21 Steps To Happiness. F. Gerson G.

she says. “I’ve always admired your mother.”

      I crawl back downstairs.

      “You were right, nobody’s here,” I say to the receptionist. “Can you get me Nicolas on his cell phone?”

      “Sure.” She dials and passes me the phone.

      “Oui?”

      “Nicolas? How are you, darling? Lynn Blanchett talking here. You remember me?”

      “Yes, Lynn. I remember you.”

      “Guess what? I’m at the office. And guess what else? Nobody’s here but me.”

      “I know. I’m sorry. I should have phoned you.”

      “How thoughtful of you!”

      How do you say fucking bastard in French!

      “Listen…” Nicolas tries to sound consoling. “Why don’t you go back to your hotel, and I’ll come as soon as I’m finished. We’ll talk.”

      “No, don’t bother. I’m coming to see you. Right now.”

      “Lynn, wait.”

      “I’ll see you in a minute.”

      “Lynn!”

      I hang up. “Gosh, I forgot,” I say to the receptionist. “They were waiting for me at the Carouzal Louvres.”

      “Le Carrousel du Louvres,” she corrects and gives me the I’m-so-sorry-for-you look.

      “Can you get me a taxi?”

      

      The Carrousel stuff is like a shopping mall right under Le Louvres. And Le Louvres is…oh, you know what Le Louvres is. Isn’t that crazy? They have so many castles over here that they have shopping malls under them. Imagine that. Upstairs, their kings used to carry on their despotic businesses, while now, downstairs, there are gift shops, tourists and the mixed smells of French fries and cinnamon buns.

      I’m sure I’m in the right place, it’s like Fashionworld down here. They have dresses and fashion displays hanging all over the place. Dior. Chanel. Gucci. Gaultier. Christian Lacroix.

      I take a closer look at the Christian Lacroix dress. It looks like something from the distant past, but at the same time, it feels real. Not like a theater costume, but like a real thing. I love it!

      I walk faster to the showrooms. I want to keep this feeling. Cinnamon buns and Christian Lacroix. It will give me some strength to confront Nicolas. I walk to the two men guarding the entrance to the showrooms.

      “Hi, I’m with the Muriel B group.”

      “Sure.”

      They don’t need any other form of credential. They open the red velvet rope and let me in.

      I walk into the first showroom. It smells of wood dust and glue. All kinds of technicians are playing around with wires. Carpenters are building wooden structures. Everybody looks very busy and I’m walking in the middle of it all, unwelcome and purposeless.

      I…I can’t do it. I just saw Nicolas, and I immediately stopped breathing.

      I have no defense mechanism against a guy like him.

      He stands among a group of Muriel B’s finest Asian punks, talking with a little man with short gray hair and a beard. Oh, and he’s dressed like a catholic priest.

      Muriel’s with him and whatever happened before I arrived, it took the jam out of her doughnut.

      “Muriel, dear, there are no two ways about it,” the priest says with a strong British accent. “You won’t get the afternoon spot. It’s already booked for Dior! You can’t compete with Dior, darling.”

      “Hi,” I whisper, but nobody notices me.

      “The nine o’clock spot is very nice anyway. People are fresh at nine o’clock.”