21 Steps To Happiness

Step #4:

Silence is your finest conversational tool.

“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!”

That’s not going to cut the mustard. I can’t deal with people like him. Bright blue eyes, dark blond hair and lips already forming into a gentle smile.

“Nicolas Bouchez?” I asked him.

He smiled some more. Some tiny wrinkles formed around his eyes. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.

“Yes….”

“It’s me. I’m Lynn Blanchett.”

Disappointed?

“Oh…Lynn! Sure…. How nice to meet you…finally!”

He shook my hand delicately. I looked up into his very large blue pupils and started to melt.

“Are you…”

“Me?”

“Are you hungry? Tired, Lynn?”

No, I’m speechless, and fascinated by you. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! And you are actually talking to me.

“I…” I began to stammer.

“We will take it easy today. Tomorrow starts the real circus!”

“I…”

“I have booked a table at a nice place, Le Club. It’s not strictly vegetarian, but they have vegetarian options. Will that do?”

You are perfect! I want to fall on my knees and just look at you.

“I…Perfect,” I finally managed to say. “Absolutely, completely perfect.”

“I came on my scooter. I’ll get a taxi for you. I just got this new BMW model. It’s very convenient in Paris.”

I followed him out to a sleek scooter like those I’d seen people riding in movies and TV commercials.

“They are very fashionable,” he said. “And so much easier to park than a car.”

“Can you fit two on them?”

“Well, there is a back seat, but…”

At the rear of the seat is a little space for an attaché case or a Lynn Blanchett.

“So forget the taxi. I’ll take a ride with you,” I said.

He gave me the are-you-sure-about-that-you-silly-woman look.

Yes, I’m sure. Absolutely sure. Like I’ve never been sure before. I’m a scooter-riding Parisian!

“I don’t have an extra helmet for you.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

I smiled at him. We climbed aboard and for a second there, I was probably the funniest public relations recruit he ever met. As we made the short distance from the hotel to the restaurant on his scooter, I realized I’d found the perfect way to…

1 Keep very close to Nicolas.

2 Get another good look at Paris.

3 Get a mad hairdo.

4 Filter the gas fumes, hence protecting the environment.

5 Get unwanted attention from maître d’s.

“Do you need any help?” Nicolas asks once we are seated and have our menus.

His voice is so gentle and sweet. He is always an inch away from a smile or a laugh because angels have a keen and happy nature.

“Sorry, we do have a menu in English,” the maître d’says, trying to snatch the French version out of my hands.

But I say, “Non” (Learn French in 10 Days—Day 1). “French is fine. What vegetarian options would you recommend?”

The maître d’ smiles politely. “We only have one vegetarian option.”

“Good,” I say. “I’ll have that one, then. It looks delicious.”

“Would you mind if I order meat?” Nicolas asks.

“You can order whatever you like.” I laugh idiotically.

He orders something in French, then asks me, “Some wine?”

“Sure!”

He selects the wine and then we have a long embarrassing silence.

“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“No.”

Is that good? Is that bad? Would you like me better if I did?

“Me, neither,” he says.

Oh, it’s good, then.

We have another embarrassing silence.

“I…”

I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a guy like you!

“I…”

Say something clever, Lynn! “I—”

“I’m a great admirer of your mother’s work,” he cuts in.

Shit!

“The paper collection,” he says enigmatically and nods.

Double shit!

Just when I thought my brain was at its emptiest, the simple mention of Jodie’s name bleaches it white.

“She’s a genius, isn’t she?” He digs deeper.

I enter vegetative state.

Say SOMETHING, Lynn!

“Château Haut-Brion, 1997.” Too late, the maître d’ is back with a bottle of wine. Nicolas tries a drop and says it’s perfect. C’est parfait.

“Do you like French wine?” he asks.

“I don’t…Yeah, sure, I love French wine.” I love anything you love, silly!

“Good.”

We have another long embarrassing silence.

If I don’t speak soon he’ll bring up Jodie again.

“I’m very tired, sorry,” I apologize for my lack of conversation, my lack of personality, my lack of…everything.

“Of course, it’s not a problem.”

I try the wine. It tastes weird, like a mixture of dirt, mushroom and mold.

“Perfect,” I say again.

“It has aged nicely, hasn’t it?”

“Mmm…yes, yes,” I approve.

Then he sniffs the wine, takes a sip and makes all kinds of weird noises before swallowing it.

A gurgling angel. How disturbing.

“Une belle robe, quoiqu’un peu riche en tannin.”

I nod. Oui, oui!

“You seem to know a lot about wine.”

That’s right. Compliment him till he bursts.

“Oh, not really. But it’s one of my hobbies. Food…restaurants…wine. You are very lucky in New York. So many good restaurants. Famous chefs. Amazing bars.”

Oh, no, don’t start asking me stuff about New York. I moved to Connecticut with Dad years ago. All I ever do when I go to New York is spend time locked up in Jodie’s amazing apartment, glued to her giant-screen TV. Ask me about cable and I can talk forever.

“I love going to New York just for the restaurant scene,” he continues. “What’s your favorite restaurant, Lynn?”

“Restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“In New York?”

“Yes.”

“I…wouldn’t know. I am not very interested in…food,” I say. “Que me nourrit me detruit.”

“That’s…the…anorexic motto,” he says and smiles cautiously.

Was that humor? Like…Curvy me…anorexic? Ha ha! Damn that French subtlety.

Another embarrassing silence. He smiles but I can tell that I’m making him pretty uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, I am so tired.” I blame everything on the jetlag again. Oh, God. He must think I’m so dull.

“Your goat’s cheese toast on eggplant salad,” the maître d’ says as he places the plate in front of me.

I can’t stand goat’s cheese and I hate eggplant.

“Votre filet mignon,” he says to Nicolas and places what looks like a delicious piece of beef rolled up in a thin slice of yummy bacon in front of him.

He nods approvingly. Angels are meat eaters, apparently.

As for my salad, I just stare at it as if it were trying to speak Greek to me.

“You’re not eating?”

I’m so hungry, I could faint.

“Oh, I’m not hungry anymore.”

“I see,” he says. “Do you mind if I…” He points at his steak.

“Go for it, I don’t mind you eating.”

“You know, this place, this restaurant…” He shows me around with the tip of his steak knife. “It’s one of the hottest places in Paris right now, and you would hardly get better vegetarian food anywhere else.”

“I don’t doubt it, Nicolas. But I am perfectly fine.”

Come on. Make an effort!

I fork a little piece of goat’s cheese and delicately lift it to my lips. I start to chew and the very taste I don’t like about goat’s cheese explodes in my mouth.

I want to spit it out and scream but I manage to articulate, “Excuse me’, stand and walk to the maître d’.

“Toilet!” I bark, trying to keep the cheese in a corner of my mouth and not spit it out on his lovely dark purple tie. He points downstairs.

I walk fast and make it to the toilets. I run into a cubicle and spit out the piece of cheese. I am so pathetic. I’m tired. I haven’t slept for the last twenty-four hours. My nerves are about to snap. I’m having lunch with the cutest man I’ve ever met, and I’m a freak show.

I sit, lock the door and go for it. I just cry. It’s a good thing to cry. Men can’t stand it when women cry. They think something’s wrong. It’s quite the opposite sometimes. Like now. It’s just a way to release pressure and move on.

When I walk back to the table, Nicolas has finished his steak. He must have hurried while I was away.

The maître d’ comes to our table and asks if we have finished.

“Yes, I am finished, thank you,” I say.

He exchanges one of those looks with Nicolas. Those American women, all nuts, they seem to agree.

“Any dessert?”

“Just coffee,” Nicolas says.

“A trim latte, no foam,” I ask, and by the dirty look I get from the maître d’ it’s like I just ordered the murder of his family.

“Trim latte, no foam,” Nicolas repeats and smiles.

Oh, look at that smile. I can spend my life ordering foamless lattes if it has this effect on him.

Then I wonder. What if I was to order a decaf non-steamed soy milk macchiato?

We’re back on his scooter.

Only this time I squeeze my arms around his chest. I close my eyes. I feel him breathing. In, out. Can’t we just drive like this forever?

“You can let go now.”

I open my eyes. We’re back at the hotel.

“Oh, sorry…. I was a bit…gone.” I let go of him and his scooter.

“See you tomorrow morning at the office, then,” he says. “I’ll send a cab. Is eight-thirty too early?”

“I never sleep,” I hear myself say, because that’s exactly what Jodie always tells everybody, even though I’ve never heard someone snoring louder than her. “Too many things to do! I’ll sleep in my next life!”

If only I could be mute.

“Sure….” He makes a weird gesture that doesn’t mean much to me. Maybe he just wants to say that I am by far the weirdest, most disturbing person he has ever met.

“See you then,” I say, but he is already gone.

I fall flat on my bed in my beautiful suite.

I pick up the phone and follow the instructions to make an international call.

“Er…what?” Delia answers.

Delia is my best friend. I hold her partly responsible for my being in Paris. She’s the one that said, Hey, why don’t you phone your mother. She can get you a job as a receptionist or something.

But she didn’t know that Jodie doesn’t do anything like normal folks.

Like, if you suggest a gym subscription for your birthday, she sends her chauffeur with an Australian personal trainer that you’re also supposed to lodge.

“I met someone,” I say on the phone.

“What? Lynn?”

“I met someone.”

“You…Do you know what time it is?”

I lie on the bed. If only she could see the smile on my face.

“I’m in bed,” she protests. “I’m sleeping! The whole freaking city is asleep! Are you crazy?”

“He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And he is…so refined. And he…he…”

She finally caves in. “What’s his name?”

“Nicolas.”

“French?”

“You bet!”

“Mmm…I don’t like it. I don’t trust those European types. Great sex. Great fun. They even seem to really listen to you. There’s definitely something suspicious about them. Are you in love?”

I rock on the bed and play with the phone cord. I’m a teenager again!

“I don’t know. I just met him.”

“He’s French, use a condom.”

“Delia!”

“Is he hot?”

“Aaaaaaargh!”

“You lucky thing!”

We laugh.

“Delia…He doesn’t like me.”

“Of course he likes you. Everybody likes you.”

“No, he really doesn’t. How could he? He is so handsome and so…and so…everything…and I’m…well, I’m me.”

“Nonsense! You’re hot!”

“I’m so not.”

“Miss Blanchett, you listen to me. This guy…this Nikoooolaz, he doesn’t deserve you.”

I don’t say a thing.

“Lynn, tell me you will come back.”

Silence.

“You’re not permanently moving to France for a man, are you?”

Well…I make a quick mental calculation.

I am ugly: -2

I am very poorly dressed: -2

I am exotic and foreign: +1

I am faking anorexia: -2

I drink trim lattes, no foam: +2

I like to ride on the back of his scooter: +2

I get crazy hairdos after riding on his scooter: -1

I feel madly attracted to the most beautiful, most charming Frenchman: +2

Total: 0

Even Steven!

Step #5:

Seduction seduction seduction!

So here is my new plan: coffee.

I look at the clock on my nightstand and it’s only six in the morning. I know, I shouldn’t leave the sanctuary of my bed when outside there are hundreds of people waiting for me to be just like Jodie, but I must have it. And then I remember the dreams.

I had so many! In some of them, I was being eaten alive by all sorts of fish. But mostly I had the other kind of dream. Not nightmares at all. Au contraire. They were more like…well, erotic, I guess. And they involved him (him, him, him!), a pair of very large wings and various kinds of animals.

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?