J'adore Paris

by Isabelle Laflèche

  “Have we booked all the flights to Shanghai?” she barks.

  “Oui.”

  “Ordered the five thousand pink roses?”

  “Oui,” he says, nodding repeatedly.

  “Signed the contract with the DJ?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  “Have the fittings been done with all the models?”

  There’s a brief silence.

  “Non, we’re still waiting for Ruby to show up from New York. Her flight was delayed.”

  “We’re behind schedule! Call the atelier immediately and let them know.”

  The young man stops and fishes around in his trouser pockets to locate one of several communication devices he appears to be carrying.

  “Allez, what are you waiting for? Call now!” she commands, then turns on her heels to descend the grand staircase at breakneck pace.

  The assistant’s shoulders droop, and he sighs audibly before placing the call. Seeing the bewildered look on our faces, Coralie rushes over to explain.

  “That was Laetitia. She heads the public relations and special events department. Dior is hosting a major show in Shanghai next week, and the entire company is in a frenzy.”

  “Who’s the poor chap working for her?” Rikash asks with a look of pity.

  “Xavier, her assistant.”

  “It looks like Xavier could use a little Xanax,” Rikash says. “She reminds me of someone we used to work with in New York. Bosses can be tough sometimes.” He taps me on the elbow.

  I shudder at Rikash’s reference to Bonnie: she’d made my stay in New York a living hell.

  “Yes, Laetitia can be a bit demanding.” Coralie smiles conspiratorially but kindly. She then disappears behind her desk, obviously trying to steer clear of office gossip.

  “Thank goodness we don’t work for Laetitia. I don’t think I could take another diva, especially now that I’m sharing an office with one,” I joke.

  “Ha! Very funny. You know you can’t live without me, so don’t even go there.” He pokes me with his fancy new pen.

  “At least Laetitia is barking about fashion shows and roses, not prospectuses and public offerings.”

  “And Xavier can bark at me anytime—especially in my boudoir.”

  “I didn’t think a French hipster was in your palette.” I think back to a few of Rikash’s New York conquests. I remember a lot of muscled shoulders, rock-hard buttocks, and square jaws.

  “Dah-ling, you should know by now that I’m just like any great painter: I like to dab my brush into the full range: acrylics, watercolours, oil paint—”

  Sandrine appears in the doorway. “Okay, it’s time to meet the brains behind our department: Frédéric Canet, Dior’s assistant general counsel. He’s my right-hand man and will provide you with all the background information you need.”

  She gestures for us to follow, her costume jewellery clinking as she sashays down the hall. We follow her to a large corner office. Inside, papers are strewn everywhere and books litter the floor. Diplomas from the Sorbonne, Oxford, and Yale are framed on the far wall. I’m taken aback: this is completely different from the rest of Dior’s headquarters. This looks more like a lawyer’s office. A tall man who looks like a cross between Jeremy Irons and Vincent Cassel sits at the desk, wearing a conservative suit and glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He’s reading a document the size of the Magna Carta.

  As I glance up at the impressive collection of accolades, I’m reminded that prominent French companies tend to hire and promote only those who’ve attended the world’s top schools. Will I move up the corporate ladder with a law degree from l’Université de Provence and a one-year exchange program with Pepperdine? I’m not sure, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.

  “Excusez-moi, Frédéric, but I’d like to introduce Catherine Lambert and her assistant, Rikash. They’ll be taking over Pierre’s files.” She slides her manicured hands down her hips and winks at us.

  “Ah yes, you mentioned that.” He looks up momentarily to stare us up and down before going back to his document. “I hope they’re prepared for battles more fierce than the Napoleonic Wars.”

  Rikash looks at me with raised eyebrows. It’s obvious that we’ve caught Frédéric at a bad time. He looks like he would rather be sweeping the streets of Paris than exchanging pleasantries with us.

  Sandrine approaches his desk. She gently but pointedly pulls the document out of his hands and puts it in a file folder, signalling that it’s time to play nice with the new kids. “You need to discuss counterfeiting with them. It’s our new priority, remember?”

  Frédéric removes his reading glasses, crosses his legs, and gives us an annoyed look. “Okay, where shall we start?”

  “From the beginning, mon cher,” she answers breezily while walking toward the door.

  “The beginning? I thought you said they had lots of experience.” He avoids making eye contact with either of us.

  Frédéric’s demeanour brings me back to my days at Edwards & White, where I met a lifetime supply of overbearing types. It’s worrisome, but I tell myself I can handle it. This is no time to let myself be intimidated.

  “They do, but a little refresher never hurts, now does it?” Sandrine waves to us, then closes the office door, leaving us speechless in front of Frédéric’s massive desk.

  I feel like a baby kitten that’s been left beside a coyote. I try to maintain my composure, but my sweaty palms threaten to give me away. I’m grateful to have Rikash by my side.

  Frédéric takes a deep breath before launching into a professorial soliloquy. “As you probably know, the retail industry loses approximately thirty billion dollars worldwide every year from the sale of counterfeit merchandise. Clothing and fashion accessories account for at least seventy percent of all counterfeit goods. The numbers are simply astounding.”

  I see from the corner of my eye that Rikash is nodding like a good student, taking in the teacher’s every word. I try to do the same as Frédéric continues.

  “The good news is that French laws are in our favour: purchasing fake goods is considered illegal here and, unlike in North America, buyers can be subject to stiff criminal penalties: three hundred thousand euros or three years in jail.”

  I’m familiar with international counterfeiting laws, but this is clearly new to Rikash. He twists in his chair, silently mouthing “Oh my god” in my direction. I’m sure he’s thinking about the fake Gucci belt he bought on one of our last brunch dates in lower Manhattan. It could have landed him in jail here.

  “However, the problem isn’t so much with the buyers—the public is slowly becoming more educated in this area—but with the players distributing the goods. It’s become the preferred source of funding for organized criminals who also deal in narcotics, weapons, child prostitution, and human trafficking, and even have connections with terrorism. Some say these organizations use their distribution channels to move fake goods, and it’s becoming extremely difficult to track them down.”

  Although our work here is sure to be exciting, something tells me there might be speed bumps ahead. It’s one thing to handle white-collar criminals in the lofty world of mergers and acquisitions, but battling organized criminals? I hadn’t really considered that.

  “Why is it so difficult to track them down?” Rikash manages to squeeze in a question.

  “They’re attracted to piracy because they can remain anonymous. Counterfeiting rings usually operate as cash businesses. They lease manufacturing equipment from third parties and generally don’t maintain reliable paperwork. Counterfeiters can move merchandise, hide assets, destroy evidence, or disappear without leaving a paper trail. And any profits made in this type of market are difficult to trace.”

  “So how do you manage to eventually find them?” I ask, intrigued.

  “We do it through surveillance. We have over fifty private investigators on the ground, working with informants. Once we have reliable information, we let law enforcement know and we attempt
to seize the goods. Your predecessor, Pierre, was good at managing all this. And this is where your first assignment comes in.” He finally looks me straight in the eye.

  “You want us to get some leads?” I ask.

  “Non, non, non.” He shakes his head, removing his glasses.

  Despite his curtness, I try again. I don’t give up easily. “Perhaps you’d like us to contact some of your private investigators to discuss upcoming seizures?”

  He shakes his head again, but this time with a condescending smirk. “No, but keep going, Mademoiselle Lambert. You’re getting close.”

  His attitude is starting to get me hot under the collar, but I keep my cool and continue to play his game. “Set up a meeting with local law enforcement?”

  “Almost there: you’re burning!” I sense he’s taking pleasure in this game of cat and mouse.

  Rikash jumps in. “Perhaps if she’s burning, that means she’s gotten pretty close to hell.” He nonchalantly crosses his legs, with the satisfied look of a fighter who’s just given a knockout punch.

  Frédéric smiles broadly, happy to have met a willing adversary. “Bravo, Rikash! You’ve figured out what your mission will be.”

  “Really?” Despite his bluster, Rikash now looks totally confused.

  “You’re both going on a raid tomorrow morning to observe some seizures and arrests. You’ll be accompanied by three gendarmes and a private detective. So, yes, I guess you can call it getting pretty close to hell.”

  I nearly fall off my chair. I knew that my responsibilities here would involve dealing with law enforcement agencies, but I wasn’t expecting to be sent on a raid my first week on the job. This is a far cry from my visions of sitting in the front row at couture shows, next to the editor-in-chief of Elle magazine.

  I peer over at Rikash, who’s as white as a sheet.

  Like the winner of a boxing match after the referee has counted to ten, Frédéric rises to his feet triumphantly. “Here’s the seizure warrant. The police officers will meet you here tomorrow at seven sharp. You might receive some threats along the way, but don’t worry about it—it’s pretty routine.”

  “Threats?” I croak, dumbfounded.

  “Unhappy vendors can get a bit violent. One of your predecessors had his knuckles broken with a lead pipe.”

  Rikash now looks as though he might faint. “But you don’t understand. I don’t like pain. I cry when I get a facial.”

  My head spins. How could Sandrine not have mentioned this at lunch today? Did she purposely avoid telling us?

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that Sandrine didn’t mention we’d be going on raids so soon. I’m afraid we’ve been caught off guard.”

  “Sandrine isn’t the one making this decision; I am. There’s no better way to learn the ropes,” Frédéric says curtly. Then he smiles. “By the way, Catherine, you should forget about wearing high heels tomorrow. I think jeans and sneakers will be more appropriate. Just in case you need to run for your life.”

  Chapter 6

  Champagne makes you feel like it’s Sunday and better days are just around the corner. Marlene Dietrich’s famous words come to mind as I wait for Antoine at the Hôtel de l’Abbaye, a charming and romantic hôtel particulier, a townhouse of a grand sort, in the heart of Saint-Germain. We had agreed to meet here after work to celebrate my first day at Dior. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was to be ordering a bottle of Champagne to calm my jittery nerves. After a few sips of pink Taittinger, I start to relax and admire this dainty, delectable space. The tiny bar at the back of the lobby adjoins a lovely courtyard. I take a deep breath and remind myself of why I moved back to Paris: first and foremost, to be with the man I love; second, to pursue a career in a field I’m passionate about. So what if my first day wasn’t exactly what I expected?

  “Hello, ma chérie,” Antoine arrives and moves in for a kiss. I stand to greet him but can barely muster a smile.

  “Why the long face? What happened on your first day?”

  “We got an unexpected assignment.”

  “Oh?” He takes off his suit jacket and places it on the back of the antique settee.

  “Rikash and I are going out with the local police tomorrow. Let’s just say that’s not what I imagined for my first week.”

  “What do you mean?” He takes a seat next to me as the waiter pours him a glass of bubbly.

  “We’re going on a raid to bust counterfeiters and confiscate their merchandise.”

  “Really? That sounds amazing! I wish I could be a fly on the wall to see you guys in action.”

  “I don’t know about that. It seems a bit scary. Apparently, a former colleague got his knuckles broken doing this.”

  “Are you serious?” His expression changes from jovial to concerned. “Who told you that?”

  “Frédéric, one of the top dogs in our legal department.”

  “Was it—the broken knuckles—a one-off? Or does it happen all the time?”

  “I have no idea. He didn’t say.”

  “I knew most luxury houses were active in doing raids. I just didn’t realize the risks for the people actually carrying them out.” He takes a sip of Champagne, then stares into his flute. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about if the police are accompanying you, Catou.” He rubs my shoulders and kisses my cheek. His tender gesture lifts my spirits. “You need to trust Sandrine and Frédéric.”

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, I can hardly wait to see Rikash riding around town with the police. It should be a day to remember.”

  We order some smoked salmon appetizers and enjoy our aperitifs.

  “So, how was your day?” I ask.

  “Same old, same old; just billing my life away while thinking about you.” He takes my hand in his and kisses it gently. “But let’s not talk about work. Save your energy for your big raid, mon amour.” He feeds me a bite-size canapé and whispers in my ear. “And I have a good idea about how to help you relax before your big day.” He kisses me on the nape of the neck, and my worries about what awaits me tomorrow magically disappear.

  Chapter 7

  “You know I’m only doing this for you, love,” Rikash declares between bites of almond croissant as we wait for the gendarmes to arrive at the office. “Spending the day dressed down in a filthy police truck isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I accepted this position.”

  “Yes, I know, and I really appreciate it. I’m sure this is a test to see what we’re capable of. After today, we’ll be back to pushing paper.”

  Sandrine explained during lunch yesterday that we’d be responsible for maintaining an evidentiary chain of custody for all Dior trademarks. Clearly, there will be lots of paperwork involved.

  “Dior is renowned for its New Look, but this is a bit much, don’t you think?” He points to his ripped jeans, fleece sweater, black motorcycle jacket, and dirty Diesel sneakers.

  “I think you look sexy. Maybe you’ll charm one of the gendarmes,” I say, trying to pierce his sombre mood.

  He immediately perks up. “Ooh, you’re right. Men in uniform!”

  I’m wearing a pair of khaki combat trousers, a grey sweatshirt, hot pink Marc Jacobs sneakers, and my red glitter Miu Miu sunglasses. Nothing too conspicuous, I tell myself.

  Frédéric shows up in our office a few minutes later with three middle-aged men in full police dress. All are of medium height and on the burly side. Rikash’s face falls as he catches a glimpse of the men we’ll be spending the day with, and he gives me a thumbs-down.

  “Catherine, Rikash, please meet Sergeants Larivière, Ruppert, and Mazarin.”

  “Bonjour. Very nice to meet you. We’re looking forward to our first raid.” My voice is brimming with faux enthusiasm.

  “The pleasure is ours, mademoiselle,” Larivière replies. He gives Rikash a friendly nod but keeps a comfortable distance. “Frédéric told us about your time in New York. I’m sure you’ll be prepared for some of the characters you will encounter today.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, it was quite a jungle.” A smile crosses my face. I’m not referring to the crowds on the streets of Manhattan but rather to the atmosphere at my former office: it was about the survival of the misfits.

  “Sergeant, can you give us an idea of the role you expect us to play today?” I ask.

  “Absolument. We will need your assistance in identifying the fake goods to make sure they’re in fact replicas of Dior merchandise. Once they’ve been duly identified, we can seize them. The vendors may try to flee, so we must act quickly. Afterward, we will rely on both of you to inventory everything and make itemized lists.”

  “What do you do with the seized merchandise?” Rikash asks.

  “We have it destroyed in a secure facility,” Frédéric answers.

  Given the huge amounts of money involved in producing, distributing, and camouflaging the copies, I’m taken aback to learn this.

  “We need to wait for Chris, our private investigator, before we can set out,” Sergeant Larivière says, staring at his watch. “He’s apparently received top-notch tips about where some of the vendors will be today.”

  Rikash sighs, staring at his iPhone. He’s obviously looking for a distraction before we go off on our very unglamorous mission. To make matters worse, Laetitia and the PR team are massed in the hallway outside our office, discussing guest lists, runway set-up, and Champagne for the Shanghai show. I stare down at my casual outfit and feel completely out of place. I remind myself that it’s only a test to see what I’m capable of, and that things will get more glamorous soon.

  Just then, a dark and handsome man appears in the office doorway. He is tan and fit and looks straight out of a Calvin Klein ad. He’s wearing a Burberry trench coat and dark jeans, with bright red Converse sneakers.

  Rikash looks up and nearly drops his phone.

  “Hi, everybody. Sorry I’m late. There was some major traffic on the way from the airport.” His accent is American.

  After he shakes Frédéric’s hand and greets the three gendarmes, he walks toward Rikash and me. “I’m Chris. You must be the new team members. Welcome aboard.” He flashes a Colgate smile.