21 Steps to Happiness by F. G. Gerson Page B

erotic cheek kiss!”
    â€œYeah…anything else?”
    Sometimes I forget why I’m friends with Delia.
    â€œNo!”
    â€œI thought all those French guys were sex maniacs.”
    â€œNo, he’s not a maniac, he is…charming. Yeah, he is so-o fucking charming.”
    I spent my childhood waiting for a guy just like him. Now I knew why he couldn’t come: he was busy peeling potatoes in L’Escargot.
    â€œDo you think he could be the One?” I hear Delia ask.
    I look through the window. It’s so calm out there. No way I’m going to jump. I’m far too tired for that.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say as I collect all the pillows around me. I squeeze them. I squeeze them and wish I was squeezing Nicolas instead.

Step #9:
There are two kinds of people: those who have their names in the papers, and those who don’t.
    I’ m not available.
    I’m not here.
    I’m not in Paris.
    I’m not coming out from under my blanket.
    I’m supposed to meet Muriel and Nicolas to discuss my contract, but I can’t bring myself to go.
    I’ll stay right here, in my suite, until the police pick me up and put me in jail.
    Only, I’ll be at the airport before they show up. I’ll be on my way home. And then, I’ll dig a big hole in Dad’s backyard and bury myself so they’ll never find me!
    It’s not my fault everybody is so incompetent at Muriel B. Any other normal company would have asked more than just my name before relocating me to Paris.
    Oh, but not at Muriel B. No, no. At Muriel B, nothing’s done the right way. My company, after all, should reflect my personality.
    So why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel like a stink? Why do I feel like I did something wrong?
    Because I’m the biggest freaking fraud in the history of fashion! And Fran Wellish is about to arrive and expose me.
    The phone’s ringing. It has to be the police.
    Too bad! I’m not answering.
    I wait until it stops and the message light flickers. I pick it up, thinking I’m safe, but instead of getting my message, I hear Nicolas’s voice, “Er…Lynn?”
    The phone tricked me!
    â€œLynn, can you hear me?”
    â€œYes, Nicolas. I hear you. But I’m busy. I have another very important call on hold.”
    â€œWait…I wanted to—”
    â€œI’ll call you back.”
    I hang up before he can say that he has met Fran Wellish and that she said Jodie never mentioned anything about a daughter.
    I press my messages button. First I’m going to check who phoned. Then I plan to disconnect the phone and start packing my things.
    â€œ A-allo. This is Chloe Destouches. We met yesterday at Kazo’s. I meant to call you. I just talked with my chief editor, and, well, we would love to do a piece on you. It would be a feature. Three thousand words plus. ‘An American Girl in Paris.’ Or ‘Jodie Blanchett’s Daughter Takes Over Paris.’ Or ‘Lynn Blanchett does Paris.’ Something like that, anyway . It would be just wonderful. Phone me at…”
    God! A feature on me in Marie Claire?
    Can I do the star-makeover segment, too? “Lynn Blanchett: From Swamp Thing to American Princess.”
    I force myself to swallow my excitement and think logically for a moment. Don’t do it, Lynn, you’re not up to this. Don’t pick up the phone.
    I pick up the phone and dial.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œChloe? This is Lynn Blanchett.”
    â€œOh, wonderful!”
    â€œAre you serious about the article? I mean, who would be interested? It might be boring for your readers.”
    â€œ Au contraire. You are a very interesting subject. You are the dream come true. The glamorous heir of a fashion empire, conquering Paris. We could turn it into a series.”
    A series about me?
    â€œWe can follow your career. We would show your character easing into French high society…Mmm? I think we can do