21 Steps To Happiness

“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…”