J'adore New York: A Novel of Haute Couture and the Corner Office

by Isabelle Laflèche

  “Mimi, can I bother you for a minute? I need help with something.”

  “Of course, sweetie, how can I help?”

  “It’s Rikash’s birthday today and I want to take him out to lunch. Do you know his favourite places to eat?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. But it’s ‘restaurant week.’” She rummages in a drawer. “Here’s a Zagat. Go for the names in bold print.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  I hustle back to my desk and start dialling numbers. Four Seasons, Fully booked. Le Cirque, fully committed. Aureole, nothing before 3:30 pm. I try a few more places before I stumble upon the listing for the 21 Club. “Yes, we do have one table for two available at 1:00.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll take it.”

  “This place is such a boys’ club. I wish we were people watching at the Café de Flore.”

  Obviously my choice isn’t the hit I hoped it’d be.

  “Okay, it isn’t exactly the trendiest scene, but I read that it used to be a former Prohibition-era speakeasy. It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think?”

  “Pfff, the days of Prohibition are long over and thank god for that. I’d die without my gin and tonic after work.” He removes his sunglasses from the top of his head.

  “Gin and tonic? I thought you’d be more of a flavoured martini type.”

  “Don’t be fooled my sweet exterior. I enjoy my liquor strong, straight up, and with no artificial flavours.”

  I go through the menu and decide on one of their classic lunch offerings. “I’ll have the 21 burger with fries and a glass of red wine. What are you having?”

  “How do you eat all that fattening food and stay so thin?”

  “I’m French, remember?”

  “Oh right, and I’m not, so I’ll have the house salad. Bathing suit season is just around the corner.”

  “Do you want some wine?”

  “No thanks. I have a strict rule about waiting until after five.”

  “I probably should too, but having a glass of wine is a ritual that I just can’t go without.”

  “I’m sure you were introduced to it early in life. In India, I drank contaminated water as a child. Luckily, I can go without.”

  “So you’ve opted for gin and tonic instead?”

  “Yes, it stimulates the palate and the mind.”

  “Wine also stimulates the mind. Baudelaire once said that there would be a major void in human intelligence if wine didn’t exist.”

  “That void already exists at our firm, in case you haven’t noticed. And if my memory serves me right, Baudelaire studied law, developed a fondness for booze and hashish, contracted syphilis, and died, so I’m not sure I would follow his lead.”

  I laugh, amused by his wry sense of humour, but stop when he doesn’t join in.

  “Why the long face, Rikash? It’s your birthday. Come on, lighten up.”

  “Sorry, sweetie, I’m just a bit pissed off. Bonnie the ice queen made me miss something really important yesterday.”

  “What?”

  He hesitates before answering. “The Dolce and Gabbana biannual sample sale,” he says with equal parts pout and reverence.

  “Why didn’t you ask someone else to cover for you?”

  “Like I didn’t think of that! I did everything I could to get out of the office, including kicking and screaming in reception, but Bonnie wouldn’t budge. I had to finish one of her documents since Maria and Roxanne were both out shopping at Daffy’s.” The disdain is nearly dripping off his face.

  “Rikash, it’s just a sale.”

  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I know they’re a dumb thing to say. He gives me a look that suggests I’ve violated a sacred oath.

  “Just a sale? Are you serious? That sale is the cornerstone of my wardrobe. God, I even sleep in Dolce.”

  “Okay, sorry. I guess I’d be upset if I missed a Dior sale.”

  After I commiserate, his face softens. I’m dying to tell him about my new Dior mandate but decide to wait until we get back to the office to avoid leaking sensitive information to fellow diners.

  “Anyway, I got my revenge. Bonnie asked me to order a Town Car yesterday afternoon for an important meeting downtown and I ‘forgot.’”

  “Non?”

  “Since she couldn’t get another car during rush hour, she had to take the subway. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall as she wobbled down the stairs to catch the F train in her Jimmy Choos.”

  I’m surprised by his confession but full of admiration for his spunk. I also make a mental note never to prevent him from going to a sample sale.

  “Did she say anything about it?”

  “Are you kidding? She doesn’t address assistants directly. She had Roxanne yell at me on her behalf.”

  “You’ve got guts.”

  “It’s all about survival. You’ve got to stick up for yourself.”

  He tucks his serviette in over his designer tie. “Anyway, enough about me. You need to find an apartment. You don’t want to stay in that dreary corporate suite for much longer. Where are you going to look?”

  “You won’t approve, but I’m thinking of the Upper East Side.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Soon you’ll be wearing penny loafers and quilted jackets.”

  “It may be a bit staid for your taste, but I like the fact that I can walk to the office and at least I’ll get some sleep at night.”

  “Who moves to New York City to sleep?” He takes a bite from his salad. “Speaking of getting no sleep, have you started dating yet?” he asks with a mischievous glance.

  I take a sip of Beaujolais before answering. “Rikash, it’s not a priority for me right now.”

  “Ah yes, the old not-a-priority syndrome.”

  Unaware that I was afflicted with a syndrome, I pry for more information.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve met so many women your age, totally consumed by their careers and ambition, going out bar hoping, luxuriating in the blush of money, not one bit concerned about finding a mate, and then one day, poof!” He snaps his fingers. “They reach forty and freak out.”

  Startled by his abrupt gesture, I nearly jump from my seat.

  “You know, they join those dating sites, buy a book about how to find a man, and become aggressive huntresses. Don’t let that happen to you, dah-ling. Get in the market while the going is good and you don’t have cheek implants.”

  I reach for my glass and swirl my wine pensively before finishing it in one large gulp. Although I know he’s right, I’m not ready to face the reality he’s describing; it seems so distant. After all, I’m in my early thirties and I don’t have time for a committed relationship.

  “You’re probably right, but for the moment, work is my priority, not finding true love.”

  He nearly chokes on his salad.

  “True love? Who’s talking about true love? I just think you need to get out there and get some. It’ll help your practice. Look at Bonnie.” He covers his mouth and I know he’s just revealed some juicy information.

  “What about Bonnie?”

  “I really shouldn’t say.”

  “Oh come on, you can’t do this to me, Rikash! Spill it.”

  He looks around the room before answering.

  “Okay, I won’t say much, but I’ll say this. She’s sleeping with someone at the firm and she’s very territorial about it.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “How can I stay out of her way if I don’t know who it is?”

  “Just watch, you’ll figure it out. Like I said, be careful or she’ll make your life a living hell. And you definitely don’t need that right now. There are enough turf wars going on at the office as it is.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Information circulates at lightning speed, especially that kind of information. Rumour has it Bonnie was engaged a few years ago to a senior partner in London, but he broke it off a we
ek before the wedding. She never got over it and has been fishing in the office pool ever since.”

  Stunned, I lean back into my chair. I then try to analyze my reaction: If Bonnie were a man, would I be so shocked? Of course not. But doesn’t she know that a woman’s reputation at work can be destroyed faster than you can say déshabillé?

  “Okay, now tell me about the turf wars.”

  “I wish I could, dah-ling, but I don’t know much. I overheard someone in the elevator say something about a senior partner leaving, but I have no idea who it is. All I know is that there have been lots of closed-door meetings lately and that everyone seems to be on edge.”

  “I’m not surprised. There’s always some kind of drama going on. What about Antoine? What’s his story?” While Rikash is dishing, I might as well ask.

  “He’s a fantastic lawyer, but I’ve had a hard time trying to figure him out. He keeps mostly to himself. I think he’s sexy and I was hoping he’d be otherwise inclined, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the only sheets I’ll ever see him in are his damn time sheets.”

  “I know. I’ve had trouble sizing him up too. He’s so intense. One minute he’s yelling, the next he’s offering advice. But you’re right, he is pretty sexy.”

  “He just needs to take that highlighter out of his buttocks.”

  I giggle. “What about you? You always have an interesting project in the works.”

  Rikash rambles on about his recent amorous conquests—“Men are like fish, the longer your rod, the better their bod”; his upcoming documentary about an Indian transsexual, “The title is Mahotmama”; India fashion week, “Have you ever heard about the nipplegate scandal?”; Bollywood movies, “You definitely get your money’s worth with a thousand pelvic thrusts a minute”—until our talk turns back to office gossip.

  “Please stay away from Harry Traum,” he warns. “He’s in the middle of a messy divorce so he’s a real nightmare. And you better watch out for some of the secretaries, they’re real bitches: Roxanne is psychotic and Maria’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown; you’ll see, sooner or later she’ll crack. Antoine and Bonnie have been working her around the clock.”

  When Rikash mentions Antoine and Bonnie, I nervously look at my watch. Our lunch has gone on for an hour and a half and now I’m seriously behind in my work. I’ll be stuck in the office late again tonight.

  “Sorry to cut our lunch short, but we aren’t in Paris. I need to get back to the office and bill some hours.”

  “Thanks for cheering me up, dah-ling. This lunch gave me a nice little morale boost. Now I’ll make it through the afternoon without having to pop any pills.”

  “I need you to create a new client profile for me.” I stand beaming in front of Rikash’s cubicle. “Christian Dior.”

  “Are you serious? You can’t kid around about things like that. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

  “I’m not. They’re a new client. Exciting, isn’t it?”

  He jumps up from his chair with hands stretched high above his head. “Yay! Finally an interesting file that isn’t named after some barbaric war or military program!”

  I can’t help but smile at Rikash’s reaction. It’s true that many acquisition files are opened under secret code names such as Operation Gulf War, Kandahar II, or Minuteman Missile Project. I guess they’re appropriately named given the internal wars being waged at Edwards & White these days.

  Antoine passes by en route to the reception area.

  “Going out to grab lunch. Catherine, don’t forget to finalize those files for tomorrow morning.”

  I nod and close my office door to get some work done.

  At six thirty, after printing out the PRO-IP Act and reading the white paper prepared by the Anti-Counterfeiting Coalition, I emerge from my office. Rikash has left, but Maria and Roxanne are whispering away. They immediately stop and try to look innocent. I’ve obviously walked in on some heavy gossip.

  “Working late?”

  “Yep. We have four files to finish for Antoine tonight,” Maria replies, looking annoyed that I’ve interrupted their dishing session. In her late thirties, Maria has a penchant for long-sleeved T-shirts that have slogans like Here comes trouble or No more problems please, I’m trying to quitwritten in sparkly glitter across her large bosom. Today’s shirt reads, Keep calm and carry on.

  I follow her shirt’s advice and go back to reading the anti-counterfeiting white paper. Its contents are fascinating; it describes the broad range of products counterfeited in America, which range from helicopter parts to Viagra. It further explains that counterfeiting has been linked to terrorism, human trafficking, and child labour. Buying fake merchandise clearly isn’t as harmless as I thought it was, and I make a mental note to tell friends who occasionally pick up a knock-off bag on the street. At nine thirty, I open my door again and Maria is still typing away while intermittently nibbling on her General Tao chicken and crispy Grand Marnier prawns.

  “Want a prawn?” Maria asks. “They’re really tasty.”

  “No thanks.”

  I remain completely engrossed in Dior until ten thirty, when my empty stomach wakes me from my trance and forces me to rove the various boardrooms looking for old meeting food. Despite the lavish meals the firm offers, I am never able to order any before the cut-off time and end up munching on leftover ham sandwiches with wilting lettuce.

  At eleven thirty, after putting together a closing binder for Allen Partners, I decide to turn off my computer. Not for the first time, I catch myself wondering why it is that other professionals can leave their offices at a decent hour, while attorneys are expected to meet and greet the cleaning staff.

  “Want a lift home?” Maria asks as she puts on her coat. “I have a car waiting downstairs. We’ll drop you off.”

  “No thanks, I need some air. I’ll walk you to the elevators, though.”

  On our way out, we walk by Bonnie’s office. She is shoeless and has both feet on her desk, which is nearly buried beneath a huge pile of documents and dotted with empty cans of Diet Coke with smears of red lipstick. Her hair is piled high on her head and secured with a Montblanc pen, and she has a Hermès scarf tied around her neck.

  Based on the information Rikash shared earlier, I can’t help but wonder which lawyer is getting tied up with her scarf tonight à la Basic Instinct. Could it be Alfred? Maybe Alfred is good in bed.

  Antoine catches up with Maria and me as he shrugs on his suit jacket. He makes a point of looking the other way when passing Bonnie’s office and there is no exchange of “good nights.” I’m beginning to suspect that the Friendship Program memo got lost in the mail.

  “Going home?”

  “No, I’m meeting someone for a quick bite. I’ll be back later.”

  Back later? It’s almost midnight. Who’s he meeting at this hour?

  After he’s left the building, Maria looks at me and rolls her eyes. “He does this all the time. Never sleeps.”

  I decide to stroll up to Madison Avenue on my way home to the corporate apartment at 74th and Fifth. I need a little time for window shopping. Back in Paris, it was how I’d wind down from work. I’d spend Sunday afternoons on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré nursing a latte and stopping in for a quick peek at Colette before making my way to Place Vendôme. The vibrant colours and the sheer beauty of high fashion are the perfect counterpoint to the high pressure and piles of manila folders I spend most of my day with.

  I stop in front of Dior’s majestic store on 57th and take in every detail. They have multi-tiered beaded heels on display and ruffled leather handbags that make my jaw drop. I still can’t believe I’ll be doing legal work for Dior. I take a deep breath and feel totally intoxicated by the idea. I then move on to Madison and peek into Barneys’ windows. I love looking at the cuts, the fabrics, and the way the designers play with proportions. All the stores I’ve only read about in American Vogue and seen on my favourite French fashion blog, Garance Doré, are here in front of me. I let the wo
rld of prospectuses, memos, and legal briefs slip away for today. Now I’m ready for dreams of taffeta, organza, and mousseline.

  Chapter 5

  “What the hell is this?” Antoine marches into my office looking thoroughly pissed off, brandishing the binder I worked on yesterday.

  “Um, it’s the binder I put together for the Allen Partners closing next week.” My mind is spinning through last night. Why does he look so angry? What could I possibly have done wrong?

  “Is that right?” His furious flipping of the binder’s pages is punctuated by the tapping of his cuff links on my desk.

  Given the serious look on his face, I remain silent.

  “This is absolute garbage, Catherine. Did you actually look at this before putting it in the binder?” He points to a page marred with yellow marker and bullet points.

  Merde. In a panic, I nervously check my email to see which file I sent to Maria before leaving the office yesterday.

  “You’re right, those are the drafts. They aren’t the documents I asked Maria to print for me.”

  “Maria?” he asks, his voice getting increasingly louder and more aggressive. “Are you telling me that you rely on my secretary to review your work?” His face turns a deep mauve that matches his tie.

  “No…um. I just thought that I could trust her to print the final document correctly.”

  My stomach is in knots so tight they could hold together the sails on a tall ship navigating through the Bermuda Triangle.

  “I can’t fucking believe this! Catherine, you’re the lawyer, not Maria. Thank god I caught this. Can you imagine how bad it would make me look if this had been sent out to Allen Partners?”

  I sit in my chair, mortified. I’m sure I sent her the right document but should have checked the final product anyway. Ashamed of my oversight, I stand to apologize, my hands shaking.

  “I’m really sorry about this, Antoine. I’ll double check next time.”

  He takes a deep breath and stares coldly into my eyes. “There better not be a next time, Catherine.” He storms out of my office.