To my delight, the boutique stocks home wares like delicate hand-embroidered placemats, cherry-patterned porcelain, and pretty, heart-shaped drinking glasses. I examine the display while waiting for Rikash. Shopping in this historic establishment continues to be a superior experience: no wonder Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, spent so much time in the private salon. It dawns on me that there’s a big difference between the American and European shopping experiences. As Mr. Dior noted, women in America spend enormous sums of money buying in volume but often achieve little luxury; European women, on the other hand, take pride in purchasing a few well-crafted items that they might pass on to a daughter.
Glancing at my watch, I decide to get started without Rikash. I make my way to the ready-to-wear section and advise the gracious and gorgeous sales assistant of the purpose of my visit.
She lights up as she reaches for a pen and paper to jot down the items I decide to borrow. “You’re so lucky to be invited to the show in Shanghai!” She heads to one of the racks. “This silk resort dress just came in yesterday—it’s sublime. It would be perfect for the occasion.”
She points to another dress, this one made of light pink butter-soft plissé leather with scalloped details. “This one would look stunning with your complexion,” she says, her ponytail swinging from side to side.
Of all the gorgeous pieces she shows me, it’s an antique rose floor-length gown with flowered embroidery that stops me dead in my tracks. I imagine a French actress wearing this to a premiere at the Olympia. The assistant sees my reaction and immediately says, “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I nod but stay silent. Surely luxe items like this are off limits to employees.
“You should try it on.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to waste your time. I’m sure someone famous will want to wear this at the show.”
She stares at me incredulously. “You’re going to Shanghai! Try it on!” She insists, and I head to the fitting room.
“So, you’re from Paris?” she asks.
“Yes, but I worked in New York for a year. I just moved back.”
“I can tell you’re from here; you appreciate the craftsmanship. I saw you admiring the details of that dress.”
“Is that typically French?”
“European women have a greater appreciation for our designs. Most Americans tend to think of them as clothes, not works of art. I know—I see it every day.”
A few minutes later, Rikash bursts into the salon with an armload of Dior bags and a big smile on his face. “You won’t believe what I picked out,” he exclaims, nearly knocking his giant sunglasses from the top of his head in his excitement. “I found the coolest trompe l’oeil jeans. They’re designed to look as if your fly is permanently open.”
“Not surprised you’d choose those,” I say, sucking in my stomach as the sales assistant zips up my fancy dress.
“Ooh, gorgeous!” Rikash gushes.
“It looks lovely on you.” The sales assistant and Rikash are both beaming as I stand in front of the tall mirrors.
“She could be the next Bond girl, given her new line of work.” Rikash looks over his shoulder before continuing. “She’s involved in anti-counterfeiting raids and deals with international criminals.” He finishes in a whisper, as if I were a secret agent.
I really don’t think we should be talking about this. I give Rikash a look and raise my index finger to my lips as I step off the podium and slip out of the dress. I try to change the subject. “Okay. You can count on me to bring it back in mint condition. Would you mind wrapping it up? I want to make sure it doesn’t get damaged in my suitcase.”
“Is that all you’re getting?” Rikash looks disappointed.
“Yes, why? I’m going home to pack after this.” How much can I possibly need?
“No, you’re not; there’s no time for that. We have to go back to the office to pick up our travel visas, then get to the airport. We need to be there a few hours before our flight.”
My heart sinks: this means I won’t get to see Antoine before I go. My telephone screen is still blank—he hasn’t called.
Rikash reads my mind. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure he won’t be upset. You’ve left the office for last-minute trips a gazillion times before.”
I think back to the kind of business trips I took while working at Edwards & White. I was often called on to leave the office with no notice to jet off to dreary, far-flung industrial parks, carrying nothing more than the firm’s emergency travel kit and cheap drugstore stockings. Considering the divine dress I’ve just tried on, it’s obvious that my new mode of business travel is more civilized.
I pull myself together. “You’re right. I’ve done it before, and so has he. I’m sure he won’t mind.” I turn to the sales assistant. “In that case, I need a few more items to take with me.”
During a speedy tour of the ready-to-wear section, I pick out a navy blue pantsuit, the pink leather dress I spotted earlier, a nude sequined top, a funky nautical-style jacket, some jeans, and two pairs of shoes. The clerk slips a lipstick and matching nail polish into my bag.
I leave the boutique carrying thousands of dollars of couture but still feeling a bit disappointed that there’s no time to stop at the apartment. I’ve never felt comfortable wearing head-to-toe designer garb. And not saying goodbye to Antoine feels wrong.
“What?” Rikash asks, seeing my conflicted expression.
“It feels awkward to be leaving for China without speaking to Antoine.”
“What’s the big deal? You two lived in different countries for months before you moved back to France, and now you’re living together. A few days apart won’t kill you.”
“It’s just that …” I look away. “We got into a bit of an argument over the weekend.” I stare at the pavement.
“What about?”
“About me sending him Dior files or, more to the point, not sending him any.”
“Oh.” He raises his eyebrows and drops his bags on the sidewalk to hug me. “I’m sorry the subject has reared its ugly head.”
“He brought it up during our weekend away, and I got upset. I guess it just shows his persistent nature. Generally, that’s something I love about him.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Everything will be fine. God knows he’s crazy about you.”
“I know. It’s just tough trying to please everyone. This new job means so much to me, and I don’t want Sandrine to think I’m putting my interests first by lobbying for Antoine.”
Rikash looks down at his watch and says, “Wait right here. Don’t move.” He dashes to the door of the Dior offices and hurries inside.
I wonder what he’s up to now, but I wait patiently, keeping an eye on his bags, until he rushes back out and hands me an envelope. Looking inside, I see our visas. “How did the company manage to arrange these so fast?” I ask.
“Important connections. We’re playing in the major leagues now, remember?” He looks around, then whistles for a taxi that’s idling down the block.
It’s nearly impossible to obtain international travel documents this quickly; everyone knows that bureaucracy moves at a snail’s pace. Rikash is right: we are in the major leagues.
We wriggle into the cab, juggling our bags. “Sabbia Rosa on rue des Saints-Pères.” Rikash gives the taxi driver a serious look. The driver responds with a grunt, clearly unaware that he’s on his way to the city’s mecca of women’s lingerie.
“Well, you need something fabulous to wear under that dress,” Rikash responds to my look of surprise.
“Do we have time for this?”
“Why do you think I ran all the way up to our office and back, dah-ling? New lingerie is guaranteed to make you feel better.”
We make our way to a tiny side street, and Rikash asks the driver to stop in front of one of the most beautiful lingerie shops in the city. Sabbia Rosa is Italian for “pink sand.” It’s sort of fitting: my reluctance to shop here is disappearing a
s quickly as I would be if I were standing in quicksand.
“I’ve never actually been in here,” I say, looking around. “It’s divine.”
“I told you, pussycat. Have I ever let you down?”
“Never. But I could have picked up something at the airport.”
He shakes his head. “Oh dear, don’t tell me you’ve developed that American habit of buying Hanes value packs at the drugstore. That is not sexy.”
“Of course not, but I don’t want us to miss our flight because of this.”
“We have time.” He points to a gorgeous white lace camisole and matching bottoms. “I read somewhere that French men prefer white and ivory undergarments because it makes women look pure and virginal.” He moves down the aisle. “Not that I would know anything about that; virginal isn’t my style.”
The store is full of gorgeous lace slips displayed on silk hangers. I pick out a dusty pink ensemble made from the finest French lace, plus a few more practical items to carry me through our voyage. True luxury really is in the details.
At the airport, we learn that we’re flying first class, and Rikash does a little dance near the check-in counter, endearing himself to the entire Air France staff. As we hand over our luggage, I mentally say au revoir to my expensive loot, hoping it will make it safely to Shanghai.
We pick up a few bottles of Perrier at the Air France lounge, and I’m relieved when my phone finally rings. But it’s Chris, not Antoine. My heart drops, but Rikash’s face brightens when he catches a glimpse of my call display.
“Ooh, it’s Mr. Hottie. Pick up, quick.”
“Hi, Chris. You got my message about meeting an investigator in Shanghai?” I turn toward the lounge windows for a bit of privacy, but I can feel Rikash breathing down my neck.
“Yes, no problem. I’ll hook you up with one of my guys. He can take you to the right places. I’ll have him call you tomorrow at your hotel. Just send me the details, okay?”
“That’s fantastic. Will do, thank you.”
“You have a great trip, okay? And give my regards to Rikash.”
I hang up. It was nice to hear a friendly voice.
Rikash stares at me expectantly. “So?”
“I’m meeting one of his employees in Shanghai for a bit of espionage.”
“Not about that.” He points at himself.
“He says hello.”
“Ah, I’m finally getting somewhere. I haven’t given up on him. It just takes longer for some men to come around.”
“Really? I didn’t think you were the patient type.” I think back to my recent trip to Aubervilliers with Chris and feel ridiculous for being attracted to a man Rikash is into.
“I’m not, but I have several side projects keeping me occupied. There’s one waiting for me in Shanghai, in fact.” He smiles naughtily.
“Oh? Who is it now?”
“A nightclub singer by the name of Zaza. He holds the keys to the city.”
“Oh dear, should I be worried?” I’m subtly referring to one of his ex-lovers back in New York, a colourful character who stole Rikash’s heart—and, later, his expensive camera too.
“No, mother.”
“I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble.”
My phone rings again, and this time, I sigh with relief. “Antoine, I’ve been trying to reach you for the last four hours. Where have you been?”
“I was in a partners’ meeting.” His tone is stone cold.
“It didn’t go well, I presume?” I find myself pacing in front of the newspaper rack.
“No, it didn’t. I was hoping we could discuss it at home tonight.”
Guilt washes over me. For the past ten years I haven’t thought twice about leaving on spur-of-the-moment trips when work demands it. But maybe now that I’m in a committed relationship, I shouldn’t be taking off like this. I can’t help but feel horrible about leaving Antoine behind.
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t say no. I was asked to take Sandrine’s place at the company events.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I need to try harder to sell this. “The really fascinating part will be visiting some of the markets where knock-offs are sold. It will make the trip totally worthwhile—professionally, I mean.”
He’s silent for a long moment. “I guess. When are you coming back?”
“In four days. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
Another awkward silence ensues. This cool conversation is making my heart hurt, and it only makes matters worse that I’m stuck in a noisy airport lounge, where it’s impossible to really talk.
“I’ll bake that soufflé you love,” I whisper into the phone, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’ll see you when you get back.” His voice is flat, then the line goes dead.
As we’re called for boarding, the knot in the pit of my stomach feels a bit tighter.
“Would you like another cappuccino, Mademoiselle Lambert?” The stewardess has asked three times in the last two hours. I’ve taken advantage of the lengthy flight to review the company’s copyright protection policies. The collected documents are about as thick as the Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary. I can’t sleep anyway, between the upsetting conversation with Antoine and Jeffrey’s trial looming. Rikash has been sleeping like a baby in his airline-furnished Balmain pyjamas.
“Dah-ling.” Rikash removes his silk travel mask and gives me an exasperated look. “If you continue drinking caffeine at this pace, you’ll be bouncing off the Great Wall.”
“The Great Wall is in Beijing, not Shanghai.”
“I know, that’s my point.”
“Sorry if I woke you. I’m using this quiet time to get a bit of work done.”
“Can’t it wait? You need to get some sleep or you’ll be a wreck when we land and you’ll look terrible at the show.”
“I’ll wear sunglasses. Nobody will know I’m there.”
“Come on, sweetie, this is our big chance to mingle with the in-crowd at Dior. You want to show those fashionistas that you know what time it is, don’t you?”
“I do know: I’m on borrowed time,” I say, feeling anxious about everything that’s going on.
“Oh, please. Enough with the drama.”
I hesitate. I haven’t yet told Rikash about Jeffrey’s indictment. It’s not that I don’t trust him; I’m just a bit tired of rehashing everything that’s been jumping around in my head.
He gazes at me with his deep brown eyes and, sensing my uncertainty, puts his hand on my shoulder so kindly that I can’t help but spill it.
“Jeffrey’s been indicted.”
“Ooh, that’s great news!” Then he frowns, seeing my uneasy face. “Why aren’t you thrilled about this?”
“It means that my letter to the SEC will probably come out publicly, and I’ll have to testify at the trial. You know I’ve been trying to put the whole thing behind me.”
“Of course I do.” He pats me on the knee. “But the sooner he gets sent away, the sooner you can move on with your life.”
I know Rikash is right, but I’d feel much better if I didn’t have to get my hands dirty and testify in court. The initial heartbreak and embarrassment were bad enough; I really don’t want to relive it all—publicly, no less.
The stewardess arrives with my cappuccino, served, of course, on a crisp white serviette next to a mango tartlet, and I give her a grateful nod.
I try to gather my thoughts. “You’re right. I’m just exhausted by all my new responsibilities, including being a decent girlfriend, which I’m not succeeding at, apparently.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be too hard on yourself. How many times has Antoine flown off on business at the last minute?” He shakes his head and takes a sip of my cappuccino. “It seems to me that he’s acting a tad needy these days.” He then proceeds to drink the entire cup.
“Excuse me? I believe that was my coffee.”
“Not anymore, baby doll. We have to discuss your personal life.” He puts away his travel
mask and matching ear plugs. “And we have a solid ten hours to do so.” He waves to the stewardess, signalling for her to bring us another round of coffees.
As he starts to turn his attention back to me, a young steward appears out of the blue, selling duty-free products. He’s tall, with a chiselled jaw and a taut torso, toned upper arms peeking out of his short-sleeved uniform. Rikash is captivated and stops him mid-aisle. “Hello, handsome. What are you selling?”
“Whatever you ask for, you shall receive,” the young man replies flirtatiously.
Oh boy, here we go again. I mentally say goodbye to the promised intimate conversation and pick up a copy of Air France Madame magazine.
“I’m looking for some moisturizer. Flying makes my skin flaky,” Rikash offers eagerly. “What would you recommend?”
The steward pulls at least five boxes from his trolley and begins a comparative demonstration that would rival the work of the most talented Avon lady, dabbing samples onto his forearm and leaning over my head for Rikash’s benefit. “They’re all-natural: no parabens, no phthalates,” he enthuses.
“And no shame,” I mutter under my breath.
The steward provides Rikash with the prices, the product ingredients, and his phone number. The other cabin staff are forced to circumvent the grand beauty product demonstration with their dinner trolleys, creating a kerfuffle in the aisle and provoking a few dirty looks from the other passengers. I give Rikash an evil glare, pull out my D. Porthault travel pillow, plug in my earphones, and select a different kind of romantic comedy to watch on the touch screen in front of me. There’s nothing quite like a Hollywood movie to make you forget your own romantic foibles.
Chapter 16
“He’s very ku.” The young woman behind the reception desk at our hotel nods toward Rikash, who’s decked out in a three-piece suit and a striking grey fedora. The look is GQ meets New Orleans jazzman.
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