J'adore Paris (22 page)

I
’m meeting my mother and Yulia at Les Nuits des Thés, a quaint tea room on rue de Beaune, near our apartment. It has a feminine atmosphere: flowered vintage tablecloths, soft draperies, and a collection of lovely antiques. I’ve decided the best approach is to introduce Yulia to
maman
during a leisurely lunch without any pressure. Why not simply let my mother be seduced by Yulia’s irresistible charm?

My mother appears in a long black dress and a cloche hat, her lips bright red. She’s glued to her cellphone. She wouldn’t have been caught dead with one a few years ago: proof that everything does change.

“Hello,
ma chérie
,” she says, kissing me on the side of the head.

“
Bonjour, maman
. You look beautiful today.”

“Thank you.” She peers at my ensemble: a psychedelic 1960s shift dress, a canary yellow J.Crew cardigan I picked up
in New York, and a multitude of coloured bangles. I can tell she doesn’t like it.

“Does Dior approve of you dressing like that?” she asks. “It’s a bit loud,
non?
”

“You don’t like my dress? It’s vintage Pucci.”

“Let’s just say that it would make a lovely tablecloth.”

I ignore her. My personal style may not always be in line with classic French taste, but I’ve come to embrace bright colours, and wearing them makes me happy.

“So how was New York? And the trial?”

“Everything went well,” I answer. I’m not anxious to linger on the topic. “Speaking of work, I think I’ve found someone to help you out with your business. Her name is Yulia, and she’s meeting us here in a few minutes.”

She stares at me incredulously. “What are you talking about,
ma chérie
? I can’t afford staff yet.”

“Okay, then consider her an intern, not an employee. She’s a student, so she can work for a small salary, and if it works out, you can pay her a commission. You’ll find a solution—you always do.”

She shakes her head, not entirely happy, I can tell. “I can’t believe you did this. Where did you find this person?”

Just then, Yulia walks in, looking like she’s straight out of a perfume ad. Every head in the room turns. She’s wearing a light pink chiffon dress, tan leather sandals, and a matching belt. Her hair is in a high ponytail, and her cheeks look tan and healthy.

“Bonjour, madame.”
She reaches for my mother’s hand.
Maman
looks completely enthralled.

“Yulia has been modelling in Paris. We met at a Dior photo shoot,” I say. “She was wearing an outfit that made her look like an X-rated Kermit the Frog, so I thought I’d better save her from that.”

“Ah, you’re a model. You’re a real beauty,
ma chérie
. Where are you from?”

“Bulgaria. I’ve only been in Paris for a year.”

I see from the expression on her face that it’s been a long and difficult year. I hope this lunch will send her life in a different direction.

“And you’re studying interior design?” my mother continues.

Yulia shoots me a look, unsure how to answer.

“Not exactly,” I jump in. “Yulia is passionate about design but hasn’t taken any classes yet. She’s looking into studying on a part-time basis. But she’s done some impressive work on her agency apartment.” I wink at Yulia conspiratorially.

“
Ah
bon? Formidable
. What is it about interior design that you like?” my mother asks, turning this chat into an informal interview. I smile and take a sip of tea.

“I love spending time on the Internet, looking for accessories and original furniture. I also like browsing at flea markets.” Yulia’s eyes light up. She looks nothing like the vulnerable and fragile gamine I met just weeks ago. She’s more like a businesswoman in training. No one would guess that she’s only fifteen.

I nod at my mother, knowing this is exactly what she has little time for these days. They chat about the best places to find decor items and inspiration.

“So, Yulia, are you interested in making a career out of this?” my mother finally asks. “It’s hard work, and the clients can be difficult. It’s not just about buying things that you like; you need to consider your client’s taste first. And it certainly won’t pay as much as modelling for Dior.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m a very hard worker. And I’ve had enough of modelling. I’m definitely looking for a new line of work.”

“I understand.” My mother pats Yulia’s hand gently. “I modelled too, you know.” This was back in her youth, when the industry wasn’t as cutthroat and having hips and breasts was considered an asset, not a liability.

“
Non
, really? For who?”

My mother waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, a department store that no longer exists and Madame Grès.”

“Madame Grès?
C’est incroyable!
” Yulia looks stunned.

“You know who she is? That’s way before your time,
mon enfant
.”

“I saw an exhibit about her couture house last year. What an impressive woman she was.”

I listen to the two of them gabbing like two old friends. It’s a match made in heaven.

“Okay, then it’s settled. You’ll work for me,” my mother announces as the waiter arrives with a new pot of tea. “We’ll get you a new computer so you can work from home, and you can come to the south of France for meetings when needed.”

“Really?” Yulia claps her hands gleefully.

“Fantastique!”
I’m thrilled to be helping out two people I
care so much about. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up for a student visa.”

“Wonderful. I think we should order some food,
non?
I’ll have a fruit salad,” my mother announces.

“Me too,” Yulia concurs.

“Suit yourselves, but I’m having the caramelized cheese tart, the house specialty,” I say.

My mother starts to wag her finger in mock disapproval. But I’m past worrying what she thinks about my eating habits.

Yulia changes her mind. “You know what? I’m done modelling. I’ll have that too!”

My mother gives in. “Ah, to hell with the diet. Make that three tarts.”

Kate Moss said,
Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels
, but today we’re proving her wrong. “And why don’t you add a bottle of pink Champagne?” my mother tells the waiter.

I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.

“C
atherine, that dress looks wonderful on you,” Frédéric says as I enter his office. This is the first personal compliment I’ve received from him, and I accept it demurely.

“
Merci
.” I’m wearing a brocade jacket over a peach vintage sheath dress and a bow-shaped Valentino belt that belonged to my mother. She’s recently cleaned out some closets, and I’m the lucky recipient of some very fashionable castoffs.

“How are you doing?” I ask. His workload has increased since he’s taken over as general counsel.

“Just fine. Management’s been supportive and everyone on the team is very understanding. By the way, the employees have been told that Sandrine has taken on a reduced workload for personal reasons.”

I nod. Keen as I am for Rikash and me to get credit for
uncovering the truth, I can see how it’s wise to keep the matter under wraps.

“Okay. I’ll fill Chris in today,” I say. “Are there any other developments I should know about?” I’m curious about the next steps in a big operation like this.

“Tons of counterfeit merchandise was seized in Pierre’s apartment, along with other contraband and cash. The Parisian police, French customs, and the FBI are all investigating.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s all surreal.”

“And what about Sandrine? What will she be doing now?”

“Well, she’s been taken off anything having to do with counterfeiting. She’ll be handling administrative matters, negotiating our leases and the like.”

“Ouch. That’s a major demotion. What about eShop?”

“She won’t be overseeing that case anymore, either. Antoine and I will take care of it.”

“Oh good! You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

“But I have something else I’ve been hoping to talk to you about.” He turns his chair to face a map of the world on the wall. “You’re a hard worker and a loyal employee, Catherine. We’re thinking of offering you an opportunity to branch out from the law. Would that interest you?” Seeing my surprised expression, he continues, “As you know, Dior is looking to expand its brand globally, and there is a business development opportunity opening up in India.” He turns to face me.

“India?” I travelled to Goa after university, but spending time on a beach doesn’t teach you much about a country or
its culture. I’ve learned a little about India from Rikash and would love to visit again, but could I really move there? I think back to Shanghai and how the runway shows were infused with an intoxicating Eastern influence. Maybe a new challenge is just what I need.

“The higher-ups here were impressed with how you and Rikash handled the fallout with Sandrine. And thanks to you, one of the most wanted men in India will be extradited back to his country to stand trial for murder and racketeering.”

Our little amateur sleuthing mission now seems even more audacious.

“The consensus is that you have the skills for a business position abroad: you’re resourceful and dedicated. You’ve also proven your loyalty.” He sounds enthusiastic. “I think it could be a fantastic opportunity for you, Catherine. It will allow you to grow with the company and learn. Not to mention travel.”

I begin to speak, but he anticipates my words. “Don’t worry, Rikash is part of the package.”

“That’s good. I really couldn’t manage anywhere without him.”

But it’s Antoine I’m most concerned about. After all, I moved to Paris to be with him, and we’re only now starting to really feel in sync. Can I realistically spend time abroad, and so far away? I ask for some time to think about it.

“Sure, I understand. Won’t Antoine be thrilled to spend time with you in India?”

Maybe, I think. Antoine always puts my needs ahead of his own. “He likely will, but we do need to talk it through.”

I imagine store openings and fashion shows in the palaces of Jaipur and the deserts of Jaisalmer, places I’ve only read about in travel magazines. The idea is invigorating, I have to admit.

We call Rikash in—though I already know he’ll be doing somersaults at the idea.

When he arrives, I waste no time in breaking the news. “How about a new job for Dior in India?”

He smiles and waves his index finger in the air. “Don’t kid about things like that, dah-ling. You know how I feel about my homeland. I can make jokes about it all I want, but no one else can. It’s off limits.”

“Who says I’m joking?”

He looks like he’s just seen the ghost of Mother Teresa.

“We’re serious, Rikash,” Frédéric says. “I’ve just offered Catherine an opportunity there. Nothing is set in stone yet, but it’s a strong possibility.”

“And, of course, you’d be part of the deal,” I add with a wink.

“
Oh
my god!
That’s fantastic!” Rikash jumps up and down, moving in for a hug. “My prayers to Shiva have been answered!”

“You would be instrumental in making this work,” I add, my voice serious now. “It wouldn’t be a legal position but a business development one. I would need your help overcoming the cultural and language barriers, and who knows what else.”

“That sounds perfect! And more fun than legal work anyway! No offence, Frédéric.” He starts dancing and breaks into a rendition of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.”

Frédéric laughs before interrupting the show. “How about
we send you both to Fashion Week in Mumbai? It’s organized by a prominent Indian cosmetics brand. You can make up your minds when you get back.”

We’re elated. Outside Frédéric’s office, Rikash grabs my hand and looks deep into my eyes. “It’ll take some work, dah-ling, but I’ll teach you everything you need to know about India, including how to look like Padma Lakshmi. Yoga and spicy food aren’t the only things that are hot in my country.”

I meet Yulia at a café in the 9th arrondissement. We’re planning an apartment hunt today. I arrive out of breath, having run from the metro. I take off my hat and she greets me with two kisses. She looks like a breath of fresh air in her rolled-up boyfriend jeans, turquoise cashmere sweater, and pale ballet flats.

“I’m so happy you picked out this neighbourhood,” I say as we sit down. “It’s where I used to live. You’ll just adore it. It’s fun and unpretentious, and the rents are pretty affordable.”

Her budget is modest, though she’s now paid off all her debts to her agency. She earned a handsome fee for her work in Dior’s latest show, so she’s now set for a few months’ rent and tuition.

“There are terrific restaurants and cafés. And great little shops, too. I’m sure you’ll have a blast,
ma chérie
!” We’ve discovered a mutual admiration for all things vintage and sparkly. She grins and takes a sip of lemonade.

“I have good news and bad news,” I tell her after ordering coffee. “Which do you want first?”

She looks at me anxiously. “What? Please don’t tell me that your mother’s changed her mind about me.”

“Of course not. Are you kidding? My mother’s completely smitten.” I pull an envelope from my handbag. “The good news is that you look breathtaking.” I have the pictures from Yulia’s photo shoot with Jean-Michel. I show her the untouched photographs. “The bad news is that this is what you’ll look like if you don’t use our new face cream.” I pull out the digitally enhanced photo and wait for her reaction.

She peers at the prints from behind her oversized hipster glasses and bursts out laughing. I’m glad she isn’t taking this too seriously. “
Oh
la la! Quelle horreur!
” she exclaims. “Can you believe what they do to sell their products? It’s complete bullshit,
non?
”

“Watch your mouth, young lady. This is my employer you’re talking about here, so show some respect,
s’il vous plaît
.” I wag my finger in jest.

“Pfft, whatever.” She’s clearly over the whole modelling thing. “It’s just shocking to see my face like this. I’m fifteen, remember?”

In the altered image, she looks at least fifty years older. The methods our industry uses to sell so-called magical potions are laughable, there’s no way around it.

“I just hope the cute boys around here won’t recognize me in this ad.” She cringes.

“Oh, please. You’re stunning. Did you look in the mirror
this morning? Besides, it’s what’s on the inside that matters, right? But watch out for those Parisian boys, okay?” I say, my protective side kicking in again.

“Isn’t your boyfriend Parisian?”

“Yes, he is. But we’re together first and foremost because we respect each other’s minds. It’s not all about appearances. Whatever you do, go for the smart boys—they’re the sexiest.”

“Yes,
maman
.” She finishes her lemonade in one gulp and grabs her bag. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to find an apartment and sign my new lease!”

We arrive at a tiny apartment, and as we open the door, Yulia gasps. “Wow!”

It’s a fourth-floor walk-up, with tall windows overlooking a small courtyard and a school. It has a compact kitchen and a tidy bathroom. It’s the perfect hideaway for our designer-intraining.

“This space has lots of potential,” Yulia says, taking in every inch. “I would put my bed here, my desk there, and an armoire there.” She points to a space next to the window. “And I would add bright silk curtains. What do you think, Catherine?” She twirls around, her ballet slippers barely touching the antique wooden floors.

“You don’t need my approval—you’ve got it all figured out. And now you can take advantage of your designer discount when you’re shopping.”

We sign the lease and make our way back to the street. Yulia gives me a warm hug. She’s deliriously happy. As I take her picture in front of her new building, a young man with dishevelled dirty blond hair and wearing dark skinny jeans walks by. He’s carrying an easel and a tall stack of books. He can’t take his eyes off Yulia and whispers
“Bonjour, mademoiselle”
before entering the building.

I wink before whisking her away. “I think we might have found a smart one.”

A girlish smile lights up her face.

Mae West once said,
I never worry about diets. The only carrots that interest me are the number you get in a diamond
. The lady knew what she was talking about.

Today is the big day: I’m visiting the fine jewellery atelier. Until now, I’ve been too busy to take up Laetitia on her offer.

I meet her in the Dior lobby. She’s stylish as usual in a black wool dress with puffy pink sleeves and a crystal necklace she’s wearing as a belt.

“
Bonjour
, Catherine! So happy you could finally make it.” She gives me a warm smile. “You will just die when you see this collection.”

She leads me into a room hidden away behind massive grey double doors that are flanked by two security guards. My jaw hits the floor as I take in the shimmering diamonds, pink sapphires, and pearls sparkling from every corner.
“C’est magnifique!”

“Isn’t it amazing? Our jewellery designers like to play with semi-precious stones and lacquered gold. Their inspiration comes from pop culture, floral motifs, and the cinema. This is the rose collection.” She points to a dozen flowered pieces. “According to the designer, these pieces represent the union of jewellery and haute couture. And the rose was Mr. Dior’s favourite flower.”

She then shows me the love collection, made with diamonds and Burmese rubies, which cast rays of red light onto the wall behind us.

“This is absolutely breathtaking,” I stammer, overwhelmed. I can only imagine the painstaking work involved in creating such magnificent pieces. “No fakes in here, I guess,” I joke.

“Oh, no!” She shakes her pretty head. “Only the real thing.”

I wonder who can afford such marvels. Clearly, only clients who can sample luxury’s highest tier.

“These two pieces are made of pink gold, tourmaline, and marquise-cut diamonds.” She points to a set of bangles. “They were influenced by the colours and spirit of Bollywood,” she goes on. “Several famous actresses have worn them in popular Hindi films. We’re thrilled about that.” She beams with pride.

I smile back, thinking about my upcoming trip to Mumbai. What an amazing time to be part of it all—the subcontinent is clearly influencing European designs.

After we leave the room, Laetitia puts a hand on my shoulder. “
Alors?
What did you think?”

“Can’t you see the drool here?” I point to the corner of my
mouth. “Seriously, it was divine. Thank you so much, Laetitia. I’m so grateful for the visit.”

I put on my coat and head to the elevator. The doors open, revealing a tired-looking Sandrine. She’s dressed in slim black cigarette pants, a camel-coloured trench, dark sunglasses, and flats. She looks at me as I walk in, then looks down.

I take a few seconds to collect myself, then carefully tell her what I’ve been wanting to say for the past few days: “Sandrine, you’re forgiven.”

She nods sombrely and whispers, “Thank you, Catherine. That means a lot.”

I leave the office feeling lighthearted. Despite its flaws, this business is about making people dream. The exquisite gems, the stunning fabrics, the expensive advertisements, and the runway shows allow us to escape reality and envision a more beautiful world, however temporarily. It’s something we all need. The French writer Stendhal summarized it perfectly:
Beauty is nothing other than the promise of happiness
.