He turns to me, clearly satisfied. “It’s the Chinese slang for ‘cool.’”
We’re checking into the Okura Garden Hotel, located in Shanghai’s French Concession, an area of the city once administered by the French consulate. It has since been reclaimed by the Chinese government but retains its Gallic charm, with tree-lined streets and quaint boutiques, art galleries, and stylish bars and restaurants. In the Second World War era, Shanghai was known as the “Paris of the East”; now it’s often called “China’s New York.”
On our way to the hotel, I was blown away by the city’s spectacular skyline—dotted with landmarks such as the jewel-like Oriental Pearl Tower and the Lego-style Pudong skyscrapers—as well as the energy that emanates from the city streets. Peering out onto the busy sidewalks, I can understand why companies like Dior are investing heavily in new retail outlets and splashy events here: a new and lucrative generation of shoppers is emerging. I have read that, by 2014, the Chinese are likely to displace the Japanese as the world’s predominant consumers of luxury goods. As we drive past Plaza 66 and the Bund, two of the city’s exclusive shopping areas, it’s clear to me why we’re here this week.
“Mais c’est pas possible!” A tall man impeccably dressed in a newsboy cap, dark Wayfarer sunglasses, and a grey tweed suit calls out to Rikash from behind a cart of Louis Vuitton suitcases.
“Ah, mon cher, it is possible!” Rikash saunters to the man and leans in for an air kiss. “How are you? You look smashing, as always. I can’t believe you’re in Shanghai.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m a photographer—I follow the beautiful crowd. The question is, what are you doing here?”
“Moi?” Rikash places his right hand on his slim waist. “I have a fabulous new job at Dior.” He wiggles his hips proudly.
“Ah bon! Since when?” His friend takes a step back.
“It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve been so busy, it feels like years. And I’ve loved every minute of it.” He waves me into the conversation.
“Edouard, I’d like you to meet Catherine, my charming boss.”
“It’s so lovely to meet you.” He kisses my hand. All this gallantry makes me feel like we’re in a movie set in La Belle Époque. I wish I was wearing a bustle skirt, and consider curtseying. “Enchantée, Edouard.”
“I met Edouard in New York at a party during Fashion Week,” Rikash fills me in.
“I guess that means you’re attending the show tomorrow?” Edouard says.
“Absolument. We’re in the second row,” Rikash whispers, his eyes wide.
“Ah non! I’m so jealous! I’m in the bullpen with the rest of the photographers.”
One’s seating at a runway show tells the world where you stand in the international fashion pecking order. Being a newcomer to this scene, I must admit that I’m quite proud of our second-row status.
“I’ll see you there, mon ami.” Rikash air-kisses Edouard as we move on.
I look around the lobby. The crowd is uniformly lean, leggy, and clad in clothes that are black, tight, and expensive. I feel a surprising surge of adrenaline to be part of it all.
“So, dah-ling, are you up for cocktails with my friend Zaza tonight? We’re heading to the Velvet Lounge with Laetitia, Xavier, and the rest of the PR team.”
“Sorry, I’ll be turning in early tonight. I’m exhausted from the flight, and I have an early conference call with Chris’s local contact. Don’t forget we have lots on the agenda for tomorrow.”
Our stay in Shanghai was going to be a whirlwind four days. Within the next ninety-six hours, there would be a fashion show, the opening of a new store, and a celebrity-filled party to celebrate a Dior retrospective at a contemporary art museum.
“Suit yourself, sweetie, but Zaza has access to all the VIP parties, so don’t complain tomorrow when you find out you’ve missed all the fun.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. And don’t stay out too late; we’re representing Sandrine at all the events, so we need to be good. Promise me I won’t smell anything suspicious on your breath in the morning.”
“I promise.” He turns around to show me the fingers crossed behind his back.
“The distribution channels have become less visible since the Xiangyang Road market shut down. It was a major sales area for fake merchandise,” Frank Lee advises me on the phone early the next morning.
I woke up feeling rested after a quiet evening in my room munching on mini-bar snacks and enjoying the hotel’s indecently-high-thread-count sheets. I’d resisted calling Antoine. Though I was still worried about his mood, I thought some space before we spoke again might be a good idea.
“Can you take me on a quick tour of one of the markets? I’d love to see how counterfeit merchandise is sold here.”
“Yes, of course. The Nanjing Road market is known for its high-quality fakes. Why don’t we go there?”
“How about tomorrow afternoon? I’m tied up most of today, but there’s some room in my schedule then.”
“Okay, Ms. Lambert. I’ll pick you up at your hotel at one o’clock.”
After I hang up, I fall back into the luxurious bed, thinking how lucky I am. During business trips for Edwards & White, I needed to be reachable at all hours of the day and night for conference calls, but today I feel free to manage my time as I please.
I’m grateful that I met Chris. His easygoing nature and helpful attitude are a breath of fresh air in the French business environment, which I have to admit has its own brand of rigidity.
I also reflect on my personal life and how far I’ve come in the last year. I’ve gone from having my heart mangled by a fraudster to finding Antoine, a loving and caring partner. Despite our petty squabbles, in my heart, I know that we’re meant to be together. I guess it took me a while to finally understand the wise words of one of my all-time favourite television characters, Carrie Bradshaw, when she suggested that it’s easier to spot a knock-off bag than a counterfeit love.
Chapter 17
“Isn’t this grand?” Rikash marvels as we take our seats at the day’s first and most spectacular event: the runway show. We’re seated in a twenty-thousand-square-foot tent on the Bund, along the Huangpu River. The space is luxuriously decorated with thousands of pink roses in honour of the company’s new Rose bag. Hair stylists and makeup artists have been flown in from all over the globe to make this one of the glitziest fashion events of the year. International celebrities mingle with local models and actresses, most dressed in the season’s collections and posing for the photographers and bloggers. It’s obvious that the event has been orchestrated with military precision, and I take a moment to acknowledge Laetitia’s organizational skills. I wink as Rikash fixes a pink flower to the lapel of my exquisite Dior pantsuit.
The fashion crowd reminds me of Yulia. “I forgot to tell you, I met with the model from the anti-aging cream ad before we left,” I tell Rikash.
“Oh? What about?” Rikash turns my way while keeping his eyes on the A-list attendees taking their seats.
“Her name is Yulia. She asked me for legal advice; she’s having immigration issues.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you. I’m sure our marketing team will be grateful.”
“That’s not why I’m doing it. I just want to help out a girl who’s a bit lost in the big city.” As I say this, it occurs to me that I was pretty lost myself when I arrived in New York. Luckily, I had Rikash, Lisa, a decent amount of self-confidence, and some experience under my belt. It all makes me want to help Yulia even more.
We’ve been seated for twenty minutes when the crowd suddenly quiets and the mood intensifies. I assume this means that the show’s about to start. But then the editor-in-chief of Vogue Paris and her assistant make a dramatic entrance and sit down just in front of us on the spindled gold chairs. The photographers go nuts, and I’m now officially blind.
“God just walked in,” Rikash declares, gawking at our neighbours. “I could kiss the ground those two women walk on
and breathe their second-hand smoke all day.”
“Just don’t forget that you have another day job.”
“As Oscar Wilde put it, Looking good and dressing well is a necessity. Having a purpose in life is not.” He crosses his legs and fans his face with the invitation.
I look at the women sitting in front of us. It’s obvious that the real stars of the show are not the supermodels but the editors. Top fashion editors have become celebrities in their own right. They receive perks like chauffeured limos, private jets, island vacations, and even invitations to the White House. More influential than models and bloggers, they can make or break a designer’s career, and they have access to decision-makers in Washington and Hollywood alike.
A flock of young men begin to run around the tent, asking everyone in hushed voices to take their seats. Donna Summer’s hypnotic “I Feel Love” blares out from overhead. Soon the models are sashaying down the catwalk in a rainbow of pastel shades and an avalanche of rich fabrics. Their makeup is dramatic: pale foundation punctuated by shiny red lips and dramatic eyebrows that remind me of the 1950s model Suzy Parker. I wonder if Yulia would have liked being in this show. I hope Lisa has found someone willing to help her out.
As the models slink by in their whirling skirts and swooshing dresses, Rikash leans in toward me to share a bit of context. “This collection is a tribute to some of Dior’s earlier, classic collections: Corolle and Sirène.”
The soundtrack alternates between disco and urban jazz, and concludes with French chanteuse Françoise Hardy’s “Tous les garçons et les filles” for the evening gown finale. Emma Huan, a top local model, is wearing a dazzling layered red wedding dress, according to Chinese bridal tradition. Her beauty and the dreamy chiffon confection leave me breathless.
Rikash’s hand reaches for mine as we take in this special moment. When the music stops, though, my appetite for beauty feels somehow unsatisfied. The fashion shows today are significantly briefer than they once were. We’ve been here for only twenty minutes. I read in the company archives that, back when Christian Dior presented the collections in his intimate salon, clients sometimes slipped out to get their hair done during the show, returning in plenty of time to catch the finale. Today, one couldn’t dash out for an emergency toilet break without missing the entire show.
After Wolfgang takes a bow and salutes the roaring crowd, Laetitia asks us to keep the momentum going by moving on to the next event, a luncheon where Champagne will be flowing by the caseload and a trunk show will allow local guests to purchase the runway looks. As we leave the tent, I take a moment to congratulate Laetitia on a job well done.
She beams with pride. “Merci!” She pats me on the shoulder with the back of her silk glove, which matches the lace detail of her blush pink dress. She looks more relaxed than the last time I saw her, and I can understand why. For me, working in fashion is fun and loose compared to my job on Wall Street, but for others in my office, it’s dead serious.
At the luncheon venue, a grand hotel atrium, I grab a Champagne flute from a passing tray. “That was sublime, wasn’t it?” I enthuse to Rikash. “But it was too short; it left me wanting more.”
“Yes, like most of my one-night stands.”
“Speaking of which, how was the Velvet Lounge?” Rikash hasn’t spilled on his big night out yet.
He replies by raising his eyebrows lasciviously.
“Okay, let’s hear the details.”
He looks around. “Well, it was a bit scandalous.”
I brace myself for the worst. “Oh?”
“I dirty-danced with everyone and kissed Xavier and Zaza,” he whispers. “And they almost got into a fight over me!” He shrugs his delicate shoulders. He knows he’s irresistible. Clearly, neither of them could help themselves.
“Okay, so you caused a commotion on the dance floor. What else is new?”
“Laetitia had to intervene to break it up. She was a sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t put your job in jeopardy.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie, it was just an innocent flirtation fuelled by a few dirty martinis.”
I shake my head, noting his suspect use of the words “innocent” and “flirtation” in the same breath. “Whatever.”
We clink our glasses, giggling, as Edouard takes our picture for Women’s Wear Monthly.
We spend the rest of the day schmoozing with the in-crowd, greeting local business figures, and rubbing elbows with senior management. Whatever my initial hesitations, the trip now feels completely worth the effort. I really feel part of the team. Even Laetitia has warmed up and has offered to take me on a tour of the fine jewellery atelier when we get back.
We end the day with a party at the spectacular Museum of Contemporary Art in People’s Square. I’m over the moon as I slip into my rose chiffon Dior gown and Sabbia Rosa lace dessous. When we arrive at the museum, a thousand flashbulbs go off. Rikash smiles for the camera like a Hollywood actor hitting the red carpet on Oscar night. He slips my cashmere shawl off my shoulders, whispering, “Sophia Loren once said, A woman’s dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view”
We’re dizzy by the time we enter the museum.
“Dah-ling, you look absolutely ravishing.” Rikash makes me twirl around in front of Richard Avedon’s Dovima with Elephants, a photograph of a model dressed in a black Dior gown with a flowing white sash. She’s stretching her arms out toward two enormous pachyderms. “This print was apparently bought by Dior for over a million dollars at Christie’s last year,” Rikash tells me.
We walk toward a giant oval video installation decorated with a wide white ribbon. We come across a digital “book” where one can peruse Dior’s memorable words about beauty and fashion, then find a wall-sized star-shaped installation fitted with a tiny camera in its centre. Peering into it, I see a parade of Hollywood celebrities, including Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor in footage from the golden age of movies, Nicole Kidman in her classic, close-fitting Galliano at the Oscars, and Natalie Portman in a dreamy emerald green gown.
Rikash’s attention is drawn by something on the other side of the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some unfinished business to take care of,” he tells me, then makes a beeline for the bar, heading straight for Xavier, who’s dressed in a sharp black tuxedo and making sweet eyes at him.
I catch a glimpse of Charlize Theron chatting with some company executives. As I take another sip of Champagne, I find myself wishing Antoine were here to share this dazzling, over-the-top moment with me. I take a peek at my phone. Génial! I’ve received a text message from him: Sorry for being in a sour mood. I really miss u. Can’t wait to c u when u get back. Luv, A.
We’re in sync again. I’m so relieved. I text him back, letting him know that I can’t wait to be back in his arms and adding, Tu me manques. The French version of “I miss you” literally means “You are missing from me.” In my opinion, the expression really does justice to the ache you feel when you’re longing to be with someone. That’s how I feel right now.
I chat a little more with some of our senior managers. To my surprise, one of them praises my work on the raid in Aubervilliers. I silently raise my glass to the room before slipping out the back door and heading back to my hotel room for a luxurious soak in the tub.
Chapter 18
“The most shocking thing I’ve seen during a raid? Well, once I walked in on a room full of tired, sick children who were all under the age of ten. They were making fake handbags and were actually shackled to the old sewing machines they were working on. It was awful.”
Frank Lee and I are walking toward the market. As planned, he’s filling me in on the lay of the land in the world of Shanghai counterfeiting.
“What happens to those poor kids afterward?” It’s pretty horrifying.
“They probably get hired by someone else to do the same thing. These children are dirt poor, and what they earn manufacturing fakes
probably feeds their entire families.”
“Is anything being done to change this?”
“Chinese officials have been trying to crack down on child labour, but it’s difficult to get them to prioritize the issue, since counterfeiting is such a lucrative industry. It employs thousands of people, conditions notwithstanding, so local governments are slow to act. But the good news is that there’s now an international initiative under way to raise money for these children’s education. It’s a well-publicized non-profit organization that’s gaining visibility.”
I nod back. It’s something.
When we reach the market, I’m surprised to see two big posters pasted outside the main door. They come from the Shanghai Administration of Commerce and Industry and are written in English, reminding commercial tenants that it’s illegal to sell counterfeit goods on the premises. Those who contravene this rule will be investigated and prosecuted, apparently. The posters include a long list of the most frequently copied luxury brands and logos.
“I thought you said we would find fake merchandise here,” I say.
“Don’t worry, we will. They just put those posters there to cover their backs with international law enforcement. As you can see, the notices are written in English, not Chinese, so they’re pretty meaningless.” Frank lights up a cigarette as we walk along the aisles.
We wander further into the market, and I’m overwhelmed by the quantity of stuff for sale. This place makes Canal Street look like a village general store. There are even electronic gadgets, such as iPods and iPhones. I can’t tell they aren’t the real thing and am reminded of a recent news report claiming that Chinese counterfeiters have gone a step further, opening flawless fake Apple stores that even the employees believe to be real.
“After knocking off luxury products like expensive handbags for years, criminals are discovering there’s money to be made in faking the more ordinary.” Frank points to a stack of fake Angel Soft toilet paper.
“I guess counterfeiters are feeling the economic pinch like the rest of us. They’re downgrading?”
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