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

by Isabelle Laflèche

  “Put your phone on call forward. I’ve been going out to the Hamptons film festival for years. Trust me, sweetheart, you need something really sexy.”

  Rikash is making the scene out there sound like a Victoria’s Secret model convention and this is making me more nervous by the minute.

  “How about at one o’clock?”

  At one sharp, Rikash stands in my doorway making melodramatic gestures as I walk Amy through an SEC demand letter on the phone. I nod and give him the five minutes signal.

  At two o’clock, while I’m still on the call, he again points to his watch and I nod but can’t move.

  At three o’clock, he walks by and waves but I’m forced to ignore him—Scott and I are reviewing the draft Browser prospectus.

  At four o’clock, Rikash once again attempts to lure me away by faking an emergency call while Nathan sits in one of my chairs. His attempt wields no reaction from Nathan, who prolongs his stay by asking more questions about the Browser IPO, when I plan to leave the corner office, and the status of my billable hours.

  Five o’clock rolls around and I haven’t yet made it out of my chair. Rikash drops by on his way out.

  “What happened to our shopping date? I’m going home now.”

  “I know, I know, sorry. I had to put out a few fires. I’ll probably be here ‘til midnight. Can we do it tomorrow?” I follow him as he makes his way toward the elevators.

  “Sure, but you can’t put this off any longer. You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says, shaking his head, visibly concerned about my cleavage-minimal wardrobe. “You need to channel your inner Brigitte Bardot this weekend. It’s time to bring sexy back.”

  Friday morning turns out to be even more chaotic than I’d expected. I’m bombarded by the bankers and lawyers working on the Browser IPO and am under a tight deadline to send the memo on U.S. copyright laws to Pierre Le Furet at Dior. At eleven thirty, I look up from a conference call to see that Rikash has planted himself right beside me with my bag in his hands.

  “We’re going now. I’m not leaving your office until you follow me,” he whispers loudly. “I’m doing this for your own good. Come on.”

  I gesture for him to hold on. As soon as the call ends, I send the memo off to Dior’s Paris headquarters and we rush out the door and make our way to Barneys for a sprint shopping session. He’s practically beaming as we push through the revolving door, while I’m trying to ignore the sharp pains coming from every muscle in my body.

  “This will be good for my spirits. I can’t stand the negative atmosphere around the office these days.”

  “You think office morale is lower than normal?”

  “Low? Muffin, it’s downright in the dumps. All the political bull and the increase in billable hours seem to be taking its toll on everyone’s mood.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I heard that even the partner in charge of the Intellectual Property department might be leaving. And he’s been with the firm longer than some of the antiques in the reception area.”

  “Really? How did you find out?”

  “Everybody’s been talking about it. If he leaves, I bet he takes some important clients with him. I hope it won’t affect our jobs.”

  “I doubt it. Have you seen the workload on our desks?”

  “Of course, I’m the one who manages your in-tray, remember? I guess we just need to do what we can to keep up appearances and lay low until the storm blows over.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing a tie on a Friday?”

  “I’m doing what I can to play the game. Besides, you know I can’t stand casual Fridays. Have you seen how most people dress? It’s bloody awful.” He waves his hand in the air disdainfully. “I think I’m going to propose casual-sex Fridays instead at our next staff meeting. It would do wonders for the office morale.”

  “Great idea. I’m sure Bonnie will buy into it.”

  We make our way to Barneys Co-Op floor where they keep some of the trendiest collections; not my normal first stop. The first thing Rikash picks out is a bright fuchsia see-through top with tiny sequined butterflies that are positioned to strategically cover your nipples.

  “This is hot.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t wear something like that, too see-through.”

  “Come on, you’ll look great.” He stops to pick out a pair of skin-tight white jeans with sequined pockets. “These are amazing together!” he exclaims.

  Despite my better judgment, I head to the changing rooms with an outfit straight out of Boogie Nights, complaining the whole way.

  “I can’t believe you’re making me try this on. It’s so not me, you know that. I could never leave the house wearing this.” I come out of my dressing room clutching my chest to take a closer look at my outrageous accoutrement in the mirrors and try to stand tall in front of the mirrors despite the pain in my legs caused by too many squats.

  “Doesn’t she look fabulous?” he asks two women standing next to the change rooms’ entrance.

  “Gorgeous,” one woman sighs wistfully. “I wish I could still wear stuff like that. My best friend had a top like that back in the days of Studio 54.”

  Okay, now that gives me even less comfort. My assistant is about to send me off to a romantic weekend dressed in head-to-toe disco.

  “I’ll take the white jeans,” I say, caving in to one of his choices to avoid a tantrum, “but let me find another top that isn’t so transparent. Save the nipple scandal for Indian Fashion Week.”

  “You’re so prissy! Why don’t you get yourself a muumuu to wear at the beach? That would be a real turn-on.” Frustrated, he takes the pasties disguised as a shirt back to the racks.

  “Now this is more like me.” I pick out a backless pink silk chiffon halter top sprinkled with dainty white flowers.

  “You need matching shoes.”

  “I need a new pair of shoes like Paris needs more traffic. I already have sandals that I picked up on the Côte d’Azur that will look amazing.”

  “Oooh, perfect!” he gushes.

  “I still can’t believe I’m going away with Jeffrey. I need to pinch myself!”

  “I’ll take care of that for you.” He squeezes my right arm. “Oh, I feel some muscle there. Angel really made you work.”

  “Work? He nearly killed me!”

  He frowns as we head toward the elevators.

  “Wait! What about a bathing suit?” he asks. “Do you have anything indecent?”

  “I bought a new bikini last year.”

  He stares at me with a baffled look.

  “You need to get a super sexy one to make a big impression on the beach. Come on, hurry up.” He walks so quickly that I have a hard time keeping up. Looking around, it’s obvious that New York glamour girls with lots to spend and little to hide come here for of-the-moment bikinis. Rikash rattles off all the trendiest bathing suit designers and hands me five suits, each fit for a Brazilian bathing diva.

  To his mild chagrin, I pick out a classic black two-piece that covers my so-called problem areas and head for the change rooms. I catch a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror and this reminds me that Jeffrey’s about to see me au naturel. Feeling insecure about my lack of bronzage and still slightly conflicted about my decision to spend the weekend with a client, I rush out of the change rooms.

  Rikash approaches the counter as I pull out my wallet. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say, buttercup, but have you done a bit of background research on Jeffrey?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Into his past. I just want to make sure he isn’t another one of those players you find in the Hamptons. There’s more out there by the square foot than privet hedges.”

  Catching me off guard, my back goes up. Why would Rikash say something like that a few hours before I leave?

  “Rikash, this is no time to plant any doubts in my mind, I’m already nervous enough about the weekend as it is. Do you know something I don’t?”

 
; “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  My shoulders relax. “Thanks for looking out for me.” I pat him on the back. “It’s time to go back to the office before Roxanne catches me shopping again.”

  “No kidding. Miss Killjoy would love to catch you with those bags, wouldn’t she?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Let’s not have her ruin our fabulous day, shall we.” I change the subject. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed with my bikini selection?”

  “Diana Vreeland once said that you should never fear being vulgar, just boring.” He squeezes my shoulder tenderly.

  “Are you calling me boring?”

  “Of course not, dah-ling. I wouldn’t be caught dead in public with you if you were.”

  Chapter 26

  Those who think that getting away to the Hamptons for the weekend is a relaxing experience must be totally off their bergère. Traffic on Highway 27 crawls at a snail’s pace and keeps you wondering whether you will ever get anywhere. I stare out the window—we’re surrounded by bumper-to-bumper large luxury SUVs and convertibles. Luckily, the time flies as Jeffrey holds my hand during the drive up, shares stories about his years spent in California, and teases me about the French.

  “The traffic is worse than in Paris. But at least we don’t have to deal with the Parisians!”

  “Ha! If your cars weren’t so huge and didn’t take up half the highway, we would’ve arrived hours ago.”

  “I feel like driving over some of these bozos! Maybe we’ll get our own plane after the IPO.”

  “Not too fast, monsieur, we’re not there yet.” This reminds me that I should check my BlackBerry; I pull it out of my handbag and quickly peruse the fifty or so messages already filling up my inbox. There’s one from Pierre at Dior congratulating me for the memo I drafted on copyright laws: this puts a huge smile on my face. The next one is from Bonnie, who is strongly recommending that I stop “wasting my time” on frivolous intellectual property matters for French clients: this one’s a real downer.

  I’m about to turn my BlackBerry off to prevent a major mood swing when Jeffrey interjects. “I know I said no shop-talk, but since you’re checking your messages, how’s our prospectus coming along?”

  “I spoke to the regulators yesterday and the approval process is moving forward nicely.”

  “Thanks for putting in the extra hours, I really appreciate it. Keep up the good work and we’ll be celebrating big-time when it’s over.”

  During the rest of the drive, he plays with my hair and kisses my hand, and I quickly forget about the office. This is pure bliss.

  We arrive in Bridgehampton around ten o’clock and pull into a long, narrow driveway. The house is a large shingled Cape Cod–style home with a five-car garage and has a parking area filled with Porsches and other expensive convertibles I can’t even name. I can hear a loud thump of dance music coming from the backyard.

  “Hey, Jeff, welcome.”

  A tall, hefty man greets us in his dripping swim trunks. He gives Jeffrey a high-five. “Hello, Catherine. I’m Charlie. Please make yourselves comfortable. I have some champagne on ice and a warm hot tub waiting for you guys in the backyard. You can take the larger room upstairs. All the others are taken.”

  We make our way upstairs to drop off our bags. This isn’t a room—we have a whole wing to ourselves. I am awestruck by the sheer opulence and size of everything. Forget inviting fifty of your closest friends, you could host a ball in here.

  As soon as we put down our bags, Jeffrey kisses me on the forehead and pulls out his swim trunks enthusiastically.

  “Come on, gorgeous, hop into your bathing suit, let’s hit the hot tub.”

  I reach into my bag for my new bikini and find a copy of the Kama Sutra hidden at the bottom. As I open the cover, a note from Rikash spills out:

  Here’s to adding a little Indian spice to your weekend. Put it to good use. Just remember that the Sanskrit word for the male organ, the lingam, means “Wand of Light.” Need I say more?

  Big hug.

  Rikash

  Still giggling, I come out of the washroom a few minutes later wearing my new bathing suit. Looking at Jeffrey’s face, I’m glad (for the thousandth time) that I listened to Rikash. We walk hand in hand to the backyard where a group of people are frolicking in the pool and in the hot tub.

  “Come have some champagne,” a man with a tan that would make George Hamilton jealous calls out from the hot tub. “Charlie bought some Dom Perignon.”

  “You’ve gotta get in here, the water’s delicious,” a blonde woman with very large breasts and not much to cover them shouts. “I’m Rebecca, nice to meet you.”

  “Catherine, lovely to meet you.”

  “Catherine, how did you meet our Jeffrey?”

  “Um, we met through a colleague of mine—I’m a lawyer,” I answer, wiggling my way out of telling her he’s a client.

  “Isn’t that sweet.”

  “So, Rebecca, what do you do?” I ask.

  “I’m in the beauty business. I run a spa downtown.”

  “Are you guys coming with us to the polo match tomorrow afternoon? We’re going there after the beach,” George Hamilton asks, smoking a cigarillo.

  “That sounds great. Doesn’t it, Catherine?”

  I nod.

  “We’d love to,” Jeffrey answers enthusiastically.

  After thirty minutes of soaking in bubbles—and drinking them—I begin to relax, although my skin is now shrivelled up like a prune. We make our way upstairs and before we enter the room, Jeffrey grabs my arm and kisses me.

  “I’m so happy you could come. You’re making my weekend very memorable. Why don’t you open the door?”

  I look at him hesitatingly.

  I turn the handle and the scent of fresh flowers hits me immediately. As the door swings open, I see bouquets of white calla lilies and peonies are scattered on the dresser and bedside tables. My heart stops and I feel weak in the knees.

  Jeffrey turns me around and starts kissing me tenderly on the nape of my neck. His delicate kisses make their way to my shoulders and back, and his hands slowly make their way down to my hips. He lifts me into the air and carries me across the room, where we both fall on the edge of the bed. The salty sea air breezes through the room and I lose all self-restraint. We kiss passionately for what seems like an hour before he caresses my thighs and whispers, “I want you so badly.” A mental warning sign pops up in my mind that I’ve just crossed the line with a firm client, but it disappears as quickly as the strings of my bikini.

  They say you know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams. It must be true, since I haven’t slept a wink. Exhausted and exhilarated, I can barely believe my luck as I gaze out to the oceanview.

  A smiling face and full mane of delicious bedhead turns to face me the next morning. Quel bonheur!

  “I picked up a little something for you.” He hands me a tiny box with the inscription Chaumet, Paris.

  “Jeffrey, what did you do?”

  “Come on, open it!” he exclaims, kissing my forehead.

  I pop open the small box and suddenly feel a little dizzy. It’s a dainty white-gold heart-shaped pendant.

  “It’s gorgeous, but this is way too much.” Despite my protest, he takes it from my hands, places it around my neck, and attaches the clasp.

  “Just like you.”

  I reach for his tanned forearm and pull him back toward the bed. He falls over me and I slide one hand up his back while the other pulls his white T-shirt over his head. He lifts me from under his warm body and positions me kneeling over his dark chest. As I look into his eyes before we have another passionate round, lightning hits my veins.

  Later, I lie on my stomach as he kisses me tenderly and plays with my hair. “Let’s grab breakfast in town, check out the shops, and then go to the beach for a while before heading to the polo match. Sound good?”

  Now that’s one full schedule for a Saturd
ay. It rivals my typical day at the office. And I thought people came out here to relax. Yet somehow I mean it when I say:

  “It sounds perfect.”

  After a quick shower, I go downstairs and walk into a scene that feels like a cross between The Great Gatsby and Animal House. Tanned women are romping around in their bikinis, sipping margaritas, while men dressed in tennis whites are heading off for a game. I sneak in a quick peek at my BlackBerry to ensure there are no fires to put out before breakfast: nothing looks urgent. There’s an email from Lisa asking whether I want to meet her and Charles later at the Surf Lodge in Montauk for drinks. I reply that unfortunately my schedule is booked more solidly than if I was working on a takeover bid.

  “We’re going to town for breakfast,” Rebecca announces, pulling up her backless (and almost frontless) halter top.

  Yes, I can see that you’re definitely going to town.

  “Okay, see you there.”

  “I’m starving. Let’s hit the road,” Jeffrey announces.

  En route to Southampton, I sit in his convertible with the summer breeze flowing through my hair. I breathe in the fresh air and revel in the luxurious feel of this seaside retreat. With my silk scarf delicately tied around my neck, I feel like one of those happy models in the J. Crew catalogues.

  “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You look deep in thought.”

  “I’m just enjoying the scenery. I haven’t been out of the office in a while. And it’s all your fault.” I poke him playfully.

  “Yes, it is.” He kisses my hand.

  His cell phone rings and his face turns serious as he looks at his call display.

  “Yes?” he answers abruptly. “What do you mean the numbers don’t add up?” he yells into his Bluetooth. “I told you the number of shares outstanding. Can’t you count properly?” He screeches the car to a halt at a fruit stand, slams the door, and starts a one-sided screaming match on the side of the road while annoyed shoppers shake their heads.