J'adore Paris

by Isabelle Laflèche

  I’m flipping through a copy of W magazine when a picture of the president of Longuerive, the watch company, catches my eye. He’s sitting at the wheel of an enormous steamroller and looks to be crushing hundreds of watches. The photo caption reads: “Longuerive president Jean-Marie Doucet leads an initiative to destroy 1,000 counterfeit watches confiscated from street vendors in Los Angeles.”

  My mind races. According to Frédéric, we have a sizeable inventory of seized fake goods sitting in a warehouse. What if we destroyed the fakes publicly? It might create some media buzz. I’m convinced it would be a first in Europe. I run back upstairs, sit at my computer and start typing away furiously.

  Rikash hurries back when he sees me, clearly dying to talk about his exchange with the hot investigator.

  I hold up my hand. “Please save it. I’m in the middle of something, and I don’t want to lose my train of thought.”

  “Oh, aren’t we important? Okay, suit yourself, but don’t come looking for details later.”

  “I’m sure I won’t have to.”

  He responds by sticking his tongue out.

  I ignore him and keep writing my memo to Sandrine and Frédéric:

  Dear colleagues,

  After reading about an initiative taken by the president of Longuerive Watches in Los Angeles—the public destruction of a thousand fake watches, with the help of a steamroller—it occurred to me that Dior could stage a similar event here in Paris. This would likely attract important media attention and bring public awareness to our ongoing anti-counterfeiting efforts.

  Given that the fashion industry is accustomed to using shock value to generate media buzz, and that this type of action has already been successfully undertaken by a fellow luxury brand, I think this would complement our work in this area.

  I would be delighted to take the lead in organizing such an event and look forward to receiving your thoughts.

  Kind regards,

  Catherine

  I weigh the pros and cons of pressing the Send button. In New York, one is usually lauded for taking initiative, but here I wonder if it will look like I’m pushing the limits of my authority. I think back to some of the moments in my career when I’ve been assertive and thought creatively. It has usually worked out well. What do I have to lose? I press Send and stare at my computer for several minutes, hoping for a positive response.

  When none comes, I get nervous. To distract myself, I go online to do some additional research about the Longuerive event. Journalists from all over the United States have called it a gutsy and inspiring move. This helps soothe my anxiety.

  Finally my inbox dings to indicate that I’ve received a message from Frédéric.

  To: Catherine Lambert

  CC: Sandrine Cordier

  Dear Catherine,

  Thank you for your message.

  This is a bold and interesting proposal. I will defer to

  Sandrine for final approval in this matter.

  F.

  I exhale in relief. “Yes!”

  “What’s up?” Rikash asks, standing so close behind me that I can almost taste his Eau Sauvage aftershave.

  “An idea popped into my head, and Frédéric likes it.”

  “Oh? What’s the great legal mind up to now?”

  I turn my computer screen toward him so he can read the message.

  “Ooh, way to go tiger. You’re on fire. I see that my amorous conquests are helping you excel at your job. That’s music to my ears.”

  I reposition my screen, hoping for a message from Sandrine that doesn’t come. Satisfied that I at least have Frédéric’s support, I turn to Rikash.

  “Okay, I’m all ears. Tell me everything.”

  After a leisurely walk, Sandrine and I arrive at the Musée de la Contrefaçon on rue de la Faisanderie, a quiet residential street in the 16th arrondissement. As soon as we enter the attractive hôtel particulier, we’re greeted by a distinguished-looking man who I learn is the museum director. “Ah, Madame Cordier! Always a pleasure.” Sandrine bats her eyelashes.

  After introductions are made, we begin our tour. Sandrine tells me that the museum was established in 1951 by L’Union des Fabricants, an organization of local manufacturers, to educate the public about the perils of counterfeiting.

  We walk toward some glass cases. More than three hundred items are on display, the counterfeit pieces paired with the authentic originals. Of course, there are luxury items such as leather handbags and couture dresses, but a wide array of household goods are also showcased: laundry detergents, pens, tools, Peugeot hubcaps, toys, and games.

  Sandrine points to a pair of Swiss Army knives with a grin. “It’s not always easy to tell the difference between real and fake, non?” A red card inscribed with the word “authentique” is placed in front of the original. She’s right: the copy looks identical. The fake packages of Marlboro cigarettes are also convincing, given away only by the absence of health warnings.

  I admire the way Sandrine moves from display to display with nonchalance and grace, exuding that special made-in-France sexiness. During our walk here, we kept our conversation professional, but she was still animated and warm. It’s so different from American women, who seem to share intimate details about their lives with any female colleague willing to lend an ear. I make a note to follow Sandrine’s lead; restraint and discretion are far more attractive than over-sharing.

  I’m disappointed that she hasn’t brought up my destruction proposal, but decide she just hasn’t read it yet. Looking around at all the fake stuff on display, I truly believe that my plan could be a great marketing coup for Dior.

  “Catherine, come here. You must see this!” She signals for me to follow her to another room. “It’s the highlight of the museum.” She giggles like a young girl. “Take a look. It’s the oldest counterfeit object in France. It dates from the first century BC.” She presses her gloved finger against the glass. “At the time, Greek and Roman wines were considered the highest quality, and this is a fake wine stopper made by a Frenchman. He’s imitated the mark of Marcus Cassius Caius.”

  “Clearly, we’re not dealing with a new problem.” I smile.

  “No, counterfeiting has been a nuisance since the beginnings of commerce. The methods are far more sophisticated today, obviously,” she says, gesturing to the cracked piece of pottery with its worn inscription. Her expression becomes serious. “The fact that we have an entire museum dedicated to this issue highlights how seriously our government takes it.”

  “Thank you for bringing me here, Sandrine! It’s been eye-opening.” I mean it. And I feel like we’re colleagues now.

  “It’s my pleasure, Catherine.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the exit.

  As we approach the coat check, the museum director leans forward as though he can’t help kissing Sandrine goodbye. He whispers something in her ear, and she tilts her head back like Carole Bouquet in the Chanel television ad from the 1980s. Glamour, class, and intelligence are a powerful and alluring mix, I’m reminded. And there’s nothing fake about that.

  Chapter 9

  I’ve agreed to meet my mother at Café de Flore, her favourite Parisian haunt. This quintessential Left Bank café is intimately linked with Paris’s rich artistic and cultural history. Jean-Paul Sartre, Françoise Sagan, Serge Gainsbourg, Miles Davis, and Juliette Gréco have been patrons, along with another chic anti-conformist: my mother. Today, it’s a popular meeting place for artists, business types, and fashionistas. Sonia Rykiel is a regular and even has an item on the menu named after her: Le Club Rykiel, a club sandwich made without bread or mayonnaise.

  I sit at the back of the room on one of the red Moleskine banquettes and do some people-watching before she arrives. Elegantly-put-together ladies are lunching with companions, and a handful of men are sitting alone, reading newspapers. It all reminds me that there’s a whole world happening outside the practice of law. In the last few years, I’ve missed out on many carefree moments. I
resolve to make up for it.

  Just as I signal for the waiter to bring me a glass of water, I catch a glimpse of maman walking through the front door. She’s wearing a striped Gerard Darel dress, with a black patent leather Chanel bag across her chest and open-toe gladiator sandals. As she makes her way to my table, a few men swivel their heads to get a better look at her. I smile.

  “What do you think?” She extends her arm and places her wrist in front of my nose. “I just tried this on at Le Printemps, but I’m not sure.”

  “What is it?” I jerk my head back in reaction to the strong smell. “It’s a bit on the strong side, non?”

  “Osez-Moi! by Chantal Thomass. I’m trying to add a touch of spice to my life.” She takes a seat.

  “It’s very … sensual. I’m sure Christophe will like it.” My stepfather. “Maybe you should leave it on for a while and see how it reacts to your skin.”

  “You’re probably right, ma chérie.” She asks for menus, even though I already know what she’ll be having. She’s ordered the same thing for the last twenty years: a lemonade and the salade de haricots. “So, how are things with Antoine?”

  “Fantastic. He’s taking me out of town for the weekend to celebrate my new job. He’s such a sweetheart.”

  “Maybe he’ll propose?” She lowers her sunglasses and looks me straight in the eye.

  Her voice is kind, but I know that getting engaged isn’t necessarily her idea of a good time. My mother’s definition of a spouse is someone who’ll stand by you through all the trouble you wouldn’t have had if you’d stayed single. Although she’s happy now with Christophe, that was not always the case with my father.

  Before answering, I order a hearty croque monsieur and the Flore Cocktail: a delicious mix of Grand Marnier, cognac, Champagne, and red berry coulis. When the waiter departs, I say, “Don’t worry, maman; we’re not there yet.”

  “I’m just looking out for your best interests. Anyway, I’m glad you’re liking your new position at Dior. I always knew you’d be ten times happier working in fashion.” She takes a sip of her drink.

  “Yes, you were right about that. The world of counterfeiting is fascinating.” I refrain from telling her that one day’s work involved liaising with three gendarmes and getting my picture taken by criminals. There’s no need for her to worry.

  “I was thinking about you the other day. I read an article about fake hiking equipment and baby formula. Can you believe that counterfeiters would copy that?” She shakes her head. “It’s far more dangerous than a fake handbag, isn’t it?”

  “That’s why it’s so important to put a stop to it. And I won’t tell you what goes into fake perfume; it would kill your appetite.”

  “Oh mon dieu.” She places her manicured hand over her mouth. “I can only imagine.”

  After our meal, we order espressos and the legendary tarte Tatin to share before we head over to the Musée des Lettres et Manuscrits for an exhibit about the French writer Romain Gary. On our way out, some of the lunching ladies, a few of the solo gentlemen, and even the waiters stop us to say goodbye to my mother.

  Once we’re outside, we walk past the lovely Fragonard shop, where pretty perfume bottles, dainty pillows with French embroidery, and colourful home accessories are artfully placed in the window.

  The museum, located in a gorgeous Haussmannian building, houses an important collection of historical documents related to figures from French history ranging from writers to politicians. I’ve always loved seeing the handwritten notes of Marcel Proust, Gustave Flaubert, and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

  A young woman at the entrance hands us a brochure about the current exhibit as we stroll inside. Gary was a diplomat, a compulsive writer, and a passionate lover. He was married to the actress Jean Seberg, and committed suicide a year after she did.

  A few minutes in, my mother pulls a vibrating cellphone from her coat pocket. She peers at the tiny screen and whispers, “So sorry, ma chérie, but I must take this.”

  She rushes out into the museum’s courtyard. I assume the call must be urgent if she’s willing to interrupt a gallery visit to take it. My mother isn’t a slave to her phone like the rest of us. Concerned, I follow her outside, keeping my distance to give her some privacy. After a few seconds, I hear her talking about lampshades, wall coverings, and bedspreads. She sounds excited, her numerous bracelets clinking against one another as she moves her arms animatedly. Clearly, there’s nothing to worry about. I go back inside.

  She eventually catches up with me. “Désolée. It was a new Parisian client. I just had to take it.” She puts her phone away. “I’ve got so many new projects in the works, I’m in a bit of a tizzy.”

  I want to remind her that she once chastised me for taking a conference call during dinner, but decide to drop it. I’m thrilled to see her design business thriving; she’s worked so hard at turning a hobby into a source of fulfillment and income.

  “No problem, maman. I understand.”

  “I just hope I can give all of my clients the attention they deserve.” She looks a bit worried.

  “Well, I’m here now. I can help you, if you need me,” I find myself blurting out, despite the fact that between work and Antoine, my schedule is pretty packed.

  “Really? That would be fantastic, Catou. I would love your advice on a few things. Can you join me for some shopping next week?”

  “Of course. I’d love to.” After all, my interest in her business is genuine. “Shall we?” I point back toward the exhibit.

  “Ah oui, I want to read about Romain Gary’s mother. Did you know that his famous book La Promesse de l’aube was written as an ode to her? Perhaps you should write a book in my honour. God knows you’d have lots of material.” She winks.

  My mother was a beautiful bohemian.

  Born Camille Berthelet, she looked, and dressed like, Brigitte Bardot. She paraded through the streets of Paris in long, flowing skirts and oversized sunglasses, and with a carefree spirit. She read Simone de Beauvoir’s novels and essays, became part of the women’s liberation movement in the 1970s, and rubbed shoulders with the literati while spending her days at Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots.

  My father first laid eyes on her during a business trip to Paris. Freshly promoted to a managing director position on Wall Street, he was, while a generous soul, her complete opposite: dead serious, ferociously ambitious, and sartorially conservative. He worked hard to woo her, marshalling his dashing smile and his passionate love of poetry.

  They spent afternoons at Buttes Chaumont Park, a sprawling, romantic garden where Parisians head for picnics and naps in the sun. Together, they read Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and sipped chilled white wine. After a long-distance courtship that lasted over a year, they were married, and my father orchestrated a transfer to Paris to begin their life together.

  Years after his death, my mother confided in me that she had never planned to marry. As a girl, her heart had been set on becoming a painter and living a nomadic existence rather than becoming a wife and a mother. But my father had been relentless in his pursuit of her, and she genuinely loved him. Plus, her parents were pressuring her to settle down.

  Once, in my twenties, I was looking after my mother’s house while she was away on vacation, and I found a journal she had kept during the years of my childhood. There were difficult-to-read passages in which she wrote about fighting depression and feeling stifled by domestic life. She expressed frustration about the challenges of raising a child with a husband who travelled all the time. She clearly fought loneliness and had some regrets about forgoing the artistic life. Although I felt guilty reading something so private, it answered questions I’d long had.

  There had always been clues of her artistic self in our home: piles of fashion magazines and art books, unopened tubes of paint, untouched canvases and brushes. When I asked her why she never took up her paints, she just shrugged and answered “No time” or “Feeling uninspired” or “I need to take care of the family.”<
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  My father once announced out of the blue that my mother would be going away alone to do some painting. I remember crying and tugging at her skirt as she packed her bags and loaded up her car. After reading her journal, I realized she’d needed to leave us temporarily to maintain her sanity and rebuild her sense of self.

  It was only long after my father died that she finally found her calling. She studied interior design in Paris, moved to the south for inspiration, and finally picked up her paintbrush.

  I now understand why my mother kept insisting that I look for another job when I practised law at Edwards & White. She knew that, deep down, I wasn’t happy, and that my passions lay elsewhere. Having suppressed her dreams for so long, she feared that I would also suffer the consequences of an unsatisfying career choice.

  After all, maman knows best.

  Chapter 10

  It is said that Cleopatra had the sails of her barge soaked with perfume before she set off to seduce Mark Anthony; that Madame de Pompadour, one of Louis XV’s mistresses, spent millions of francs a year on aromatic elixirs to keep her lover entranced; and that Marilyn Monroe slept in nothing but a few drops of Chanel N°5.

  The French have always been known for their expertise in creating fine perfumes, thanks to the culture’s celebrated cadre of “noses.” The house of Christian Dior shares in this heritage. Back in 1968, Christian Dior hired Serge Lutens, then a photographer and stylist, to create a cosmetics line that became one of the most successful in history.

  Working for a high-end company like Dior, one might forget that there’s a whole other world of fragrances out there. The drugstores in New York are filled with perfumes carrying the names of Hollywood actresses, pop singers, and reality show starlets. When I saw women pick one up, I wanted to wrestle the bottle out of their hands and throw it away. As Mr. Dior put it, A woman’s perfume tells more about her than her handwriting. So who are you if you wear fragrances by Britney, Cher, or Fergie? Curious, Uninhibited, or Outspoken.