It’s crazy what jet lag does to you, huh?
Or maybe it’s just the Parisian atmosphere. The air pollution here probably makes every American woman horny.
I slide out of bed and hop to the bathroom. Where to begin? I start by looking at my body in the mirror. I feel so…Mmm?
When I can no longer stand to look at myself in the mirror, I throw on some clothes and head out. The lobby is very quiet. Nobody’s at the reception desk. Nobody’s in the restaurant, even though it seems open. “Hello?” I call. “Anybody?”
It’s such a beautiful room. It shines like a new coin, but still brings you back a century or two.
A tired waiter finally comes out of the kitchen and notices me.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, une seule personne?”
“Breakfast,” I say defensively.
“Yes, breakfast. Suivez-moi.”
He seats me at a charming little table.
“English or continental?”
“I feel very much like a continental girl this morning.” I beam up at him, quite pleased with my own joke.
He shrugs, kind of whatever, and brings back a little basket filled with mini Danish pastries and croissants. There are Barbie pots of jam, honey and butter to play with on my table. Add to this, toasted French bread and a large coffee plunger and, that’s right, I am in heaven.
Some guests have joined me in the restaurant. I am particularly interested in the women, the professional ones, the ones who are about to go to an office, just like me.
I need to look like them and I realize that I have chosen the wrong outfit. I’m wearing a brand-new gray ensemble that I bought for job interviews. I look like a cheap businesswoman in a commercial for a dandruff shampoo.
The other women are more casual. They wear designer denims and simple black or white shirts and, even though it’s quite dark in the restaurant, some of them hide their faces behind large lightly shaded sunglasses.
I can do that.
Fashion is so easy!
After breakfast, I take the elevator back to my room. Luckily, I have a dirty pair of jeans. I give them the smell test. Mmm…They’re a bit stuffy, but I can fix that with a bit of deodorant.
I don’t have a white shirt, though. But I have a plain white T-shirt that I wore for my bus trip to New York. I put it through the smell test, too.
Ouch!
Bless deodorant.
There are two little sweat stains under the arms. Not a problem. I just won’t lift my arms. How often does one need to lift her arms in an office environment? And as soon as I get a minute, I will go out and buy myself a simple white shirt.
I check out my new outfit in the full-length bathroom mirror. I don’t look like the women in the restaurant. It’s my jeans. Wrong model. They’re too plain. They’re not your designer denims.
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