A box wrapped in silver paper with a big red bow is sitting on top of numerous files and documents. A little card reads, “Thanks for a fantastic evening. Enjoy. A très bientôt, Jeffrey.”
I open the box to find an Ella Fitzgerald CD box set and a bottle of J’adore. Although I’m touched by his gesture, it feels awkward receiving such a personal gift from a client. In the harsh light of day, I feel as though keeping it strictly professional is the right decision. I’ve learned my Mel lesson.
“It looks like you had a pretty great evening to me.”
I raise my shoulders in response.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, don’t be such a sourpuss, tell me! We’re all one big dysfunctional family, you know. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“Let’s just say we had a major interruption that kind of ruined the evening.”
“What kind of interruption? The jealous wife kind?”
“Antoine vibrated me out of Carnegie Hall because there was a problem with that document for American Bank.”
“Oh, crap. I hope it wasn’t my fault? I sent the document the way you asked me to.”
“It had nothing to do with you. Antoine made me come back to the office for no reason other than to ruin my night.”
“What’s up with him? One day he’s got your back and the next he can be such a toad.”
“You can say that again. I’ll be fine if I never I have to deal with him again. Good riddance.”
I sit in front of my computer and an email entitled “PRIVILEGED AND CONFIDENTIAL” from Jeffrey is waiting for me in my inbox.
To the Browser IPO team, Please clear your agendas for Monday morning. The SEC is inquiring about an interview conducted by Business Magazine with the senior management of Browser and is threatening to delay the offering. This could potentially throw off our timetable and affect pricing of the deal.
My secretary will send meeting details under separate cover. Your immediate attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.
Thanks. Jeff Richardson.
I press reply and write him a formal thank-you email for his gift and he responds partly in French:
Avec plaisir, ma chère Catherine.
Have a wonderful weekend. See you on Monday.
As I stare at the gift box on my desk, my mind spins. Normally, I would be leery of such clichéd pursuit tactics. But for some reason, he’s getting under my skin. Why couldn’t I have met him at a jazz club instead?
Chapter 18
As Oscar Wilde put it, the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. But it’s not always the best idea to take advice from a man who died heartbroken, exiled, and penniless. As Jeffrey gets ready to address the crowd gathered at Browser’s headquarters, I feel grateful that Scott is seated next to me and keeps me focused on work.
“I’m getting really worried about timing,” Jeffrey announces, standing at the front of the room with his shirt sleeves rolled up. (And looking really handsome. Catherine, cut it out!) “The CEO granted an interview to Business Magazine just before we filed the Registration Statement and Business is planning to print the article just before we price the deal. The SEC wants to impose a cooling off period before we go live.”
“So what happens now?” one of the bankers throws to the crowd of legal professionals.
“I think we have a major regulatory concern,” a prominent lawyer and former SEC staff member who represents the underwriters declares. “The SEC can force Browser to delay the offering. They’ve done it several times before.”
I’m fumbling through my memory. The interview could delay Browser’s offering because securities regulators restrict what company executives can say publicly while preparing to sell stock for the first time. Is there a way out of this, though?
My heart racing, I somehow gather the courage to throw in my two cents.
“I disagree.”
About twenty-two pairs of eyes turn scornfully toward me. I catch a few of them glaring at my black patent stilettos. My stomach drops and I begin to sweat. I can feel Scott’s eyes on me.
“Oh?” Jeffrey responds.
“I think a valid argument can be made that Browser’s IPO has already been extensively covered in the press and the article doesn’t add anything new.”
“I think that’s pretty weak,” the ex-SEC official counters. Scott throws me a stern look.
“I’ve argued this point before and it worked.”
“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, missy, but I’ve been at this for far longer than you have.”
“I’m not disputing that, sir, but isn’t your job to represent your client’s best interests? I don’t think allowing the SEC to delay this offering is in any of our best interests.”
“I agree,” Jeffrey concurs.
Humiliated, the former SEC lawyer squirms in his chair.
“Catherine, can you please call the regulators to discuss this point? I’d like you to take the lead on this,” Scott announces proudly.
“Sure, happy to.”
At the end of the meeting, while Scott is caught up in a conversation with another lawyer, Jeffrey rushes toward me.
“Wow, you don’t suffer fools, do you? I was impressed back there. How about grabbing a quick coffee?”
“Don’t have time. I need to make an important call to the SEC, remember?”
“Lunch?”
“You’ll need to check with Rikash, my assistant. My lunch schedule is quite full these days. Maybe I can squeeze you in on Wednesday.”
“So you want to squeeze me, do you? Wednesday it is then.”
He walks out of the room with a large satisfied grin. I exit with a look of victory on my face. Bravo, Catherine!
Chapter 19
“I heard you kicked some serious butt at the Browser meeting yesterday. Way to go,” Rikash annouces as I get in the next morning.
“I was just doing my job.”
“That’s what I like about you, Catherine, you have a tiny ego. In fact, it’s the smallest in this firm’s history. They should put a bronze plate next to your office door that says so.”
“I needed to speak up. It was in the client’s best interest.”
“I’m sure Jeffrey liked it.” He winks. “A self-assured French woman would be catnip for Mr. Numbers. I bet he was all over that.”
“Shhh. Stop it.”
“Oh come on, stop being so prissy, you’re French, for god’s sake. You’re supposed to flirt in your sleep.”
“Well I don’t, okay?”
“As Mae West put it, ‘Don’t keep a man guessing too long, he’s sure to find the answer somewhere else.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
I shut my door to get some work done. I try to concentrate on my numerous files and upcoming deadlines but have trouble getting Jeffrey out of my mind. Rikash is probably right. Who am I trying to fool? I’m seriously falling for this man. I play a silly game and try to imagine Jeffrey as being married with six kids, sporting a large pot-belly, terrible breath, and worse table manners to convince myself that he’s all wrong. In short, I mentally paste his face on Mel Johnson’s body. It works for an entire thirty minutes.
But that half-hour buys me enough time to prepare SEC documents for Scott. He had asked me to help a client with its 10K and F-1 filings. As I fill in the blanks, I wonder how on earth the SEC came up with these form titles. Even though I’ve been doing this for years, in my mind, 10K refers exclusively to gold jewellery and F-1 to car racing. At least I can fill them out at F-1 speed now. Once completed, I email the documents to Rikash with instructions to create a new file before emailing them to Roxanne.
I overhear her voice coming through on his phone.
“Who the fuck does she think she is? She can’t email them to me herself?”
Furious, I storm out of my office and make a beeline down the hallway in her direction.
“Uh-oh, be careful, sw
eetie, she can bite and she has rabies,” Rikash calls after me.
I arrive out of breath in front of her desk and she stares innocently at me as though nothing happened.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can. For starters, you could wash your mouth with soap and treat your co-workers with some respect.”
She laughs in my face. “Wash my mouth with soap? Ha! Who are you? My mother?”
“Thank god, not. Working with you is bad enough, I wouldn’t want to be related to you in any way.”
She sticks out her tongue in response. Forget it—this is infantile.
I want to run into Scott’s office and tell him about her behaviour but decide against rattling on his prized little assistant. I’ll have my day, I just know it.
“I was impressed with the way you defended your argument the other day. I can’t believe you had the guts to stand up to one of the top regulatory lawyers in the city.”
I had caved in and accepted Jeffrey’s lunch invitation because Scott had asked me to update him on my conversation with the regulators. Who am I kidding—I was going to find a good reason to say yes. I’ve barely thought of anything but Jeffrey in the last two days or slept more than a few hours, tossing and turning until dawn, debating with myself whether to keep our relationship professional.
He had made reservations at Fleur de Sel, a quiet restaurant with exposed brick, pressed white tablecloths, and a fabulous menu.
“I thought you might like it here. The food is terrific and it’s cozy.”
“It’s lovely. The name reminds me of my summer vacations on L’Ile de Ré, where they harvest sea salt.”
“Phew!” he says playfully. “I’m relieved that you like my choice. Now let’s order lunch, I’m starving!”
He chooses the veal confit and I order the goat cheese ravioli. We chitchat a bit, and then the conversation turns to our last meeting.
“You really gave that former SEC lawyer a run for his money. Did you see the look on the poor guy’s face?”
“I guess I can’t help myself. I hope he wasn’t too offended. My father taught me to speak up when I believe in something.”
“He’s a wise man.”
“He was a wise man. He died several years ago.” I look down. This is always a painful topic for me.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know what it’s like to lose someone. My sister died of cancer two years ago,” he responds, with a look of genuine tenderness and compassion.
“I’m so sorry. Was it sudden?”
“Yes, very. She died of lung cancer even though she’d never smoked a day in her life.”
We pause briefly as the waiter serves out lunch.
“How old was she? Did she have any children?”
“She was young, thirty-nine. She had a son, a ten-year-old named Adam. He’s a great kid. He comes to New York regularly to visit me.”
As I listen to him and see the emotion plain as daylight on his face, my heart melts. My reservations about dating a client are beginning to disappear as quickly as the ravioli on my plate.
“Listen, Catherine, I know that you’d prefer to keep our relationship professional, and I respect that. But I want you to know that I’m really attracted to you and not just physically. I think you’re a brilliant lawyer and lovely woman and sometimes in life you need to take a chance. I mean, at the end of the day it’s just a job.”
My stomach drops. My face flushes. I’m at a loss for words. Although I wasn’t willing to admit it to myself, I was secretly hoping that he would break the ice and raise the issue. Still on the fence about getting involved with him, I consider my answer carefully as the waiter brings us our desserts.
“Just a job? It’s more like a life sentence!”
He laughs and then reaches tentatively for my hand. I stop nibbling at my crème brûlée.
“Any way I could make you change your mind?”
I stare at my plate and look away before answering. My mind says non, but my heart says oui. This is like a textbook romance; but could it be too good to be true? I’ve played out dozens of different scenarios in my head a thousand times in the last few days, trying to find the right solution that doesn’t compromise my career. Maybe the best way to handle it is to ask Nathan to take my place on the Browser deal and explain my situation to Scott. Not good for my billables, but good for me.
“I have an idea,” I respond tentatively.
“Shoot. I’m all ears.”
“I could ask that another lawyer take my place on the IPO. Then it would be a non-issue, wouldn’t it? One of my colleagues is dying to—”
“Absolutely not.” His tone changes abruptly.
I’m stunned. Why would he react so violently to my suggestion? I pull my hand away and he reads my face.
His tone softens again. “Especially after that stunning performance at the meeting on Monday. You’re the best person at your firm for the transaction. This deal is your chance to prove yourself.”
I consider his words. It’s true, this is my big break. What was I thinking? I must really be falling hard.
“You’re probably right. Well, that was my big idea.”
“I know it sounds like I want it all, and the reality is, I do. I want you to represent my company and I want you to go out with me Saturday night. I have two tickets for a Wynton Marsalis concert,” he adds with a huge grin.
“You really can’t take no for an answer, can you?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m not sure about this, Jeffrey. I need some more time.”
“How about we walk up to Union Square?”
“I was thinking more like a few weeks, not a few minutes,” I laugh.
We walk along Broadway—it’s a beautiful afternoon. I feel totally relaxed in his company, as though I can talk about anything. Why does life need to be so complicated?
“It’s great to actually see a bit of blue sky; I haven’t seen much of the sun in the last while.”
“Time flies when all you do is work.”
“Yes, it does.”
We arrive at Union Square and he guides me to the closest bench. The setting is romantic and would be the perfect place for a first kiss. Stop it! Catherine, what are you thinking?
“Do you miss France?”
“Yes and no. I miss seeing my mother and going out with my friends in Paris. But I really love New York. This is the place to be for my career.”
“I would miss it if I were you. It’s such a beautiful country.”
He talks about his nephew’s next trip to the city and I lose track of time in his presence. The conversation flows so easily that I could talk for hours.
At two thirty he looks at his watch.
“Before I forget, how’s the directed share program coming along?”
Surprised that he abruptly switches back to business, I hesitate for a moment before answering. “Um, very well. We’re on target with the regulators.”
“Perfect. Glad to hear.” His shoulders seem to drop with relief.
“So are we on for Wynton’s benefit concert on Saturday?’
“It’s a benefit?”
“Yes, madame, and it’s a tribute to the great ladies of jazz. Come on, it will be amazing!”
“D’accord, you win,” I say with an air of defeat.
Like the great jazz musicians of our time, I’ll need to go along and improvise.
Chapter 20
“CATHERINE!” Harry Traum’s deep voice bursts out of my speakerphone as soon as I get back to my desk. “My office. Immediately!”
Terrified and clueless as to why he wants to see me, I tiptoe slowly toward his corner office, trying to make the least possible noise. A large gold plate with the inscription GEN. HAROLD J. TRAUM, ESQ. rests against the doorframe. This is my very first time going to see Harry Traum. After witnessing his terrifying U.S. geography lesson on my first day at Edwards & White, I’ve avoided him like the plague.
I am met by a closed door.
>
I knock gently, but there’s no response. Could he be in there with Bonnie? I certainly hope not! I knock again with a bit more forcefulness and as his voice bursts out, it creates a minor typhoon in the hallway.
“COME IN!”
He is sitting in his large leather chair in the centre of the room while a dark-haired lady in a tight black skirt cuts his hair.
“Catherine, this is Juanita.”
His office is littered with trophies, military paraphernalia, and pictures of countless children and grandchildren on numerous vacations by the sea. There are three large wooden signs hung above his desk that read, This We’ll Defend, Victory Starts Here, and Equal Justice Under Law. From what I can see, it looks as though Harry is the better prepared partner for war at the firm.
“There’s something important I need to discuss with you, Miss Lambert,” he says sombrely with his arms crossed while Juanita hovers around his giant head.
“Oh?”
“Are you familiar with a lawyer’s duty of confidentiality?” he asks gravely.
“Of course.”
“Really? So what would you do if I told you that Antoine had a serious drinking problem? Would you tell anyone?”
Caught off guard by his question, I fumble for an answer.
“Um, no, of course not.”
“Now what if I told you that Scott was a homo”—he takes a deep breath—“sexual? Would you tell someone about that?”
Mon dieu, what is this line of questioning leading to? I feel beads of sweat rolling down by back.
“Of course not.”
“And what if you were working on the high-profile merger of a public company? Would you tell any of your boyfriends?” he asks, his voice getting increasingly louder and more intimidating.
“No. I wouldn’t. Mr. Traum, may, um, may I ask what this is regarding?” I stutter.
“If you are familiar with your duty of confidentiality, young lady, and you wouldn’t tell anyone about any of this, explain to me, Catherine, WHY YOU TOLD A GODDAMN SECRETARY, A SECRETARY FOR CHRISSAKES, THAT I WAS GETTING A DIVORCE? NOW EVERYBODY IN THIS FUCKING PLACE WILL KNOW ABOUT IT!”
J'adore New York: A Novel of Haute Couture and the Corner Office Page 14