J'adore Paris (7 page)

A
ubervilliers is a suburb of Paris located just north of the Périphérique, and has become a major hub for the wholesale garment industry. Chris has received a tip about a shipment of counterfeit Dior goods scheduled for delivery to the city’s Haie-Coq neighbourhood, and I’ve agreed to accompany him on a last-minute raid. What a life: yesterday I was taking in the jewel-like Jardin du Palais Royal; today, back to the streets.

The majority of the vendors in this district import goods from China and run an honest business selling garments, shoes, and accessories to retail clients from Belgium, Germany, Spain, and Eastern Europe. The wares are mostly run-of-the-mill no-brand handbags, costume jewellery, sunglasses, and the like.

Rikash is, unsurprisingly, chagrined to miss out on spending time with Chris, but has secured an appointment for a
hard-to-obtain beauty treatment with a local American plastic surgeon. He was torn, but decided his face took precedence. I covered for him.

“The police will meet us there,” Chris says as soon as I step into a black sports car he’s rented to get us there quickly.

Once we’re on the highway, I start to feel a rush. “I’m excited about doing this again,” I tell him. “I really enjoyed myself last time.”

“Are you sure? You seemed a bit nervous when we left the scene.”

“Let’s just say that I didn’t appreciate getting my picture taken, but I’m over it now. This job is so much more fun than what I used to do.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to feel intimidated by those goons. They’re just playing tough. And it’s been great having you and Rikash around.”

My idea about publicly destroying the counterfeit Diors comes to mind. Since I haven’t heard back from Sandrine, I decide to share the idea with Chris. After all, he’s been working with Dior for a while.

He frowns for a moment after I explain my idea. “It might be a tough sell,” he admits. “Dior can be old-school when it comes to this kind of thing. I’m not sure senior management will go for it.”

“Right,” I sigh, reminding myself that I’m no longer in New York, where anything goes—or just about.

“I admire your guts, Catherine. Le Furet would never have
suggested something like that. He was pretty conservative.” Chris takes a swig from his extra-large Starbucks.

He changes gears as we turn onto the exit ramp for Aubervilliers, and his fingers brush unexpectedly against mine. I feel an electric current run through my body. I grip the door handle, trying to steady myself and figure out what just happened. Is the attraction fuelled by the excitement of the raid? I brush it off and stare out the window in silence, focusing on making our mission go as smoothly as it did the first time. I have to admit, it’s not easy.

We arrive at the market, and I’m astounded by the number of stalls and vendors lining the wholesale shopping complex.

“There are now thousands of vendors here, and the number is increasing every year,” Chris tells me as we walk toward Sergeant Larivière.

“Mademoiselle Lambert, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Larivière shakes my hand. “So glad you could make it.” He gets down to business. “Okay, you see that trailer with the Czech Republic plates?” He points to a large brown van.

Chris and I nod.

“That’s the vehicle we’ve been told contains the fake Dior merchandise. Apparently, the owner of the van owns that shop over there. Shall we?”

Chris takes the lead and enters the store, where two Asian
men are standing behind the counter. Bags of every shape and size are scattered on shelves, and piles of scarves have been arranged haphazardly in a hanging display near the shop’s entrance. Seeing a police officer, the two shopkeepers run to greet us.

“Can we help you?” one asks.

“We have a warrant to look for counterfeit Dior merchandise,” Chris responds bluntly as Larivière flashes his badge.

“No, no, no. We don’t sell Dior here. We have no luxury brands.”

“We want to look in that truck.” Chris points outside. “It’s yours, right?”

One of the men shakes his head, but Chris holds out his hand. “Hand over the keys,” he demands. “Otherwise, we’ll force it open.”

The man nearest us reluctantly pulls a set of keys from his trouser pockets. His hands are shaking slightly.

“Okay, let’s go,” Larivière commands.

Chris unlocks the van and, after digging around in the back for a few minutes and pulling out a dusty old carpet, emerges with several large black plastic bags. He throws them on the ground and we begin to fish through them. As we’ve been led to suspect, there are scores of counterfeit items: handbags styled after Dior’s famous saddle bags and Lady Dior bags, as well as thousands of watches. The vendor was right in one sense—there aren’t any brand labels attached to the goods—but it’s irrelevant; they are still illegal copies of Dior’s designs.

The vendor tries fervently to defend himself. “I import bags, that’s all! I don’t know the difference between designer and no designer.”

The other man points to the watches. “See? There are no labels or brand names.”

Chris shakes his head. “These are illegal copies, and we have the authority to confiscate them.”

“You need to speak with my lawyer!” one of the men barks, looking peeved and pulling out a cellphone.

Chris looks at me. “Okay, Catherine, you handle this. It’s all yours.”

The man hands me his cellphone after explaining the situation—in Chinese, I think—to the person on the other end.

“Hello?” I grab the phone.

“Listen, lady, my clients aren’t guilty of anything,” a raspy voice insists. “There are no brand names on the goods, and they had no intention of violating the law.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say flatly. “They’re infringing Dior copyright, and we’re entitled to seize all the goods. I’m afraid a judge will have to decide whether or not you’re right about this.” I hang up and see Chris and Larivière looking at me approvingly.

The vendors glare at me and the phone’s owner throws it to the ground. It looks like not letting myself be intimidated is paying off.

“Bravo, Catherine.” Chris pats me on the back like a proud coach. “You’ve already become an expert at taking charge and
keeping a straight face in front of these thugs. Way to go!” The intimate gesture makes me a bit giddy.

“You’re turning into a real pro,” Larivière concurs.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Police raids are new to me, but I did get a little practice dealing with thugs in my previous professional life—you’d be surprised.”

“A
re you going to tell me where we’re going?” I tug at Antoine’s sleeve after we get into his vintage seafoam-coloured convertible. The quirky car used to belong to his mother, and we both love it.

He takes my hand and kisses it gently. “Not yet! But here’s a hint: it’s sophisticated, just like you,
ma chérie
.”

“I hope I packed the right clothes. I wasn’t sure what to bring, and you didn’t give me many hints.”

“Based on what I’ve seen at home, I’m sure you have everything you need.” He pokes my arm teasingly. “Besides, we’ll be spending most of the weekend under the duvet, so you won’t need much.”

I think of the bottle of À la Nuit tucked into my overnight bag and shoot him a sly grin.

We turn onto the highway heading west, and this throws me off. I’ve assumed he’s taking me south, maybe for a surprise visit
to my mother’s house or to Saint-Tropez. I guess the bikinis at the bottom of my suitcase won’t see the light of day, but I don’t care. I’m happy to be with Antoine, no matter where we go.

“Okay, I have no idea. I give up!” It’s been a stressful week, as first weeks typically are, so I’m happy to kick back and let Antoine lead the way. I untie my hair and open the window to feel some fresh air on my face. After a few minutes, I feel myself unwind, letting go of the tension in my shoulders. Before I know it, I’m drifting off.

“We’re here—Monaco of the North.” Antoine’s voice wakes me and I find his chin nuzzled into the back of my neck. I lift my head to see half-timbered houses with exposed wood framing and smell the tang of sea air.

“We’re in Normandy? What a lovely surprise!” I pull him in closer for a hug, inhaling the woodsy scent of his cologne. I’m dizzy with happiness.

I can’t tell exactly which town we’re in. I visited Normandy as a child with my parents and vaguely recall colourful beach umbrellas, sailboats, and platters of fresh seafood. Since my mother’s move south, I’ve spent most of my vacations there, and I haven’t visited this region much in recent years.

“First stop: the Christian Dior Museum,” Antoine announces. “We’re in Granville, his hometown. I thought you should get better acquainted with this place.”

I’m touched by his thoughtfulness and kiss him tenderly.
Rikash and I saw pictures of Granville in the company archives. Also, Dior has recently released the Granville, a large, hand-stitched leather handbag with the house’s signature
cannage
motif, to great commercial success.

“What a wonderful surprise! You’re definitely worth switching continents for.”

He takes me by the hand. “Let’s go,
mon amour
. We have some studying to do. And you’d better take notes—there’ll be a test later.”

I grab my straw bag and hat—both vintage, of course—and we scurry hand in hand toward Les Rhumbs, a magnificent nineteenth-century villa overlooking the English Channel and the site of the museum. As we make our way onto the grounds, my senses are stimulated by the stupendous view of the water, the sound of crashing waves, the smell of roses, lilies of the valley, and pine trees. We stroll through the gardens and read the signs explaining the property’s history: it was designed in emulation of an English park by Madeleine Dior, Christian’s mother.

To my delight, there are twelve olfactory terminals set up in the garden to educate visitors about Dior’s perfumes. I stop in front of the sign for Miss Dior, and Antoine snaps my picture.

“Did you know that Dior’s father ran a fertilizer business here in Granville?” Antoine asks as I read about the origins of the perfume.

“Really? How do you know?”

“I did a bit of research. What’s ironic is that, back in the day, the people of Granville would say “It smells of Dior” when
they were complaining about the fertilizer odours wafting through town.” He grins. “Hard to believe,
non?
”

“Times have changed, haven’t they?” I giggle.

I look out toward the horizon and fill my lungs with fresh air. I’ve always loved gazing at the sea, as it reminds me of life’s infinite possibilities. It occurs to me that, less than a year ago, I thought my future was all mapped out on Wall Street, but I ended up dead wrong, professionally and romantically. Today I feel confident that I’m on the right track. When I look at Antoine, who’s shooting the view with a camera, my heart swells with delight. My life feels pretty perfect right now.

“I think you’ll definitely want to visit the house. The brochure says there’s haute couture on three floors. You don’t want to miss
that
.” He seems as excited as I am about discovering this place. It’s obvious that Antoine takes pleasure in making me happy, and that puts me on top of the world.

The house is in the Anglo-Norman style, its roughcast pink exterior enlivened by bay windows and a veranda conservatory. It sits on the edge of a cliff and braves the gusty winds. I feel like I’m stepping back in time.

We walk onto the veranda, where a stunning giant star is sketched on the mosaic floor. I learned in the company archives that its pattern has appeared in many Dior designs.

“So, is Dior planning to retain Edwards & White on litigation mandates?” Antoine abruptly asks as I’m admiring a pink taffeta evening dress on display on the second floor. “Word on the street is that Dior is planning to sue eShop. I’d love to get involved in a case like that.”

My mood shifts from elated to grim. His work is important to both of us, but does he have to raise this now and ruin our idyllic moment? I sigh. “Antoine, to tell you the truth, I haven’t talked about it with anyone yet. It seemed inappropriate to bring it up during my first week, when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

I know he can see from my expression that I’m annoyed, but he pushes his point anyway. “Catherine, I get that it’s been a stressful week, but I’m under a lot of pressure to bring in new business now that I’m a partner. And you worked in the Paris office; you know who I’m competing against. They’re a pretty driven bunch.”

His curt tone puts me on edge. “I thought we came here for a romantic weekend,” I say, my raised voice attracting disapproving glances from a few fellow visitors. “Obviously, you had other intentions.”

Confused and upset, I turn on my heels and head for the nearest staircase, racing down to the tea room at the heart of the garden, where Antoine, who has run after me, catches my arm.

“Catherine!” he huffs, out of breath. “I’m sorry. Please wait. The pressure is getting to me. Don’t storm off like that.” His eyes are beseeching, like those of a wounded puppy.

I exhale audibly and look away. Older women sipping tea at a nearby table frown at me. Antoine looks so sincere, and it’s obvious they’re taking his side.

“All right, but no more shoptalk, okay?” I wag my finger. “We’re here to have fun, not be stressed out about work.”

“Okay, it’s a deal.” He pulls me closer and kisses me. “I’m sorry, Catherine. I love you.” The ladies whisper under their elegant hats, and I notice that they’re now smiling.

We spend the rest of the afternoon taking in the view while eating pastries off English porcelain. The delicious baked goods are named for Dior haute couture collections from the past. I’m officially back in heaven.

“What’s our next stop?” I ask as soon as we get in the car.

“I’m not sure I should tell you. After that scene in the museum, you deserve to wait.”

“Ha! You started it, mister. You really need to loosen up. What are you anyway, a lawyer?”

“No, I’m the personal assistant to a high-maintenance Dior executive.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll need you to execute a few orders for me later.” I raise my eyebrows.

He smiles over at me. “Your wishes shall be my command.”

An hour or so later, the scenery begins to look familiar. We’re entering the quaint seaside town of Deauville, with its lovely architecture, its majestic port filled with yachts, and its bustling market. My parents brought me here during one of our last family vacations before my father passed away. We drive along the main street, taking in its quaint shops and cafés. Antoine stops in front of the majestic Hôtel Normandy Barrière, gets out and throws the keys to the valet.

“We’re staying here?” My heart skips a beat as I step onto the hotel’s stunning front lawn, which is lined with rose bushes and bougainvillea and offers a stunning view of the ocean. The white fairy lights hung throughout the garden give the grounds a magical feel.

“Nothing but the best for my
princesse. Allez
, let’s go!”

I can barely hide my excitement as we pass through the hotel’s grand wooden entranceway. We receive a warm welcome from the staff and head up to our elegant room, which is decorated with striped wallpaper, Toile de Jouy bedspreads, and vintage furniture. A bellboy arrives with a bottle of Perrier-Jouët Champagne in a silver ice bucket, crystal Saint-Louis flutes, and a platter of oysters.

As Antoine unpacks, I sneak into the washroom and retrieve my essentials from my bag: a Chantal Thomass black satin nightgown, matching vintage Dior pumps, ruby red lipstick, and my new bottle of À la Nuit. I dab the fragrance onto my wrists and behind my knees and ears, then take a look in the mirror. I’m satisfied with the result: Catherine Deneuve in
Belle de jour
, just about. I strut back into the room and take an authoritative tone. “Are you ready to execute orders?” I give Antoine a pout à la Bardot.

He drops his bag and answers with a salute. “Yes, commander.”