror. I look…experimental…and I still smell of sweat. More deodorant.

Stinky and ugly. That’s my fashion statement.

I look at my gray ensemble on the bed. Woman from dandruff shampoo commercial or smelly scarecrow? What will it be?

Maybe a pair of lightly shaded sunglasses is the missing detail. I don’t have that kind, just plain ugly ones. I try them on. I can hardly see my reflection in the mirror. And that’s good. I mean, not to be able to see myself. I immediately feel better.

The phone rings, I pick it up in the bathroom. Massoud is waiting for me downstairs.

Panic!

I hurriedly add a last spray of aerosol deodorant. Isn’t it too cold to wear nothing but a dirty T-shirt? I’m going to look naked. I grab a light pink pullover and throw it over my shoulders. Perfect! Now I look like a creature from the eighties who escaped after spending the past twenty years in a shoe box.

“Morning, Massoud,” I say as get in the car. “Nice to see you again.”

He turns and takes a good look at me and his nostrils twitch.

“No English,” he reminds me and opens his window. He whispers something. How do you say, God, the lady in pink really stinks in Arabic?

I recognize some of the streets from yesterday, mostly because of the herd of old prostitutes. Massoud stops the car and points at a wooden black gate across the street.

“Muriel B,” he says and I am not sure if he is talking about a brothel or a fashion company. “Rue Saint Denis, très, très hot!”

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

Jodie sent me to Paris to work in fashion not in prostitution. At least, I hope.

I step out of the car to find myself surrounded by people carrying racks of clothes, and prostitutes, lots of prostitutes.

The sight of Nicolas’s scooter instantly makes me feel better. I walk to the gate. I have to apologize to a prostitute since she’s leaning against the intercom.

“J’étais là la première, dégage!”

She’s shooing me away! Does she…? She thinks that I’m the competition!

“I just want to go into this building.” I point at the intercom. “I’m working in there.”

“I’m working here, too!” She steps away, very annoyed at me. She spits on the ground. That’s what she thinks of me.

I ring and the gate buzzes and opens. I pop my head inside, and then step into the courtyard. It’s very old-looking, with a little stone bench and a little angel statue in the middle. Behind the statue stands a large three-story building. It’s a sort of private house in the middle of Paris.

I walk on the old pavement listening to the sound of my Japanese flip-flops as I climb the marble stairs to the building.

I can see a reception desk past the French doors and a huge Muriel B logo. There’s no mistake. I have reached my own private hell.

But I can do this. I can prove to Jodie and everyone else I can fit in.

I open the door. The receptionist looks up at me. Everything is so silent. It seems that there’s just me and her in the building.

“Bonjour,” she says. “Je peux vous aider?”

“Nicolas Bouchez, please.”

“Qui dois-je annoncer?”

Oh, God, how long can I hide that I can’t speak a word of French? “I’m Lynn Blanchett.”

“Oh, but of course, take a seat, please.”

I take a seat in the beautiful white salon by the reception area. Everything feels brand new. You can still smell fresh paint. Electric cables are hanging here and there, waiting for the finishing touches.

Yet, the Muriel B office looks astonishing. A mixture of modernity set inside traditional surroundings. And beyond the black gates, past the courtyard, in the street, there is Sodom and Gomorrah. It’s so…fashionable!

I hear heavy footsteps coming down the large marble stairs. I’m so scared. Animals must feel this way before being killed and eaten. I put away my ridiculous sunglasses. I look up and see Nicolas walking toward me.

Seeing him is like a kick in the stomach. He looks that good.

Just like in my dream from last night. Yeah, that’s right, that dream. The one where he runs after me in the hay barn. He catches me and…

Did he make a special effort to look so good today? Or is he just plain cute like this every day?

“Nice to see you again, did you have some rest?” he asks.

I couldn’t stop thinking of you and you’ve even invaded my dreams. Oh, God, did I say that out loud? “I rested plenty, thank you.”

“Muriel is looking forward to meeting you.”

“Likewise.” Two sentences without sounding stupid. I’m on a roll!

“What do you think of our office? Amazing, no?” he asks as we start to climb toward whatever purgatory is waiting for me upstairs.

“It’s very…well, very special.”

“I know. It doesn’t look like a trendy district. That’s Muriel. She wants us to keep our ears to the ground, you know, be where things really happen.”

“The concept is good, I like it,” I say earnestly. “It can become some kind of motto—Muriel B. Where things really happen. You know what I mean?”

He smiles approvingly. That’s the first time he approves of something I say or do, except maybe for the scooter ride.

“You know what I think?” I ask, because all of a sudden I think that it would be great to do a fashion show right there, in the street below, in the middle of this chaos. That would be…

“No, what do you think, Lynn?”

Wait a second. What if my idea sounds completely stupid? How would I know?

“Well…Nothing,” I say mysteriously.

“Okay….”

Dull, dull, DULL!

We reach the landing and my heart is beating faster. Noises, voices, the sounds of movement and laughter are coming from behind a huge tall white wooden door.

“C’est l’Atelier. The workshop,” Nicolas says. “All the offices are located on the second floor. But this is where the real magic takes place.”

He pushes open the door and invites me into their world.

It’s a huge space, like a ballroom. Groups of people are gathered around different tables.

They chatter away. They scream. It’s a zoo.

Most of them are very young, a majority look Asian, maybe Japanese, and dress in contemporary punk style.

Nicolas whisks me through, and I can see lots of facial piercings, tattoos, dreads and multicolored hairdos.

“Here she is,” Nicolas says, pointing at a group at the far end of the workshop. “Do you recognize her?”

“Oh, yes,” I say, trying to guess which one in this group of teenagers could be Muriel B, and finally decide that it has to be the oldest one, well, I mean a girl about my age, which happens to be the most elegant one, in a classic kind of way.

“Muriel,” Nicolas calls, and, yes, the elegant girl turns first, so I walk straight to her, take a large breath of air, shake her hand and give her my million-dollar smile.

“Hello, Muriel, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

She shakes my hand, smiles and says, “Françoise Neuton. Pleased to meet you, too.”

Shit!

She points at the smallest, youngest kid in the group. “That’s Muriel,” Françoise Neuton says amused.

Muriel can hardly be more than eighteen years old. Her lips and nose and ears are infested with multiple piercings and studs. A large tribal tattoo goes all around her neck and arms.

Nicolas clears his throat. “Muriel, this is Lynn Blanchett.”

“I see,” Muriel says, but we don’t shake hands. “C’est un honneur d’avoir une Blanchett parmi nous!”

Oh, we aren’t going to speak English, then?