Читать книгу 21 Steps To Happiness - F. Gerson G. - Страница 11

I’m eating my fourth croissant, drinking my fifth coffee and I’m pretending to read the same French newspaper for the gazillionth time and there is still no sign of Massoud.

“Can I have another pot of coffee?”

“Sorry, breakfast service is actually closed.”

How rude!

I look at my watch. I’m the last guest in the restaurant and I’m getting on the waiter’s nerves. I decide to take another look in the lobby.

“Have a good day, mademoiselle,” the waiter says. Trust me, he really means good riddance.

I check myself once more before I enter the lobby. Look at this gorgeous young woman. It’s Blanchett’s springtime, I’m blooming. After talking to Roxanne, I went on a shopping spree. The funny thing is, I did find a shop called Basic selling Basic T-shirts.

I am dressed in the same fashion as yesterday, but with a brand-new pair of Diesel jeans (175 euros), a simple white Basic T-shirt (39,90 euros) and I have a pink H&M scarf (9,90 euros) on my shoulders. I even splashed myself with some Kazo cologne (80ml/39,95 euros). “We American women can get away with everything!”

Where is everybody? Where is Massoud? How unprofessional of him. I try reception again.

“No, Mademoiselle Blanchett, there are no new messages.”

“Phone calls?”

“No phone calls.”

Aren’t they supposed to be worried about me? I feel like the ugly little duckling, you know, the smelly little girl that nobody wants to play with.

“Can I make a phone call from here?”

The desk clerk points at the phone booth across the lobby. He doesn’t even bother talking to me. What happened last night? Did I get disgraced while I was asleep, and all of a sudden everybody knows that it’s okay to be rude to me?

I walk to the phone booth and place my call.

“Muriel B, bonjour!” says a voice at the other end of the line.

“This is Lynn Blanchett,” I snap.

“Who?”

Is she joking?

“Lynn Blanchett. From New York. Can I speak with Nicolas, please.”

“Mr. Bouchez is not in the office.”

“Let me speak to Muriel, then.”

“Mademoiselle Boutonnière is not in the office either…I’m sorry.”

“Is anybody else but you in the office?”

Silence.

“Goodbye, then.”

I hang up. I’m so frustrated. I imagine Muriel and Nicolas locked in their offices, shaking their heads. No, no, no! We don’t want to speak to any Lynn Blanchett. She’s an ugly little duckling. Shoo, shoo!

“Can you get me a taxi?” I ask the concierge.

“Certainly. Where will you be going?”

“Muriel B. Office. It’s somewhere…” I point toward what I believe is the direction to the office. “This way.”

“I am sure we can manage to find the address for you.”

He smiles. Or is that a smirk?

I’m furious. They took me away from home. They flew me across the Atlantic. For what? To forget about me like yesterday’s favorite flavor?

And Nicolas? Mr. Backstabbing-Bouchez! Does he think that it’s all right to flash his pretty looks, his charm and his suave accent right in my face, just like that?

Mademoizelle Blanchett, yu are zooo delicioze, I wanta iit yu!

And now that I’m really dazzled and want a taste of it, too, it turns out he thinks I’m a waste of time and he’s gay! I am going to strangle him with his tie.

The taxi drops me off in front of the office.

“Just move, all right!” I say to the prostitute. It’s the same girl. She must be leasing this spot. She doesn’t dare to spit today. She feels I’m about to blow and she’s not willing to pay for it.

I press the intercom and cross the courtyard. I’m not impressed anymore. I’m not this ridiculous American girl that can’t handle the glitz and glamour of it all. I’m Lynn Blanchett, heir of the Blanchett empire! Lynn Blanchett, daughter of a genius! I am a complete bitch with a new wardrobe who is about to OD on caffeine!

I walk straight to the receptionist. I don’t say hello, I don’t say please, I don’t say sorry, I don’t say anything but “Nicolas Bouchez! Now!”

“Oh, he is out of the office.”

“Like hell he is!”

I don’t wait for more lies. I head upstairs and make my way to his office.

“Mademoiselle Blanchett! Please!”

I open the door to his office. It’s empty. “Nicolas,” I call. He’s hiding. Coward! I walk to Muriel’s office. It’s empty too.

I make my way to the workshop. I push the door. Where is everybody? Where are all the punks?

Back in Japan?

Françoise Neuton looks up at me. She’s working on a new version of the dress that I trashed yesterday.

“Can I help you?”

She’s alone in the workshop and something’s up, because she seems too happy to see me.

“Where is everybody?”

“Is it any of your business?”

“Oh, believe me. I’ll make it my business.”

She takes off her glasses. She wants to take a better look at me.

“I talked to Muriel this morning. You’re over, Mademoiselle Blanchett.”

What?

“Didn’t they tell you yet? Mmm?” She brushes the dress with her hand. “Do you like it better now?”

“Where is Nicolas?”

“Oh…He will be out all day, at the Carrousel du Louvres.”

“Where?” He didn’t even bother contacting me. He just discarded me as if I didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m sure that you can meet him there. After all, it’s his job to tell you you’re out.”

I don’t find the strength to strike back. I turn my back to her and focus on breathing.

“It was nice meeting you, anyway,” 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.”