J'adore Paris (21 page)

He grimaces. “I sure hope so.”

At that moment, every head in the room turns toward the bar’s entrance. I look too, and see our very own chief designer, Wolfgang de Vrees, wearing dark sunglasses and a fitted suit, and surrounded by an entourage of assistants, models, and journalists trying to catch him on film. He struts in at top speed, waving away the bloggers and photographers. His eyes meet mine and, to my surprise, he stops right in front of us. His entourage is forced to a halt as well, creating a giant pileup in the middle of the bar.

“Well, well, what do we have here, hmm? It looks like the legal department is out on the town.” Is he implying that we ought to be at home ironing our shirts for work on Monday morning?

“We were invited to lunch by some journalists after the Valentino show,” Rikash lies, not wanting to appear uncool, I guess.

“
Ah
bon
.” Wolfgang points to the hallway. “Please do stop by the Salon Marie-Antoinette. We’re showing the new, ultrasecret,
ultra-luxe, ultra-spéciale
, limited-edition resort collection.

You’re part of the family now,
après tout
.” He signals for the group to proceed, the assistants tottering on their stilettos while managing mountains of bags and hangers. They parade away like a circus act in motion. A few of the photographers snap our picture, assuming that we must be pretty important if we’ve stopped such an impressive cavalcade.

Rikash looks at me with raised eyebrows. “I suppose we should drop by, since the great man himself invited us.”

I shrug. “Okay, but I want to be out of there in less than ten minutes. My head is spinning.”

“That makes two of us.”

At the salon, we’re greeted by two young women decked out in tight black Dior dresses and layers of pearl necklaces. They’re reaching for the guest list when Wolfgang appears.

“
Non, non
, there’s no need for that. They’re from Dior. You’ve probably never met them, though—they work in the legal department.” He laughs, once more acting as though we’re the scum of the earth. “Please do have some Champagne.” He snaps his fingers, and a waiter in black tie magically appears with a silver tray filled with bubbly. Boy, this guy runs hot and cold.

I’d much rather have a tall glass of water and a couple of Aspirins, but I grab a flute, then look around the majestic room. My jaw literally drops: a crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, a gorgeous tapestry inspired by a Boucher painting is displayed on one wall, and tall doors open onto a terrace overlooking Place de la Concorde. Wolfgang joins me.

“Beautiful,
non?
It is said that Marie Antoinette took music lessons here.” He points to a rack of clothing at the far end of the room and leads us toward it. “Please come see my darlings.” He spins the rack around, then nods to an assistant. I guess the show’s about to begin.

A woman in a silver sequined mini dress begins to strut around the room. Wolfgang places a finger on his chin, clearly satisfied with his creation. Rikash and I can’t help but nod in approval.

“This is a line we’ve created for a younger, very fashionable client: the socialite who jet-sets across Europe and spends her time on the Riviera.”

“My kind of client,” Rikash pipes up.

“They’ve become an important target group, you know—the ultra-wealthy.” Wolfgang sprints over to the model to remove a loose thread, and I imagine a stunning European royal dancing the night away in Ibiza or on a yacht.

But Rikash and I have less superficial concerns to attend to. It’s time for a quiet exit. I’m about to tap Rikash on the shoulder when my eyes are caught by a pair of models walking half-naked around the room. One is bare-breasted and wearing only a nude-coloured feathered skirt and sky-high heels; the other is in barely there panties that emphasize her buttocks. It’s one thing to see sexually provocative ads in glossy magazines, but I’m disarmed by the sight of virtually undressed women in broad daylight in the name of fashion.

Wolfgang catches me frowning. “You are displeased with my work, Mademoiselle Lambert?” His tone is a touch accusing.

I’ve had more than my share of drama for today; nevertheless, I decide to be upfront with him. “It’s not that I find your work unpleasant. I just feel sorry for those poor girls. They’re walking around almost naked, and they look miserable.”

He gives me a withering look. “It’s important for me to create sexy clothes that your boyfriend will want to tear off you. Are you a prude,
ma chérie?
” His expression changes to amusement.

“No, I just appreciate it when people are treated with respect. And, by the way, those girls look younger than sixteen.” The few sips of Champagne seem to have rid me of my usual reserve.

“Is that a reproach or some unsolicited legal advice?” Now he looks annoyed.

I put my glass down next to the collection catalogues. “Consider it both.”

I signal to Rikash that I’m ready to leave. If Mr. de Vrees wants my head on a platter, so be it. He’ll have to wait in line on Monday morning.

Rikash and I part company in the Crillon’s lobby. I need to get out of this crazy scene. Antoine agrees to meet me in front of Le Bon Marché, the venerable department store in the 7th arrondissement, on rue de Sèvres. The cosmetics, shoe, and handbag departments are enough to make any woman squeal with delight, but today, I’ve had enough of fashion. I
step instead into the food hall, La Grande Épicerie, where I find a mind-boggling array of delicacies such as exotic mustards, dried mushrooms, and jams made of rose petals, raspberries, and violets. There are imported products here too: the American section contains M&Ms, Twizzlers, and Ocean Spray cranberry juice—not exactly fine foods stateside, but exotic to the French, I suppose.

I walk through the aisles like a puppy that’s lost her master. I can’t believe I’ve been bamboozled again. I trusted Sandrine and have tried to do good work for her. And this is the second mess I’ve gotten myself into in less than two years. Have I turned into a major
caca
magnet? The singer Lena Horne once said,
Always be smarter than the people who hire you
. My advice would be somewhat different: Always run a background check on the people who hire you.

I make my way to the café and order a green tea and a
crème brûlée à la framboise
to calm my nerves. This situation with Sandrine is bound to affect my professional future: no one in the fashion world will take me seriously if I’m fired for complaining that my boss took credit for my work. It’ll make me look like
une enfant gâtée
. But I can’t help but be resentful.

Antoine appears in shorts and a T-shirt, having just been for a run along the Seine. He can tell by the look on my face that something’s wrong. “What is it, Catou? You look like someone just died.”

I finish my tea. “Well, that’s not too far off.”

“What do you mean?” He sits down and wipes the sweat off his face with his T-shirt.

“It’s Sandrine. We caught her apprehending Pierre Le Furet and some other counterfeiters in the Tuileries Garden today. She somehow got access to our information and beat us to it.”

Looking stunned, he shakes his head and reaches for my hand. “Here we go again.”

I
show up for work on Monday morning unsure what to expect. Antoine suggested I send the video from the gardens to the police and plead my case with senior management to protect my security.

I’m waiting for Rikash to show up so we can put our heads together when I hear voices in the hallway. Sandrine is outside her office, wearing new gold jewellery and a look of satisfaction, while the president of Dior and two senior executives shower her with praise. I’m at a loss.

Rikash saunters into our office looking like the cat who’s just swallowed the canary. “I think I’ve managed to execute my plan flawlessly. You’ll be proud.” He sounds very sure of himself.

“Oh, really? What did you do?” I try to downplay my doubts.

He turns on his computer and brings up a video entitled
“Sandrine in the Tuileries Garden.” Whatever this is, it certainly doesn’t look like it will be drama-free.

“And now, the
pièce de résistance
.” He logs onto Facebook and shows me that he’s just loaded the video onto the site. “They say privacy is dead and that social networking holds the smoking gun. So there you have it.”

He presses Play. First we see Le Furet shaking hands with the street vendors; then shots of us in the Tuileries, setting up the electronic devices; then Sandrine showing up to arrest the group; then the Indian criminal running away on rue de Rivoli. The words “Sandrine Cordier drops the ball in major Dior investigation” appear in bright red letters at the end of the clip.

Merde!
I want to jump out the window onto avenue Montaigne.

“Rikash, what have you done?” My voice rises. “You’ve put our safety and our jobs at risk.” I break out into a cold sweat and clutch at my office chair, gasping for air.

“Chill out, sunshine. I sent the video to her privately, so there’s no need to worry. Besides, it won’t be on there for long—you just watch.” His tone is still confident.

As my mind is cycling through the possible catastrophic consequences of what Rikash has done, Sandrine storms into our office, her face as red as a sauna bather’s bottom and a look of terror in her eyes. She slams the door, then locks it. “Are you mad? How dare you?” she sneers, fixing her glare on Rikash. “Your video is very amateurish. Who do you think you are?”

“A very capable filmmaker, in fact. It was in my resumé. Don’t you remember?” Somehow, he musters a sly grin, though I can barely move.

It’s time for me to speak up. “How dare you leave us out of Le Furet’s arrest? We did all the work, and even put our lives at risk for it. I can’t believe your gall!”

Sandrine sees that we’re not backing down. She bites her lower lip and switches tacks. “In case you two have forgotten, I’m the boss here. Whatever work you do for Dior is to the credit of the entire department.” Her voice is low, but she looks a bit like a wild cat that’s been captured by hunters. “What do you want from me?” she continues defensively.

“We want you to tell management the truth: that we’re the ones who laid the groundwork for apprehending the counterfeiters, not you. Simple as that, really.” Rikash sounds a lot calmer than I feel.

“Ha! You think I’m going to take orders from you because of this little video?”

Rikash points to his computer. “You’re underestimating us, my dear. In case you missed it, one of the counterfeiters—the most dangerous one—got away from your ambush. It wasn’t exactly a seamless operation. From my perspective, you botched it, and I think the media would agree with me. It’s all in the presentation, isn’t it?” He finishes with arms folded.

Sandrine’s eyes narrow. She darts forward, trying to snatch Rikash’s laptop away. “Give that to me!” she cries hysterically. “Let me see!”

He reacts by hiding it behind his back.

“It’s over, Sandrine. Give it up,” I say. “Either you tell Frédéric what happened or we do.”

After a long, silent pause, she shocks me by beginning to weep, her jewelled hands flying up to her face to hide her tears. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” she says between sobs. “I didn’t mean to do it. I’m so ashamed.”

Ever the gentleman, Rikash hands her a tissue. “You should’ve thought of that before calling in the police, love.”

“It’s time for you to tell Frédéric the truth, Sandrine,” I say, dialling his extension and asking him to come by my office, then crossing to the door to unlock it. I look into her eyes and see fear. She’s cupping her hands between her knees like a child. I ask the million-dollar question: “Why go it alone, Sandrine? We could have done it together.”

She sniffles. “Desperation, I guess. I really need a raise. Arnaud and I are in a tough place financially.”

Pauvre de moi
. Given her apartment in the city’s poshest neighbourhood, it seems to me that “desperation” doesn’t really apply to her situation. But then I remember Jeffrey’s determination to maintain an excessive lifestyle, no matter what. After his company went public, he bought a yacht named
I Can’t Get No Satisfaction
and a fleet of sports cars. For some people, enough is never enough.

Sandrine interrupts my musings. “After Arnaud lost his job and his shares became worthless, our debt grew. Now we owe more than the value of our assets.” She looks down at her wedding band. “I didn’t want to lose everything I inherited from my family, especially not my home.” She looks away. “I
figured our only way out was if I got a promotion. So when I found out what the two of you were up to, I thought it was my chance. I guess that was very childish of me.” Her face is the picture of shame. “Please forgive me.”

I try to feel sorry for her, but I can’t. She has everything anyone could hope for. Save integrity.

“How did you figure out what we were doing?” Rikash asks.

She blows her nose before answering. “I overheard you talking about Le Furet one night and put two and two together. Coralie had caught him copying confidential information about our anti-counterfeiting efforts late one night when he still worked here. We learned he was sending it out to third parties. I fired him and we reported it to the police. He left right away for the south, so not that many people knew about it. I didn’t realize he was still at it.”

There’s a knock on the door and Frédéric walks in. Seeing the look on Sandrine’s face, his smile instantly changes to a frown. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

Rikash and I exchange glances. No matter what he thinks has happened, he certainly won’t be prepared for this.

“Yes, Frédéric, there is,” Sandrine replies flatly. “You’d better sit down.”

“D
ear Lord,” Frédéric mutters. “What a day. And it’s only just started.” He looks exhausted. As Sandrine told her story, it was as though his world was crashing down. He’s clearly as shocked as we are.

Now that Sandrine has gone back to her own office, Rikash shows Frédéric the video and plays the taped conversations. Frédéric watches and listens to it all without expression, then places his elbows on his knees, removes his glasses, and wipes them clean using his silk tie.

“To tell you the truth,” he says, “I’ve had the feeling something was wrong for the longest time, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.” He stares out at avenue Montaigne. “She wanted to know everything about your raids and was always asking for updates. She also tried to take credit for your idea about publicly destroying the seized goods, but I called her on that. Never in my wildest dreams did I think she would do something like this.”

“I still can’t believe the king of the Indian underworld was involved,” Rikash says.

“Luckily, Rikash had the good sense to contact the police and the Indian embassy to let them know what he saw,” I add. “The police managed to catch him, thanks to the lead provided by our video.”

Frédéric looks at Rikash like he’s just saved his life. “Thank god you handled this the way you did. Can you imagine the effect on our reputation if the Indian press found out a former Dior employee was collaborating with a Mumbai kingpin? We have four new stores opening in India in the next year.” He stands up and leans against a bookshelf, looking tired. “You’re very brave—both of you—and I commend you on your excellent work. I wish I had that kind of guts.”

Rikash is beaming, and I’m flattered too. Despite our rocky professional start, I was sure that Frédéric would do the right thing and take our side.

“Your efforts will not go unnoticed, I assure you.” He walks toward the door. “I will see to it myself. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“No harm, no foul,” Rikash replies jovially. “Besides, we’ve worked with worse jerks.”

Frédéric laughs, thankfully, so Rikash and I do too.

“I want you two to accompany me to the president’s office,” Frédéric says. “He needs to see this video for himself. And I’m certainly not going to take credit for your hard work.” He opens the door and politely signals for us to precede him out. I’m comforted by the fact that not all my colleagues are disloyal.

After a tense meeting with the company president that concluded with some admittedly satisfying accolades for our work, I collapse into my office chair. Rikash has run off to Paris Plage for his lunch break to show off his hip hop abs. Not even the drama of breaking up an international counterfeiting ring can dampen his enthusiasm for meeting handsome French men on a fake beach along the Seine.

I’m still having trouble understanding why Sandrine took it upon herself to organize Le Furet’s arrest alone. I guess we’re all in danger of letting pride cloud our judgment.

A knock on the door pulls me out of my reverie. Sandrine walks in, pale and dejected. She looks like she’s been crying again: traces of mascara line her cheeks. “I’ve just been demoted,” she says softly, looking at the floor.

I wait for her to go on.

She fiddles with her Cartier tank watch and her glittering tennis bracelet. I once read an article about former Wall Street execs visiting pawn shops to exchange platinum Rolexes and heirloom diamond necklaces for cash after the financial meltdown. I wonder if Sandrine will have to sell off some of her baubles. I once again try to feel sorry for her.

“I got what I deserve,” she continues, looking me straight in the eye. “Catherine, I’m sorry. I know I was supposed to be your mentor, and I ended up stabbing you in the back. I’ve let you down.” She wipes a tear from her cheek. “To tell you the
truth, I think that, deep down, I was worried you would take my place.”

Really? Lately, I’ve felt like a puddle of insecurity riddled with self-doubt, thanks to my former colleagues at Edwards & White and Jeffrey’s trial. So this is a surprise.

“It’s probably too soon to ask, but I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” She tilts her head sideways like a young child begging for her mother’s approval.

“That
is
a lot to ask, Sandrine. Trust is the basis of all relationships, professional and otherwise. Once it’s gone, it’s very hard to get it back.”

“I realize that.” She looks away. “I can assure you it’s costing me dearly. I’m no longer Dior’s general counsel, and Arnaud is filing for divorce.”

Ah non
. No matter how reprehensible her behaviour has been, I feel a tiny wave of empathy for her. We all make mistakes, and the price we pay for them can indeed be steep. Karma is one tough lady.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I murmur as she walks to the door.

My cellphone rings, and I look down and recognize Lisa’s number.

“Lisa! Am I happy to hear your voice!”

“Me too, sweetie. I just heard the incredible news.”

I freeze. What news? How can she know about the counterfeiting bust already?

“It was all over the financial news—Charles caught it first. You must be so relieved!”

Oh! Unbelievably, I’ve almost forgotten the trial. “You mean about Jeffrey?”

“
Yes!
What else? He’s going to jail!” she shouts joyfully. I run a Google search and see that the verdict was rendered early this morning:
Guilty on all counts
.

A deep sense of peace washes over me. A major thorn in my side is gone, once and for all. I want to throw open my office windows and shout my happiness from the rooftops.

“Yes, I’m relieved. The corporate world is rid of one more thief,” I say, thinking about Le Furet too.

“No kidding. Now you can focus on planning my wedding!” she adds. It’s less than a month away now.

“You’ll be thrilled,” I assure her. “My mother picked out the most gorgeous decorations. It’ll be exquisite.”

Now my office phone rings, and to my astonishment, I see Wolfgang’s name appear on the display. Lisa and I agree to talk and celebrate later, and I pick up.

“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Lambert.”

“Hello, Monsieur de Vrees. How can I help you?” What could he want?

“Congratulations. A little bird told me that lawyers do come in handy, after all.” He’s his usual melodramatic self, but his tone isn’t unfriendly.

“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment. I understand you don’t give them out often.”

“Hmm. That is incorrect. I don’t give them out
ever
.”

“In that case, it means even more, doesn’t it? Thank you.” Is there a catch? I wonder.

“I’m not finished.”

“Okay.” Here it comes.

He clears his throat. “I wanted to say that I appreciated your honesty at the Crillon the other day.”

I’m totally thrown now. I can’t think of what to say.

“You see, legal and business details bore me to death. And not many people would have expressed their opinion like you did. Actually, I can’t think of anyone else on this planet who would have said those things to me. You’ve got guts,
ma chère
. Bravo.”

I have to smile—I helped crack a global counterfeiting ring and impressed one of the world’s most revered designers, all in one day. Not bad.

My cellphone beeps with a text from Antoine:
Have u hrd the amzing news?

Antoine must have been following Jeffrey’s trial more closely than I thought. This is a win for both of us.

I jump on the line and call him. “Yes, Lisa just called.
Dieu merci!
I’m so relieved!”

“Your testimony and evidence were crucial. I’m so proud of you, Catou.”

My eyes water. I’m still a little ashamed of what happened with Jeffrey, but Antoine always makes me feel appreciated.

“How did things go today?” he asks.

“I’ll have to tell you later what Rikash did—it’s a long story—but the upshot is, Sandrine admitted to taking credit for our work and got demoted. Oh, and her husband wants a divorce.”

“Wow. Now that’s what I call a rough day. It must’ve come as a shock to your colleagues.”

“Yes. You should have seen Frédéric’s face—he was staggered. We talked to the president of Dior, and he promoted Frédéric to general counsel on the spot.”

“Sounds like a good move. Frédéric seems like a very smart man.”

“Yes, he is,” I say with a hint of glee. “And guess what? He wants you to be co-counsel on the eShop lawsuit.”

“Really?” he asks, surprised. “I thought that was off the table.”

“Not anymore. We need the extra help now that we’re involved in this criminal investigation too.”

“Thanks, Catou. You’re the best. We’ll celebrate tonight. I’ll put some pink Champagne on ice when I get home.”

Just as I’m about to slip outside for some much-needed fresh air, my cellphone rings again. I shrug and answer it without checking the display. This is one crazy day.

“Hello, Catherine.”

It’s the last voice I expected to hear.

“Hello, Jeffrey.” My tone is controlled, but my knees are trembling and I want to gag into my office wastebasket. I put him on speakerphone and press Record. I’ve done it before; I’ll do it again. Who knows what Jeffrey’s capable of?

“You must be thrilled: you got what you wanted. I’m going to jail.”

“It’s what you deserve.” There’s a long, awkward silence. I can hear him breathing, and it revolts me.

“I’m just calling to let you know that I’m going to appeal the decision.”

I knew things were too good to be true. Moments ago, I was sure I was finally going to be able to move on with my life, but it was foolish to think this was all behind me. I’m dealing with a wealthy man who can afford expensive lawyers. The words of Henry Ford come to mind:
Money doesn’t change men, it merely unmasks them
.

“As you please, Jeffrey. Just remember that no lawyer can change the truth. Facts are stubborn things. It sounds to me like you’re throwing good money after bad. Actually, I take that back. Your money isn’t good, it’s dirty.”

“Goodbye, Catherine. See you in court,” he snaps. The line goes dead, and my happiness seems to have died along with it.

Antoine and I sit in Le Restaurant, the acclaimed dining room of L’Hôtel, one of the city’s most charming establishments. Nestled in the heart of Saint-Germain on rue des Beaux Arts, the hotel has been a hideaway for Parisians for two centuries. Oscar Wilde lived here, and the exclusive guest list is heavy on celebrities.

We’re here for a gourmet candlelight meal and a private swim in the vaulted underground pool. Antoine’s surprise was really thoughtful, so it’s gut-wrenching to have to deliver the news about Jeffrey’s appeal, but I figure it’s best to get it out into the open before the Champagne arrives.

When I tell him, his eyes become as wide as saucers. He places his serviette on his lap and opens his menu in silence. I’ve learned how Antoine deals with bad news: he needs a little time to process it. Still, my heart is pulled in a million different directions. I just want us to be done with this chapter of my past.

After reviewing the long wine list for what feels like an eternity, he finally says, “I’m not that surprised. On what grounds?”

“I have no idea. We didn’t discuss his legal strategy. It was a pretty short conversation.”

He puts the menu aside and smiles. “Okay, I’m having the frog legs—they’re apparently to die for. I suggest you order the sea bass and we share the foie gras with candied rhubarb as an appetizer. How does that sound?”

Relieved, I reach for his hand. Antoine may not be the world’s most relaxed guy, but he has a heart of gold and knows how to live in the moment. He also knows that there’s a strong chance Jeffrey will lose his appeal.

“That sounds perfect.” I lean across the table and kiss him.

“We better not eat too much, or we’ll sink to the bottom of the pool,” he adds, patting his stomach. “And that isn’t what I had in mind when I booked it for just the two of us.”