21 Steps to Happiness by F. G. Gerson

businesswoman. I am an artist. I am crazy. I want to be crazy. And my company should reflect my personality. That’s why I need people like you. An American businesswoman with a big name that can help me reach the top.”
    â€œI’m not sure that I’m the person you are looking for, Muriel.”
    â€œYour mother vouched for you. Your mother is a genius.”
    I have this picture of Jodie working in her little workshop when she was still unknown and broke. I was very young but I remember her hard face looking down at me, snatching the fabrics away from my hands. “I told you not to touch! You’re going to mess everything up again!”
    Suddenly, someone’s singing a catchy French tune in Muriel’s pocket. She fishes out a sleek-looking cell phone. “Nicolas,” she sneers. “Work, work, work!” She throws the phone on the table.
    â€œAren’t you going to answer it?”
    â€œHe probably needs me to go back to the office and help him with something. ” She finishes her perroquet shaking her head.
    Actually, I would love to help Nicolas with something, like…anything. “Let’s go back to the office,” I say when the phone is done singing.
    â€œOh, no! We did enough work for today. Let’s go to my place. We can talk some more at my place.”
    â€œWhat about Nicolas?” I ask, nodding toward the phone as if he was trapped inside and needed immediate attention.
    â€œWe’ll phone him back. We can meet him at my place. Nicolas loves my place.”
    Mmm? Nicolas loves her place. I didn’t think of that. Nicolas and Muriel? She has such short hair. That’s definitely an advantage over me when taking a ride on his scooter.
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    I love privacy.
    Being inside your home is like being inside a safe nest. You close the door and you can recuperate from the mad and stressful goings-on of the real world. Your home is your only chance to get peace and quiet. I love my home.
    Muriel is completely different. Her home is like a train station at rush hour. It’s full of people from various walks of life, some of them she doesn’t even know by name.
    Muriel lives in a huge modern flat not too far from the office. I swear, the minute she opened the door, it seemed more busy and hectic inside than on the streets below.
    There is this guy from Spain. He wants Muriel to fix a meeting for him with Fjord Model Agency. Muriel met him in a club in Paris and doesn’t even remember his name anymore. She told him that she could help him become a model or, eventually, get him a part in a porn film. She introduces him to me as her beautiful Spanish Stallion.
    He sleeps on her sofa.
    â€œYou are Fjord Agency?” he asks me.
    â€œNo, I’m Lynn Blanchett.”
    Sprawled out in front of the giant TV screen are the Fat Breeders, a band from London. The whole band is crashing in Muriel’s apartment. From the drummer to the backup singers.
    According to Muriel, they’ve been here for two weeks. By the looks of it, they’ll never move out.
    â€œLynn is from New York, she’s Jodie Blanchett’s daughter,” Muriel presents me proudly.
    â€œHi,” they say lazily, as if they didn’t really give a damn, or were already so used to meeting all kinds of real celebrities.
    In the kitchen, two girls are sharing a frozen yogurt. They look like twins. They both have long blond hair in a tight ponytail and wear identical sweatpants and T-shirts. And, of course, they have bodies to die for.
    â€œYou must know Irena and Jacky. They’re from New York, too.”
    Irena and Jacky are dancers, temporarily making their living in Paris as topless waitresses. Muriel forgot how they came to live in her apartment.
    â€œThey’ve been here forever. I am not even sure they’re really gay. They bring all kind of weird men in here. Macho types. They’re very, very loose girls.”
    In Muriel’s bedroom,