J'adore Paris (16 page)

“T
hese threats remind me of my first gig,” Frédéric says as I take a seat in his office. “I worked for a small litigation firm in the 7th arrondissement and was sent to Le Grand Hotel on rue Scribe with a police officer to confiscate counterfeit textiles.”

After a good night’s sleep, I decided to tell Frédéric about the stalking. Rikash’s feelings notwithstanding, I want there to be no more secrets. If I can’t trust the person I report to, what good is it to pour my heart and soul into my job? To keep my promise to Rikash, I’ll keep quiet about his tracking activities. For now.

“How long ago was this?”

“A very long time ago,” he says warmly. “Probably before you were born.”

“Ah, yes, that was a long time ago,” I joke.

“We were representing textile manufacturers whose designs
had been copied illegally. I arrived at the hotel, where the copies were being sold, wearing a suit, with a single gendarme. After I’d knocked on a few doors with my warrant, some hulky guys tried to hit me with a crowbar and chased me down the fire escape. I was so scared, my legs nearly gave out.”

“
Oh mon dieu!
Did you get away safely?” I try to picture it: Frédéric, refined and professorial-looking in his tweed jacket and tie, against a pack of thugs.

“Yes, luckily the policeman had called for reinforcements. We managed to seize four million euros worth of textiles, and the group we arrested was forced to pay five million in fines. Although it scared the living daylights out of me, it created a big splash in the media and was a great start to my career.”

“I would have loved to see you in action,” I say.

“The clients were so happy, they took me to the Moulin Rouge to celebrate.” He smiles at the memory.

“I guess the moral of the story is that I need to toughen up.”

He nods.

“It’s all new to me: the threats, being followed. I’ve been subjected to some vile behaviour in the past—in New York—but it was mostly done behind my back.”

“I’m sure you were expecting assignments that were a bit more glamorous when you joined Dior, but I’m afraid our work is far from it most of the time. But at least we don’t have to deal with the divas upstairs in the atelier,” he says, rolling his eyes.

I think of Wolfgang and his entourage; it must be exhausting to spend your days catering to the demands of a crew like that. Of course, I’ve sometimes fantasized about working in a
more creative department at Dior, but I keep that to myself. “You can say that again.” I want him to know that we’re on the same page. “I hope you know that I really enjoy working here.”

“Yes, and it shows. I’m sorry about the threats, but unfortunately, that comes with the territory. Keep in mind that there might be even more intimidation as you press forward.” He adjusts his reading glasses. “But that’s good news: it means you’re getting the job done and getting under people’s skin. I know it’s easier said than done, but don’t let it get to you.”

“I’ll try,” I say, reassured. Speaking to him has lifted a weight from me. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” I continue tentatively. “I’ve been served with a subpoena to testify at a trial in New York.”

“Oh?” He’s surprised.

“Yes, and it’s set for next week.” I cringe.

“That’s short notice.” He frowns.

“I realize that the timing isn’t great. It’s regarding a matter I was involved in last year at Edwards & White.”

“I see.” He takes a sip of water. “Could this trial bring negative publicity to Dior? You must know by now that senior management frowns upon anything that could tarnish our reputation.”

Testifying about the financial misdeeds of a CFO with whom I had a romantic liaison isn’t exactly synonymous with refinement and luxury, but I refrain from sharing any details. I just hope the trial will receive minimal media coverage.

“Not to worry. It’s about an IPO that went sour,” I say, going for nonchalance.

“Ah, one of those.” He sounds relieved. “I bet you encountered a few in your days at Edwards & White.”

I nod, trying to keep the conversation short. “Rikash needs to accompany me to New York. He was involved with the matter too.”

“Well, if you’ve been subpoenaed, then what can I say? I’ll ask someone else to cover the eShop paper chase while you two are away.”

I figure that, while I’m on a roll, I might as well keep going. “One last thing. Speaking of eShop, have you considered retaining another firm as co-counsel? It’s a major lawsuit, and sometimes it’s better to have two firms on board. The added expertise is a bonus, and it tends to keep both firms honest.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me, but we’ve budgeted for only one firm and, frankly, I have my hands full trying to manage it.”

He clearly feels I’ve overstepped my bounds.
Merde
. I try to backpedal. “It was just a suggestion. Of course, I understand your position.”

Just then, Sandrine sashays into the room in ivory palazzo pants, a royal blue silk blouse, and a collection of enamel Hermès bangles. She looks as though she’s just come from the salon.

“Catherine needs to run off to New York next week,” Frédéric says. “She’s been subpoenaed to testify at a trial.”

“Really?” Sandrine smiles. “It’s always exciting to go back to New York, isn’t it? While you’re there, you must try this new restaurant I heard about in the East Village; apparently, they make the best truffle risotto.”

I’m surprised. I expected her to be annoyed about this sudden leave of absence, but instead she’s sharing restaurant recommendations?

Frédéric looks puzzled also. He crosses his arms. “Rikash needs to go too, it seems.”

She’s unperturbed. “Actually, this timing is perfect. If the two of you are going to be in New York anyway, I’d like you to attend an anti-counterfeiting conference on my behalf. It’s being hosted by one of the magazines. Also, I’d appreciate it if you could meet with the American firm representing eShop. It might help us in our negotiations.” She leans against Frédéric’s desk, nearly knocking off his eyeglasses with her elbow.

“We’d be happy to attend the conference and meet with eShop’s lawyers,” I say, relieved that I’ll be able to do something productive for Dior while I’m in New York.

“
Fantastique!
I’ll have Coralie arrange a meeting as soon as your plans are confirmed. I think you’ll enjoy the conference. Diane von Lucas is the master of ceremonies.”

I gasp. “She’s one my favourite designers.”

Frédéric rolls his eyes and bites his lower lip. I’m guessing these types of job perks don’t come his way very often.

“Now that I think of it,” Sandrine continues, “you may know eShop’s lawyers. They’re using Harry Traum’s new firm, Traum and Associates. Wasn’t he a partner at your firm in New York?”

When Harry Traum, the former managing partner of Edwards & White, decided to branch out on his own, he had offered me a junior partner position. But I’d run far and fast
upon finding out that Bonnie Clark, his lover and my former boss, would be part of the new outfit. The thought of seeing them nearly makes me keel over.

“Catherine?” Sandrine asks. “Are you okay?”

Her voice snaps me out of my trance. “Yes, sorry. I do know him. We worked together on a few matters at Edwards.”

Testifying against my ex-boyfriend in a criminal court might be a breeze compared to coming face to face with Harry and Bonnie again. This trip promises to be anything but dull.

I turn to Frédéric. “Where did you say I could find those bulletproof vests you ordered? I may need to take one along in my suitcase.”

“W
hat the fuck are you doing? Can’t you see this is a drop-off zone?” A limo driver is shouting at our cabby and spitting toward our car with such force that I can almost feel the saliva hitting my hair.

“Jesus Christ, what does it look like I’m doing?” our driver screams. “We’re coming from the airport.”

“What’s taking so long, a-hole?”

“Whoa, calm down, children!” Rikash calls out from the back seat. “Let’s play nice and no name-calling, okay? It’s offensive to my virgin ears.” He covers the sides of his head while I pull out my wallet.

Welcome back to New York
.

The Gramercy Park Hotel brings back some of my best New York memories. I spent hours gossiping with Lisa at the Rose Bar, sipping their killer fig and ginger martinis. As we walk through the door, a bellboy takes my bags with a welcoming
smile. It’s clear that we’re not in Paris anymore, the cab melee notwithstanding. I’ve actually heard the words “How can I help you?”; “My pleasure”; “No problem”; and “Yes, ma’am.”

Cheery American optimism is scarce in France. Even after-work drinks have an upbeat name here: “happy hour.” The French equivalent is the unimaginative “5 à 7.” (Why be so restrictive?)

It’s also refreshing to see ordinary people dressed boldly and with individuality, something rarely seen in Paris these days. A tall blonde woman sitting at the bar in a periwinkle blue top and brightly coloured paisley pants, a fuchsia scarf around her neck, is a case in point.

After checking in, we rush to our hotel room to change. We’ll just make it to the conference on time. I slip into a light grey chiffon cocktail dress and matching dove grey satin pumps, courtesy of la Maison Dior. A touch of hot pink lip gloss gives me a bit of colour after the long trans-Atlantic flight.

Waiting for Rikash in the hotel lobby, I text Antoine to let him know I’ve arrived safely. We spoke only briefly before I left Paris. Despite my pleas for us to meet and resolve our differences, he wanted to wait until my return. I also text Laetitia about casting Yulia in future Dior shows—not really my area, but can it hurt?

Rikash struts into the lobby, as ebullient as a soufflé, looking dashing in a striped grey and navy suit, a pair of stylish leather brogues, and his Ray-Bans.

“Ready when you are, dah-ling. We don’t want to keep Lady Diane waiting.”

Just as we hop in a cab, my cellphone rings. A blocked number. I pass the phone over to Rikash. “This one’s all yours, Mr. Bond.”

“Hello, this is Rikash.” He activates the speaker feature so that I can hear.

“I see the two of you have made it safely to New York.”

My eyes widen. How does this guy know our whereabouts? Did he follow us here?

“Yes, we have, and I must say the weather is simply spectacular on this side of the pond.” Rikash is nonchalant, crossing his legs as if talking to a friend.

I frown, wondering why he isn’t being more aggressive, but he waves me off with the back of his hand.

“I must commend you on your choice of hotel. It’s one of the best in the city.” Now it’s our stalker who sounds casual.

Okay, now I’m really starting to panic. This maniac knows where we’re staying, and I’m not wearing my bulletproof vest. I’m under enough stress as it is with Jeffrey’s trial; I don’t need this added anxiety.

“Well, I have simple taste—I’m only satisfied with the best.” Rikash likes to paraphrase Oscar Wilde.

I give him an exasperated look and nudge him in the ribs. This is no time to make small talk.

“So, what gives us the pleasure of your call, scumbag?” To my relief, he finally kicks it up a notch.

“Just making sure neither of you gets into any trouble while you’re here. You’ve shown way too much initiative in the recent past, and we strongly recommend that you keep a lid on it.”

Rikash’s face turns purple, but I can see he’s trying to stay composed. He signals for me to talk while he fishes for a gadget in his suit pocket.

“We wouldn’t dare do anything out of the ordinary. That’s not the purpose of our trip.” I try to play along.

Rikash plugs a wire into my phone and gives me the okay signal.

“That’s what we like to hear, Miss Lambert. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you two, just in case.” The line goes dead, just when we were getting somewhere.

“Should we head back to the hotel?” I’m a little panicky. “What if he’s following us to the conference?”

“Not so fast, sweetie.” Rikash grabs my arm as I’m about to instruct our driver to do a U-turn. “Don’t do that. He’s probably bluffing to scare us off. For now, just put on a smile for the cameras.”

I take a deep breath and put my phone back into my Lady Dior bag. We arrive at Hearst Tower, on Eighth Avenue. There’s a scene outside: Cecily Dutton, the pop singer, is stepping out of her limo. Cecily caused a minor scandal by buying fake purses in Shanghai, I remember.

“How quickly the world forgets,” Rikash murmurs, clearing a path through the crowd.

Inside, we’re ushered into a ballroom, where scores of counterfeit bags, sunglasses, and perfume bottles are lined up on a long table next to signs identifying them as fake.

“Nothing we haven’t seen a hundred times,” Rikash declares. But when an attractive waiter cruises by offering Champagne,
he perks up. “Okay, now we’re talking. Here’s something I haven’t come across before.” He watches the man walk away.

We make small talk with lawyers from a number of New York luxury goods companies and compare notes about recent raids.

“One guy hit me with a giant garbage bag filled with fake handbags,” says a lanky man.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” a woman in her early forties, wearing a red suit, chimes in. “While I was on a raid, someone pushed me out of a second-storey window. I broke my arm!”

“Once, I was held up at gunpoint,” a man in a sharp pinstriped suit says. “I thought I was going to get killed right there in the middle of Canal Street.”

I raise my eyebrows and glance over at Rikash. Having our pictures taken and being threatened over the phone seems pretty tame in comparison. I just hope we don’t have any experiences like theirs.

“Thank you for being here today.” Diane von Lucas stands at the front of the room, ravishing in one of her signature silk dresses. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but it’s been reported that the Madrid train bombings of 2004 were financed in part by the sale of counterfeit DVDs.” You can hear a pin drop. “It’s a major epidemic that we need to fight together.” She clears her throat. “But there’s an added complexity to the fight against counterfeiting today: eighty percent of fakes are sold online.”

Rikash is scribbling on a napkin. Good idea: I should take notes in case Sandrine wants a report.

Once the panel discussion is over and dessert arrives, my shoulders loosen and I turn to Rikash, only to catch him passing his napkin to the handsome waiter.

“What was that about?” I ask him.

“I have a date tonight.”

“What? You can’t leave me alone the night before Jeffrey’s trial! I’ll be a nervous wreck. Besides, I need your help going over some of the practice questions the prosecutor sent me.”

“Don’t worry, dah-ling. It’s a very late rendezvous. You’ll be sound asleep by the time I slip out.”

“Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s say our goodbyes and get out of here. We need to pay a visit to our old friend Harry.”