J'adore Paris (18 page)

G
reenacre Park, on East 51st Street between Second and Third Avenues, is one of the loveliest public spaces in Manhattan. It’s richly decorated with honey locust trees, whose branches dangle over the outdoor tables and chairs, as well as lush plantings of pink and blue hydrangeas. There are three levels of seating, the lowest one dominated by a breathtaking waterfall. I discovered it once during a lunch break and found it a wonderful place to meditate and relax. The city beyond vanishes.

I’m sitting at one of the tables on the second tier, relishing some quiet time before heading back to Paris. I texted Rikash early this morning, letting him know I needed some time alone before our flight, then packed my bag, leaving it in the hotel’s luggage room, picked up a cup of green tea at a local café, and headed to the park.

As I listen to the waterfall, the trial replays in my mind like
a bad horror movie. The cross-examination and the allusions to my lack of judgment were painful. I just hope Jeffrey isn’t set free because of me. How could I forgive myself? I think back to the IPO fiasco. The strategy I came up with now seems like a reckless plan scribbled too quickly on the back of a paper napkin.

I take a comforting sip of tea and try to find a Zen state, but my mind wanders to last night’s dinner at Pastis. How could I have behaved like such a lush? Although I enjoyed François’s attention, it was just a passing fancy fuelled by too many glasses of Ricard. Antoine’s silence is creating a distance between us. I hope things get back to normal when I get home.

A hummingbird hovers nearby, then lands on one of the bright pink hydrangeas at my feet. It puts a smile on my face; all is not dark in the world.

I stroll across town toward Rockefeller Center and make a pit stop at J.Crew, where I pick up boxer shorts with a nautical pattern for Antoine. It’s a reminder of our trip to Normandy, which feels like ages ago now. At Henri Bendel, I select a chocolate and ginger cologne for Rikash; he deserves it for putting up with me. I then buy a gorgeous silk scarf with Bendel’s signature brown stripes
pour moi
, since I’ve come to realize that the best gifts are those we give ourselves. Or so I tell myself.

Just outside the front door, I come face to face with a pair of street vendors hawking counterfeit handbags and sunglasses on the corner. As I stare at them, one of them looks away and begins to pace nervously. He signals to his partner to throw
the loot in a black plastic bag. Here we go again: it seems I’ve been recognized.

I check my watch and see that I still have plenty of time before I’m due at the airport. I decide to take a quick trip down to Canal Street, one of the world’s largest counterfeit emporiums. It would be a shame to be here in New York and not even give it a look. As I walk toward the nearest metro station at a brisk pace, it occurs to me that I should probably let Sandrine, or at least Rikash, know what I’m doing, but I don’t plan on actually carrying out a raid. I just want to have a look around, and I’ll be extra-careful. Surely my stalker can’t possibly know where I am at this point, after all my meandering this morning. I run to the nearest subway, hop on the 6 train, and head south.

I step out of the subway station and into chaos, with vendors selling everything from satellite radios and Chinese beer to barbecued duck and fake Rolex watches. I walk past one selling bottles of Chanel and Dior perfumes that are clearly counterfeit. Thinking about their disgusting ingredients still makes me want to throw up. I wrap my new scarf around my head to remain incognito.

One vendor sees me lingering on the sidewalk and grabs my arm. “Lady, you want a bag? You want some Louis Vuitton?” I nod and he signals for me to follow him up a dingy staircase. I hesitate; should I be doing this alone, without any police
backup or my bulletproof vest? What if I’m recognized? My heart in my chest, I decide to follow him—I’ve made it this far; I can’t back down now.

At the top of the stairs, three men in baggy jeans and black T-shirts are leaning against rusty radiators, talking to customers ranging from young Eastern European tourists to middle-aged women who sound like they’re from New Jersey. I’m reminded of something Chris told me during our last raid: occasionally, when sellers sense police activity nearby, they lock their doors and turn off the lights. Shoppers can be detained for hours. I suddenly become worried for these people’s safety. But then I decide I’m being ridiculous. Nothing’s going to happen so long as I keep acting like a regular customer.

I scan the room and see fakes of everything from the latest Gucci bags and Prada wallets to Burberry raincoats and UGG boots. Surprised not to see any counterfeit Dior on display, I ask one of the vendors for Lady Dior bags. He nods and I follow him to an adjoining room. Here, the cream of the crop of fakes is on offer: Hermès Birkins, Chanel 2.55s, and Lady Diors in every colour I can imagine. I wonder if these vendors could be connected to the group I’ve encountered in both Paris and Shanghai.

As I take stock of the merchandise, my eyes are caught by some official-looking papers littering the floor. I squint and try to decipher what’s written there.

The vendor approaches, interrupting my snooping. “What colour?” he asks. My mind races. Will I actually have to go through with a purchase? I indicate that I need a few more
minutes. He lights a cigarette while I try to decide what to do. I notice that some of the documents have been haphazardly shoved underneath a red Lady Dior bag, so I move toward it. I remove my sunglasses and pick up the bag, pretending to admire its stitching. Looking down, I can finally make out what’s on the crumpled paper. It looks like a list of points of sale around town.

I risk a glance behind me at the vendor. He has turned away to talk to another customer, so I pull out my phone and quickly take a few pictures of the document. The path between me and the door is clear: time to go.

As I try to slip past the vendor and his new customer, the scarf slips from my head. The man looks at me and makes the connection. He yells something in a language I don’t understand. I panic, rushing toward the exit, pushing vendors out of my way with my shopping bags. Luckily, three women are in the front room, paying for purchases, and this buys me time to run to the stairs. “Please, ladies, get out now!” I scream.

I’ve made it halfway down the rickety stairs when a pair of hands pushes at the small of my back with such force that I tumble down, landing in the street with scraped knees and bruised elbows, but my limbs otherwise in working order. I’m seeing stars, though, and feeling a bit stunned.

“We know who you are, bitch!” one of the men spits down at me. “Come here again and we’ll kill you!”

I wobble out onto the street, and the women from the shop rush after me.

“Are you okay, dear?” one of them asks.

Another says, “Sweetie, are you trying to stop these boys from doing business? They’re just selling a few bags.”

I brush the dirt and specks of blood from my hands and skirt. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, ladies,” I say, “but it’s worse than that.” I put my sunglasses and scarf back on and begin to walk briskly away, calling back, “Much, much worse!”

Back at our hotel, Rikash zeros in on my knees. “Are those carpet burns, sweetie? Did I miss something?”

“No, of course not. I was pushed down a flight of stairs by some thugs on Canal Street.”

“What?” he says, gaping. “You went there alone? Are you insane?” His raised voice is attracting looks from the hotel staff.

“I know it wasn’t the smartest move,” I admit. “But I did come across what looked like important information in a seller’s backroom.” I pull out my phone and show him the photographs.

“What is that?”

“I think it’s a list of addresses where fakes are sold in New York.”

He gasps, covering his mouth. “Oh! What a thing to find!”

“As I was leaving, though, they recognized me. I think these guys are connected to the group in Paris and Shanghai.”

“Wow.” He seems to register the seriousness of this. “We’d better get out of here before they show up with a gun.”

We collect our luggage, and the hotel’s doorman hails a taxi for us. We’re on the Triborough Bridge when my phone rings. The blocked caller again. I let it go to voice mail. A few moments later, Rikash and I huddle together to listen to the message: “Miss Lambert, I understand you’ve been snooping around in our neck of the woods today. Not the smartest move. You’re in way over your head. Next time, we won’t be so nice.”

I spend most of the overnight flight back to Paris giving some serious thought to my job. Is it worth risking my relationship and maybe even my life for? The excitement I felt upon arriving at Dior is starting to wear off. But I don’t want to let Rikash down.

I can’t keep the Canal Street incident under wraps—it could have far-reaching implications. I decide that Chris is the best person to share the sensitive information with. I call him as soon as we land at Charles de Gaulle, whispering into his voice mail and concluding, “I assume you’ll want to take a look at the pictures. Call me and let me know the best way to send them to you.”

Rikash silently nods behind his Ray-Bans. I can only hope neither of us is the target of any further retaliation.

I
f it has tires or testicles, you’re going to have trouble with it
. I once saw this scribbled on a bathroom stall in an American airport, and I think of it when I enter our apartment and find no one home. I drop my heavy suitcase in the foyer and look for a note from Antoine—he knows I’m getting back from New York today—but aside from some scattered credit card and utility bills, there isn’t a trace of him. I sigh in disappointment, longing to feel his warm embrace again, especially after the incident on Canal Street. Maybe he’s gone out to pick up a bottle of wine? I try calling him, but it goes straight to voice mail.

I decide to unpack my bag and take a bath. I’m dragging my suitcase into the bedroom when I see a piece of paper placed on top of our bed. It’s a clipping from
The Wall Street Journal
with the headline “Former Browser CFO Stands Trial for Securities Fraud—Talk of Foul Play Involving Law Firm
Sweetie.” There’s even a picture of me leaving the courthouse. My knees go weak and my heart skips a beat. I speed-read through the article, taking some comfort in the fact that at least the account is accurate. The only really awful details relate to my romantic involvement with Jeffrey.

But still, now I expect the worst: I fear Antoine will want to call it quits after this. He knows all about my history with Jeffrey, but perhaps seeing it in print has pushed him over the edge. And god knows who else has read the piece.

I pace back and forth in our living room, then try calling Antoine again, with the same result. Should I go look for him? Surely our relationship is worth salvaging. If I were him, where would I be right now? Maybe he’s at his favourite local bistro, Le Pré aux Clercs, on the corner of rue Bonaparte and rue Jacob. I rush outside, determined to find him and resolve our issues once and for all.

As I race down the street, teetering a bit in my heels, I nearly knock over a few pedestrians exiting the local Monoprix. I leave them in my dust and arrive at the restaurant out of breath. I peer through the bistro’s large open windows. At first glance, it looks like Antoine isn’t here, but then I spot him at a table in a back corner. He’s seated alone, with his back to the door, reading the menu. Maybe he wanted me to find him this way so we could talk about things over a bottle of white. Just as I resolve to join him, a young woman with a jet black bob, dark jeans, and a crisp white linen jacket strides to his table. He stands to greet her, and they kiss each other on both cheeks, then sit down across from each other. She places her
handbag on the cozy banquette and elegantly sips water from a glass, looking very comfortable indeed. I want to scream.

I crouch down to avoid being seen. It feels like a knife is slowly slicing through my heart. A young boy seated near the window spots me, and stares as though I’m an alien. “
Qu’est-ce qu’elle est bizarre, cette dame
,” he tells his mother, pointing in my direction.

I’ve just been sized up by a child of six. He’s right: I’m a total basket case.

I
n France, we say,
“Un malheur n’arrive jamais seul.”
It’s the equivalent of “When it rains, it pours.”

I was definitely not prepared to see Antoine dining with another woman, not after a journey of five thousand kilometres, a gruelling cross-examination, and a nasty run-in with a mob of angry counterfeiters. I think about the newspaper clipping in my pocket. Could this be the end of our relationship? The lyrics of “Ne me quitte pas” by Jacques Brel drift into my mind. The singer begs his lover not to leave him, in a voice dripping with emotion, promising her everything under the sun. Do I need to do something equally dramatic?

Dejected, I walk down the street with my head hung low, unable to shake the woman’s face from my mind. They greeted each other so affectionately, and it sends jealous shivers through me. All of a sudden, everything is clear: Antoine means the world to me. I don’t want to lose him.

I reach for my phone, hoping for a bit of reassurance from Rikash. Perhaps the gorgeous brunette is a colleague and I’m jumping to conclusions. I need to fight through the exhaustion that’s fogging my head.

“What is it, love? The stalker again?”

“No, it’s much worse.” I get choked up in the middle of the sidewalk. “Antoine is sitting in one of our favourite restaurants with another woman.”

“Oh, honey, that
is
urgent. Sounds like we need to debrief. I’ll meet you at Les Philosophes in thirty minutes.”

I cross over to the Right Bank and make my way down the narrow streets and past the thrift shops where I like to browse on Saturday afternoons. Right now, my heart isn’t in it.

Les Philosophes, on rue Vieille du Temple, is one of the most popular cafés in Le Marais, and is mere steps away from Rikash’s bachelor pad. I’ve been here before for the mouthwatering coffee cake and people-watching. Musings such as:
I doubt
and
What am I allowed to hope for?
are painted on the restroom walls. Today, they seem fitting.

I take a seat on the terrace and order a glass of red wine. Artistic types walk by with their cameras, canvases, and laptops. They appear lighthearted and happy.

Rikash arrives, looking squeaky clean in a pair of trendy Energie jeans, a fresh T-shirt, and a pair of white Converse sneakers. I look down at the pathetic ensemble I’ve been wearing for the last twenty-four hours. It’s covered in dust and dots of blood. I realize that I look the way I feel: horrible. I want to crawl under the table and sob into my linen serviette.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” Rikash says gaily to the waiter.

“I’m having a really bad day. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

He just reaches for my hand and gives me a compassionate smile. I pull the
Journal
article from my jacket pocket and hand it over. He scans it quickly and slides it back to me, neatly folded. “That’s old news, dah-ling. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You should tell Antoine. He left it lying on our bed and then went out on a date with some hot stranger.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. The two of you are just going through a rough patch, that’s all. You’re in an adjustment period.”

I take a gulp of wine. “Adjusting to what? My self-destructive behaviour? I’ll end up an old maid. I know it.” I let my face fall into my hands.

“Come on. Antoine knew the Jeffrey story from day one. He was jealous, remember? I told you how he used to come over to my cubicle at Edwards & White and pretend to shoot the breeze when all he really wanted to do was talk about how much he hated seeing you with that snake.”

“I guess that explains why he’s shut off his phone and is having lunch with a Marion Cotillard lookalike,” I say, anger and despair having it out inside me. I’ve been careless about our relationship.

“Listen, sweetie, you’re reacting out of fear. Spell it out: False Evidence Appearing Real. You don’t know who this woman is, so stop being paranoid,” he says.

I sit back in my chair and try to pull myself together. “You’re right. But why won’t he talk to me so we can resolve our issues?”

“That I don’t know.” Rikash shakes his head. “I’m not the best judge of a heterosexual man’s mind.”

My phone rings. I can’t look, so Rikash peers at it. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s Chris,” he says, handing it over.

I’ve almost forgotten I called him from the airport. “Hi, Chris, you got my message?”

“Yes. Where are you, Catherine?”

“I’m with Rikash at Les Philosophes in Le Marais.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“All right, we’ll wait for you.” I reach for my wineglass. “At least one man is concerned about my well-being.”

“And what a man he is.” Rikash bats his eyelashes.

Twenty minutes later, Chris walks in wearing a charcoal grey blazer, dark jeans, and a sharp white shirt, and carrying a vintage leather laptop bag. He causes a few Parisians’ heads to swivel as he approaches. He shakes Rikash’s hand and kisses me on the cheek. Pathetically, I feel a bit flustered. It must be the jet lag.

“I was intrigued by your message,” Chris says. “What were you doing in New York?”

“Oh, we attended a conference in Sandrine’s place and met with lawyers there about a case we have coming up,” I say offhandedly. I don’t want to go anywhere near Jeffrey’s trial.

“Okay, and the visit to Canal Street?” He sounds concerned. “What was that about?”

Rikash and I exchange glances. I’m cornered now.

“I thought it would be a good idea to visit the area and see what goes on now that my perspective is different.” I remember Sandrine scolding me about visiting the Shanghai markets without any notice and realize I could be in hot water again.

“You went there alone? Is that where you got those?” Chris points to the bruises on my elbows.

I stare at the ground sheepishly. “I’m afraid so.”

“You’re on international counterfeiters’ watch lists, Catherine. You should know that by now. Something terrible could have happened to you,” he says gravely. His protectiveness tugs at my heart strings. He’s right, and he doesn’t even know half the story.

Rikash seems unsure of what to do next. Sensing that I’d like to speak to Chris privately, he rises from his seat and places his sunglasses on top of his head. “Okay,
mes adorés
, I’m off to meet friends at Le Silencio for cocktails. I’ll let you take over the work discussion, Chris; I’ve had enough for one day.” He winks in my direction and disappears into the night.

I know that I have to come up with an explanation for my erratic behaviour. I decide to tell Chris everything. “We’ve been receiving anonymous threats,” I finally say. “Emails, phone calls, you name it. And someone has been following us, too.”

“Since when?”

“For a couple of weeks now.”

He stares at me in disbelief. “Why didn’t you call me? I’m here to help you. And I have lots of experience in this area.”
He’s disappointed in me, and my heart sinks. I talked to Frédéric about the threats, so why not Chris?

He reaches for my hand, and my heart begins to race. I wonder how rational my thinking has been when it comes to him. Have I been keeping my distance on purpose, trying to squelch an attraction? He senses my unease and pulls away. “Sorry.”

I must remain all business. Now that Antoine and I are on shaky ground, it’s important. But it takes all of my resolve to ignore his hand next to mine. Part of me wants to grab on to it and hold on tight.

“I guess it wasn’t the smartest move not to tell you. I just thought Rikash and I could get to the bottom of things on our own. Anyway, there’s one good result, at least: I found this on Canal Street, in a vendor’s backroom.” I show him the photos.

He takes my phone and zooms in on the document. “Please email these to my work address,” he says, after examining the pictures. “I’ll send them to my New York investigators. Keep this up and you’ll be taking Sandrine’s job in no time.” He smiles.

“Unlikely. This is France, not New York. Protocol rules here—hierarchy and seniority come before everything.”

“You’ll get there.” He winks. “Besides, New York is such a rat race. It excites everybody because success is ephemeral.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and again kisses me on the cheek. “Please watch out for yourself, Catherine, and call me if you need anything. In the meantime, I’ll make sure this information is put to good use.” He heads to the door, looking back at me one last time.

I can’t deny it anymore: I am attracted to Chris. He’s smart, friendly, and ambitious, and he makes me feel good. But despite all this, it was Antoine I missed when travelling, and Antoine I wanted by my side when I was in trouble. I love him, and I know now that I want to make things work.

There are certain things a woman keeps locked away in the secret garden of her heart. My attraction to Chris will be one of them.