Merde. Merde. Merde. What do I do? Part of me desperately wants to run after him into the hallway and get down on my knees begging for forgiveness while kissing his Boss shoes, but my rational self realizes that literally prostrating myself would cross the line from screwing up to sucking up.
How could I have been so careless? This could cost me something vital: his respect. I try to dive into Bonnie’s ABC file, but it takes me an hour before I can focus. I’ve spent six long and painful years trying to climb the ladder to become a partner, an accomplishment reached only by a minority of women in big law firms. And now my chance at making it to the top might be up in smoke because of a careless oversight.
I try to do some work on the Dior file to get my mind off things, but I get only temporarily distracted before Mel Johnson manages to track me down.
“Counselaaar! Are you ready for our conference call?”
“Hi, Mel, yes, yes. Can we start now? I have another call at noon with a Brazilian client.”
“You’re such an international woman of mystery, I love it. Hang on.”
I sit on a call for more than an hour with Mel and his colleagues discussing their company’s international expansion plans while staring out the window. Not wanting to sound unprofessional, I try to clearly answer questions about European securities registration requirements even though I’m secretly hyperventilating because of the episode with Antoine.
“Can we talk further over drinks after work?” Mel asks once the conference call ends.
“Sorry, Mel, I’m going to be tied up with a big project tonight.”
“You’re going to be tied up tonight? Wow, I just love it when a woman talks dirty.”
In no mood for his double entendre, I cut the conversation short.
“I had so much work to do yesterday, all I ate was half a yogurt,” a tall blonde announces to her enthralled audience.
I stop by the staff breakroom around noon to pick up a bottle of water and accidentally drop in on a conversation among three young female lawyers from the litigation group.
A short brunette responds eagerly. “God, I was in court most of the day and all I ate was a carrot stick during recess.”
“Wow,” the blonde responds, clearly impressed.
The third participant puts her hands on her hips before blurting out, “Jeez, ladies, if you think that’s bad, I was stuck in the library doing research for Harry Traum until two in the morning and didn’t eat a thing all day!”
To my dismay, a look of admiration comes across the other two women’s faces. Could they be proud of starving themselves for the sake of work? Or is it that as a group, lawyers are so fiercely competitive that we feel the need to compete in every single thing we do, including not eating? I’m convinced that competitiveness is the answer, as it’s fair to say that most lawyers have a type-A personality. Here in New York, most lawyers fit into the AAA category; sort of like the batteries but with levels of energy, competitiveness, and ambition that never run out. There is no need for chargers here, as the fuel is in endless supply: money, power, sex, peer recognition, and ego stroking.
It’s no surprise then that conversations by the proverbial water cooler at the firm typically revolve around upcoming triathlons (when do they train, in their sleep?), exotic or physically challenging trips (climb Mount Kilimanjaro for fun anyone?), and time-consuming cultural or artistic endeavours such as learning a fourth language or to play a musical instrument (during extensive bathroom breaks?).
I read an article in Psychology Today recently that outlined the major character traits of type-A personalities: 1) insecurity about status, which translates into excessive competition; 2) time urgency and impatience, which causes irritation and exasperation; and 3) free-floating hostility, which can be triggered by the most minor incidents.
I seem to fit somewhere in between types A and B. I’m definitely competitive, there’s no question about it. I finished at the top of my class in law school, competed on a ski team, and have engaged in my fair share of office politics, but I consider myself pretty easygoing, level-headed, and, while I get frustrated, I have never raised my voice or been hostile toward anyone at the firm. At least, not until now.
“Maria, run down and have my jacket dry cleaned. I spilled Diet Coke all over the front and I have a client meeting this afternoon,” Bonnie demands, standing in the middle of the hallway holding her suit jacket in one hand. The silk of her ruffle blouse is so thin and the cleavage so revealing that she’s practically standing in her brassiere. I guess she’s unaware that a transparent silk square barely covering her unmentionables does not a blouse make.
I can’t help but smirk a little. Why go to the trouble of getting her jacket dry cleaned when Bonnie will pull her usual femme fatale routine of making some remark about the room temperature, then slowly but strategically unbutton her suit jacket so every straight man in the room will lose track of the conversation. She could be reciting her favourite pumpkin pie recipe and nobody would even blink an eye. From what I’ve seen, Bonnie knows how to close a deal and it rarely involves wearing a suit jacket.
“Catherine, I’ve been thinking,” she calls after me as I fail to sneak into my office unnoticed. “I need to know where the best dry cleaners near the office are. Why don’t you research that for me? Today.”
Dry cleaners? Excuse me? Did I go to law school and bust my derrière for the last six years to research dry cleaners?
“Is that billable to any particular file?” I mutter under my breath.
“No, it’s not. Also note that I like any research done for me to be presented in memo format,” she shouts into the hallway before slinking back to her office. (Refer to character trait #3 of type-A personality.)
I slam my door so hard that they must have heard it in Brooklyn. Rikash buzzes me on the intercom, but I don’t respond.
“Salope!” My hatred is so intense that “bitch” doesn’t even begin to describe her.
I’m tempted to call Scott and let him know how I’ll be spending the next few hours of my billable time, but I swallow my pride to start doing the research. If that’s what the ice queen wants, that’s what she’ll get.
EDWARDS & WHITE OFFICE MEMORANDUM
To: Bonnie Clark
From: Catherine Lambert
Re: Dry Cleaners on the Upper East Side
I Purpose
The purpose of this memorandum and the attached exhibit is to identify the highest quality dry cleaners near our office. While there are about ten dry cleaners at every intersection in Manhattan, their levels of quality and service diverge greatly. Hereinafter is a list of those top-quality cleaners that I would most recommend.
II Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners
Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners would appear to be the top choice for your dry cleaning needs. They boast a long list of distinguished couture designers such as Dior, Chanel, Givenchy, Gucci, Prada, and Hugo Boss1 as faithful clients. Conveniently located on Second Avenue between 65th and 66th streets, their website offers rave reviews and glowing testimonials from well-known, satisfied customers. “It’s very exciting, in the dry-cleaning end of things. They turned a delicate silk blouse from sad yellow back to white.”2 In addition, Madame Paulette has been described as the dry cleaner of choice for the perfectionist and the merely finicky.3 It is famously snooty but well worth the effort because it has rescued many a garment from the edge of ruin.4
Finally, it is worth noting that they specialize in the maintenance and preservation of wedding gowns, both old and new. “The only establishment I trust to maintain, renew, and preserve my bridal collection is Madame Paulette.”5 So that you can examine their high standard of care, I have attached for your convenience as Exhibit 1 a jacket dry cleaned this afternoon by Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners.
III Alpian’s Garment Care of New York
They are located a stone’s throw away from our office, at 325 E. 48th Street.
“Alpian’s knows garment care” is their motto. T
heir website offers a reassuringly precise description of services available. Their attention to detail is impressive: employees are trained to look for loose buttons, open seams, lint, and unresolved stains. Furthermore, they use a wide array of devices to make your garment look its best in your closet, in your suitcase, and, most importantly, on you.
In order to ensure the absence of material misrepresentations in the above-referenced website, a few of Alpian’s clients were interviewed by a junior associate this afternoon. Most clients questioned for the purposes of this memorandum declared themselves completely satisfied with Alpian’s services.
IV Anel French Cleaners
They are located on Columbus Avenue between 69th and 70th.
Although further written evidence about the services they offer is scarce, I was immediately drawn to their name. How could a business that was wise enough to select a name that rhymes with Chanel and have an Eiffel Tower as its logo fail to be equally astute in its execution of dry cleaning services? In addition, a sign in the window promises that “satisfaction is guaranteed.”
It should be noted, however, that in a recent court decision, Roy Pearson vs. Custom Cleaners, this type of guarantee was interpreted and it was concluded that a customer cannot demand any type of service he or she desires based on such a sign. As a result, a D.C. judge’s $65 million lawsuit against the cleaners, which allegedly lost a pair of his pants, was dismissed.
Anel’s most noteworthy feature is its fast and reliable delivery services, which will allow you to focus on work or extracurricular activities.
V Conclusion
In conclusion, it can be successfully argued that within a close distance from our offices, your garments can be cleaned rapidly, safely, and satisfactorily. I hope the above information will be helpful in assisting you with your dry cleaning needs in the future. Please do not hesitate to contact me should you have any questions (or excess lint).
After I press send, I stare at the blank wall wondering why I followed her silly memo instructions. Why stoop as low as to draft a memo on dry cleaning? Why didn’t I just tell her to go to hell? After all, I’ve been with the firm for six years and developed a good rapport with some senior partners in Paris. I square my shoulders and tell myself the truth: this is a childish game to see what I’m made of. If I dare object, complain, whine, shed a few tears, or threaten to jump ship, she wins and I lose. And I’ve worked way too hard to lose now. Am I willing to give up my place in the race for partnership?
Non, I’m ready for the next round.
Chapter 6
“I’m glad you like it. But don’t assume that it’s yours just yet.” Brian, my eager real estate agent, tells me as we leave a bright, well-maintained prewar one-bedroom apartment on the corner of 68th and First. Brian and I have just spent six hours looking at more than two dozen apartments, most of which require a major overhaul and cleaning job. Exhausted, I’m in no mood to look at any more places unless I can figure out a way to bill this time back to a client. I’ll do whatever it takes to get this place.
Barely large enough to contain the antique dresser and bed inherited from my grandmother and shipped over from Paris, my new home, located on a relatively quiet street within walking distance of the office, has windows overlooking a small courtyard that reminds me of my old apartment in Saint Germain. This tiny jewel is exactly what I want.
“You need to get approved by Elad,” he says with a menacing look and one eyebrow dramatically arched, like a character out of a vintage horror flick. “And he’s very difficult.”
“Who’s Elad?”
“He manages the building. He has final say on everything. You need to come with me to his office to meet him in person and fill out an application.”
Brian escorts me to a dark, ghoulish waiting area in a dreary office building and shakes my hand. “Someone will be with you shortly. Good luck.”
I imagine him laughing like Vincent Price in the “Thriller” video as he walks out of the building.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice blurts out from a mysterious intercom system as I walk through a dingy waiting room to the other side of the office. Completely buried beneath a towering mountain of paper, Elad sits in a low swivel chair. It’s impossible to see anything about him other than the top of his balding head. Which isn’t pretty.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Um…I’m Catherine, I’m applying for the apartment on 68th Street.”
“Which one? I have hundreds of places on 68th. Who’s the broad in my office?” he shouts into his phone.
“The French lawyer,” the mystery voice responds.
He mumbles something undecipherable under his breath.
“Okay, sit.”
As I approach, his dark eyes look right through me.
“First, let’s talk money: I want three months’ rent in advance and a security deposit. Any damage to the place, you’ll never see that money again, got it?” he says with a rapid-fire New York accent.
“Elad, the woman from Washington is here to sign the lease for her daughter,” the mystery lady interjects through the intercom.
“Tell her that she’s too late. Once I’m through with the lawyer, I’m going home…Tell her to come back next week.”
“But, Elad, she flew in all the way from—”
“Not my fucking problem,” he shouts back into the phone.
“With her daughter—”
“LIKE. I. SAID: NOT MY FUCKING PROBLEM.”
Today’s horoscope predicted great luck in real estate matters; it was silent about the hellish landlord.
“Now where were we? Ah yes, the broker fee. You pay a broker fee, which is fifteen percent of your first year’s rent, and we also charge a three-hundred-dollar paper processing fee.”
I nervously sit up in my chair and try to calculate how much all this is going to cost me. I’ve been spoiled by France’s pro-tenant laws and hadn’t expected to pay more than two months’ rent in advance. I guess the laws are different in New York. For a split second, I consider raising the subject but think better of it. Looking into his eyes, I see homelessness.
“Okay.”
“Do you have any credit history in this country?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’ll need to find yourself a guarantor with a New York City address who makes a few hundred grand and who will guarantee the lease.”
Merde. Now I’m really screwed. Who do I know in New York who will guarantee my lease? A few of my father’s relatives lived in New York, but I hadn’t spoken to them in about fifteen years. I couldn’t just call up and ask them to guarantee my exorbitant rent, could I? There was my friend Lisa, whom I had met at law school and who was now living in New York, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her either. Maybe the firm would sign? After all, I’m not the first foreigner to transfer to the city.
“No problem,” I reply, keeping my sangfroid.
“Now let me tell you something,” he says, pointing his index finger while lowering his voice for emphasis: “There are two types of tenants I don’t care to have in my buildings: models and lawyers. Models don’t pay their rent and usually skip town on me, and lawyers are real shit disturbers. They’re always quoting me some fucking section of this act or that code to avoid paying their rent. I don’t want any problems, you hear me? I have no qualms about evicting anybody.” He snaps his fingers dramatically.
I nod back, gritting my teeth, amused to hear that for once in my life I fall into the same category as a model. I’m also happy I kept my big mouth shut rather than blabbering on about irrelevant French laws. If I had even broached the topic of French locataire rights, this guy would’ve had me out on the street faster than a dead cockroach.
“And there’s another thing.”
Okay, now I’m really scared. What else is this guy going to come up with?
“The superintendent in your building is walking a very tight rope with me at the moment.” He joins his thumb and index finge
r together in mid-air, mimicking a tight rope. “So I expect you to report back to me anything he does that ain’t kosher, got it?” he tells me, his index finger still pointing. “So when are you moving in?”
“Next weekend?”
He dials a number on his phone. “There’s a French chick in my office. She’s signing a lease for apartment 7A. She’ll be coming over to pick up the keys and she’s moving in next weekend. No fucking screw-ups this time!”
It takes me a second, but I figure out that he’s having a oneway conversation with the superintendent in my building, for whom I suddenly feel a tremendous amount of sympathy.
After signing about fifty forms and handing over a ridiculous amount of money, I stand up to leave his office, très fatiguée by the whole experience.
“Miss, send me the signed guarantee by the end of the week or I’m giving the apartment to someone else, capice?” He smiles proudly as if he had just pronounced a word in French.
“I want the postcoital flush.”
“That’s my girl.” Rikash pats me on the back.
“I can’t believe I just said that to a Sephora salesclerk.”
After an exhausting first week in New York and a traumatic rendezvous with my new landlord, I treat myself to a relaxing Sunday afternoon in Soho in the company of my confidant/ personal shopper/beauty consultant.
“I love the NARS Super Orgasm collection,” Rikash coos while dabbing a bit of colour on his cheeks. “This blush will make you look like you’ve been getting some action.”
“At least it’ll give me some colour. I look half dead.”
“You look better than most lawyers in the office. They look like they passed decades ago.”
I apply the blush to my cheeks and the pink tone with specks of gold gives my dreary complexion an immediate boost.
J'adore New York: A Novel of Haute Couture and the Corner Office Page 5