21 Steps To Happiness

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Kate Silver for her incredible help and insights; Farrin Jacobs for her courage and commitment; Selina McLemore; Kathryn Lye; Ruben Gerson for his kindness; Franklin & Dulce Gerson for their love and comfort; Lukasz & Veronica Karwowski for their warm support.

Also, thanks to my wonderful agent, Julie M. Culver, and everybody at Lowenstein-Yost for the caring support, unlimited enthusiasm and hard work.

For Maria & Ilo,

the two authentic ingredients for happiness

Contents

Acknowledgments

Step #1:

Never be ashamed of who you are.

Step #2:

Remember: The grass could ALWAYS be greener.

Step #3:

Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.

Step #4:

Silence is your finest conversational tool.

Step #5:

Seduction seduction seduction!

Step #6:

Sometimes it’s hard to be successful.

Step #7:

Mingle, Snuggle and Connect

Step #8:

Never put love in the equation for success. Love is a freak number.

Step #9:

There are two kinds of people: those who have their names in the papers, and those who don’t.

Step #10:

You can sleep with Mr. Lovely but you must marry Mr. Wealthy.

Step #11:

Love lasts a year. A penthouse in Tribeca is for life.

Step #12:

There will be plenty of Mr. Lovelys, very few Mr. Wealthys.

Step #13:

Once you have convinced yourself, convince the others.

Step #14:

Remember to always look like you’re listening. People will love you for that.

Step #15:

Don’t be who you are, be who you want to be.

Step #16:

Don’t get too attached to Mr. Lovely.

Step #17:

What people think of you doesn’t matter, as long as they don’t work for Vanity Fair.

Step #18:

You can have talent but no success, but you can’t have success without talent.

Step #19:

Every success story has its climax.

Step #20:

Success will bring more success.

Step #21:

Bonus Material!: Always remember, only love can bring happiness.

Step #1:

Never be ashamed of who you are.

“You’re on the next flight, leaving at 5:40, Miss Blanchett.”

Listen to her French accent! It’s so…

“I can check in your luggage straight away.”

“That would be just fine,” I say with a suddenly posh voice.

I make a mental note: easy on the posh voice.

I pass her my bag. She frowns. Okay, it’s not one of those fancy Frenchy-looking kind she expected from someone like me. It’s more like a little Adidas job I used to take to yoga. And yes, it looks horrible, like an old sheep stomach stuffed with clothes and underwear. But darling, you should take a look at the rest of my life.

I have no time for futilities such as traveling wear anymore. I’m so desperately busy right now!

I am a businesswoman.

Going to Paris!

“You may wait in the Premiere Lounge and I’ll place a call for your boarding,” she says extra gently as she points at some sort of classy hotel-reception area behind her. “And…Miss Blanchett?”

“Yes.”

“I love your mother’s work.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say, stepping cautiously into the lounge with the feeling that I’m entering a sacred place.

Hello? I mean, Bonjour?

L’Espace Première is a magnificent lobby full of aging golden boys playing with their cell phones and computers, reading French newspapers while drinking scotch on the rocks under appropriately dimmed lights.

I make another mental note: Lynn, you must get used to these swanky places. Because, right now, I feel as comfortable as a monkey sitting on a rocket.

Oh!

A waitress brushes past me and places a basket of pastries on the buffet table. I move closer. I’m guessing they were baked in Paris this morning and flown to JFK.

“Are they from Paris?” I ask.

Silence.

“The croissants?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “They deliver them by truck. We heat them up in the microwave. I’m new here, anyway.”

“Thank you.” I grab one of those ridiculously tiny plates and fight a natural instinct to beat the cake-eating record, which is actually held by a Japanese woman, or so I’ve seen on the Discovery Channel.

Since Jodie asked me to behave like a young lady of the world, I put the tiniest of all the croissants on my plate, ignore the tray of éclairs, and find a seat next to an elegant woman.

She is all I would like to be. Startlingly beautiful. Confident. At home in such surroundings.

She is much older than me, about Jodie’s age, somewhere in her comfortable forties. She’s sipping tea while browsing through a magazine. She looks so calm, so perfect, so…erudite. She drops her reading, looks up and smiles at me. I smile back with my mouth full, shrug and struggle to eat as elegantly as a bird.

“They’re lovely croissants, aren’t they?” she says suddenly.

“Oh, yes, lovely!” Some crumbs come flying out of my mouth and land on George W. Bush’s face on the cover of her magazine.

She brushes them off gracefully. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I think we can board our flight. You’re going to Paris, aren’t you?”

I swallow a mouthful and say, “Well, yes, I’m flying to Paris!” As if it was the most obvious thing to do.

“I thought so.” She stands and gives me her hand. “Roxanne Green. Nice to meet you.”

Roxanne? What a cool name.

“Lynn,” I say briefly, controlling a survival impulse to say, That’s Lynn Blanchett, yeah, that’s right, the daughter of super-famous Jodie Blanchett, so who’s the most glamorous one now?

“Lynn? Mmm! Nice to meet you, then.” She gives me a condescending smile. “Our gate is this way,” she says and darts away immediately.

Oh! Should I…

She stops. “Are you coming?”

Yes, yes! I abandon my croissant to catch up with her.

“First visit to Paris?”

Apparently it’s tattooed on my forehead.

“Oh, no! I go often,” I lie. “What about you?”

“Not as often as I’d like to,” she says, but every single Air France attendant is, like, hello, Miss Green, how are you, Miss Green, how nice to see you again, seat 1A as usual, the Chablis is already in the chiller, ha ha ha, have a nice flight.

“What brings you to Paris so often, Lynn? Studying at the Sorbonne?”

Studying!

“Oh, no, no, work mostly.”

“Really? Working? What is it that you do, then?”

“I’m a PR…er…person. I work in couture,” I hear myself say.

“How interesting! Paris! Couture! At your age! You must lead a very colorful life.”

“I can’t complain.”

“Who are you working for? Dior?” Roxanne giggles.

“Muriel B.”

“Oh, you’re working for Muriel. That’s so funny. I know Muriel very well. Her father is a good friend of mine. You know him? Francis Boutonnière? It’s such a small world, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes! Extremely tiny,” I agree awkwardly, since I hardly know anything about Muriel B and I’ve never ever heard about any Francis Boutonnière. “Do you work in the fashion business, too, Roxanne?”

“I’m just an enthusiast. I make my living as a writer.”

“Oh…have you written anything I might have heard of?”

She gives me that smile again. “Are you familiar with self-help titles?”

“Boarding pass, please,” a flying attendant asks as we’re about to board.

Roxanne hesitates a second, but finally snatches mine. “Where are you sitting? Ah! Business,” she breathes and looks up at the stewardess. “Would you mind upgrading my good friend Lynn to premiere? Seat 1B. We just didn’t realize we were on the same flight.”

“That won’t be a problem, Miss Green.”

Just like that. I follow Roxanne into first class. “These flights are such a drag,” she whispers as they serve us two champagne flutes and a tray of canapés to make it just about tolerable. “We’ll keep each other company and you can tell me all about your big job at Muriel B!” Another laugh escapes her perfectly shaped mouth.

Oh, God!

“And remember to tell Muriel—you only fly losers and sales reps in business.” She’s about to give me back my boarding pass but takes a better look at it. “Blanchett?” she reads.

I can practically hear the bell of recognition in her head.

“You wouldn’t happen to know—”

“Yep,” I interrupt. “She’s my mother.”

You should see the look on Roxanne’s face. I thought for a second she was choking on one of the lovely canapés she threw in her mouth. “You’re Jodie Blanchett’s daughter. But, darling, it’s…IMPOSSIBLE!”

I gulp my champagne. I’m Jodie-freaking-Blanchett’s daughter. That’s just the way it is.

Jodie Blanchett, the designer behind the revival of denim chic.

Jodie Blanchett, the guru of anorexia clothing.

Jodie Blanchett, the worst mother on the entire planet and the one person responsible for putting me on this plane.

“I know Jodie very well and…she never mentioned any daughter!”

Typical Jodie. She always introduces me as family, never uses the actual word daughter. “I grew up with Dad,” I say to clarify the obvious un-Jodieness about me.

“Whose your dad? I must know him!”

“Bill Blanchett.”

“Bill Blanchett? Never heard of him.”

“Dad is a…” I’m about to say simple guy, but that’s such a bad way to sum up Dad. He is all that Jodie’s not. Caring, loving, there for me. Their marriage lasted less than a week. Jodie once told me she loved the sound of Jodie Blanchett. I’m just the by-product of her quest for a flashy name. “Dad worked in a club she used to go to,” I explain. “Like centuries ago.”

“Well, your mother was a real trouper, wasn’t she. Party party party!” Roxanne points a toothpick at me. “She was my absolute idol back in the eighties! Very liberated! Do you know I was one of the very first people to buy her paper clothes?”

The paper collection put Jodie on the map. Then came the perfume and the cosmetics line. The rest is history.

“I used to hang out a lot with her. We were very good friends. You know, back in the days….” Roxanne laughs again and the sound is quickly becoming annoying. “I don’t see her at all anymore. It’s like she…disappeared.”

“She lives a very secluded life,” I say.

It’s actually a miracle she came out of her lair to drive me to the airport.

I mean, she didn’t drive me, of course. Her chauffeur did.

“Muriel is all you’re not,” Jodie had told me during the ride while helping herself to a mineral water from the limo minibar. “She’s been an item since she was a child. She’s eccentric. Charming. She’s a social animal. She knows everybody and everybody knows her. And she also speaks many languages,” she concluded to answer her cell phone.

I opened the old copy of Learn French in 10 Days she offered me and looked through the first pages while she was having an angry cell-phone conversation about importing fur from Kazakhstan.

Day 1 was fairly easy and all about finding a bus stop. Day 2 was a real challenge as it encompassed buying bread in a French bakery.

Je voudrais une baguette de pain s’il vous plaît. How was that going to help in Paris? I was positive that buying bread wasn’t part of my job description. I couldn’t fall back on Day 1 either because I was also darn sure Muriel Boutonnière was not going to ask me directions to the next bus stop.

L’arrêt de bus se trouve à coté de la mairie.

Please.

How could anyone ever manage two languages in one head anyway?

Jodie disconnected her cell phone. “Did William give you some spending money?”

Jodie’s the only person in the world who calls Dad William. Everyone else calls him Bill.

“I have my credit card.”

“I mean real money,” she said and took an envelope from her handbag.

I opened it. It contained a large wad of Euros. Jodie is like the mob, she only believes in cash.

“I can’t take that,” I protested.

She laughed. “Why?”

“It’s too much money.”

“Don’t be so common!” She put her shades on, protecting herself from my commonness. “You’re Jodie Blanchett’s daughter. People will expect you to pay for everything. And you will! I don’t want you to seem cheap, it would reflect poorly on me.” She tapped on the driver’s shoulder as we approached the terminal. “To the Minute-Drop!”

I tried not to make a face, but she looked at me and sighed. “I can’t go inside the terminal. Not at this time of day. There are all…those people.”

I sat there beside Jodie, uncomfortable as usual, trying to think of something to say or to do that would impress her. Or at least get her attention. But she was already back on her cell phone, this time yelling at her PA and complaining about how U.S. Customs is ruining the fashion industry.

“Thank you, Jodie,” I said when I got out of the limousine.

She put her cell phone on the side for a second.

“Thank you?”

“For arranging all this,” I said, pointing at the terminal.

And for giving me the chance to show you I can be the kind of girl you’d actually claim as your daughter.

She looked annoyed. She doesn’t like thank-yous or goodbyes. It’s her excuse to run away from people pronto and without ceremony. “Please, Lynn. Don’t turn it into another mess,” she said and they immediately drove away.

Step #2:

Remember: The grass could ALWAYS be greener.

I want this!

I’ve always wanted this!

To be given a chance!

I look at myself in the mirror. There is such a difference between the person I want to be and this gross image I see. I’m a small chunky girl just out of college trying to look like a fashion guru about to tackle Paris.

I’m nothing like Jodie. Nothing at all.

I know that’s exactly what they expect in Paris. That’s what they paid for. Jodie II: a younger, kinkier, sexier, thinner version of the genius mother.

And all they’re going to get is me.

Untalented!

Inexperienced!

Unqualified!

I sit on the toilet. I hide my face in my hands and refocus.

I am Lynn Blanchett.

That’s Blanchett with two t’s, dammit!

I AM fab! I AM glam! I AM…going to be sick!

Focus focus. FOCUS!

Knock, knock.

“Yes?”

“We’re about to take off, miss. You should go back to your seat.”

I walk through the first-class cabin. Look at those people. I don’t belong here. I’d be better off with the sales reps in Business.

Roxanne looks particularly excited when I get back into my seat. She drops her magazine and whispers in my ear. “Don’t look back. Hubert Barclay is coming our way.”

Hubert who?

“He’s been trying to date me forever. Seriously! A womanizer like him. You must know Hubert?”

“Well…”

“He is so low. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was hunting in your age group. He’s such a disgusting man.”

I throw a quick glance in the aisle to see who she’s talking about but all I see is a very handsome man walking toward us. Late thirties. Tall. Athletic. Elegant. It can’t be the one she’s talking about, because…

“Oh, Roxanne! Tsk, tsk! Going to Paris and not telling me, again.”

Wait a minute! What’s so disgusting about him?

“So sorry, Hubert. Lynn and I are having a girls-only pleasure trip. You know Lynn? Jodie Blanchett’s daughter?”

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.”

Step #3:

Everywhere you go, be utterly bored.

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.