J'adore Paris

by Isabelle Laflèche

  Rikash takes control of my keyboard. “I had a feeling this was coming.” He scratches his head. “They’re from bogus Hotmail and Gmail accounts. They’re probably from the same source, but it’s too soon to tell.”

  “Can’t your software track where they’re from?”

  “I’m afraid these messages were sent before I installed it, so we won’t be able to find out just yet, but hopefully next time.”

  I guess we can expect more threats. What kind of cat and mouse game are we in for?

  I meet Yulia at the Galeries Lafayette food court. Helping out with her immigration dossier feels like a breath of fresh air. I’ve decided to act as her visa sponsor. Although we’re only acquaintances, offering her guidance makes me feel good.

  Yulia’s asked me to come with her to a photo shoot for the cover of an Italian teen magazine. The assignment is an important stepping stone in her career, and I am more than happy for the change of pace.

  I find my new friend at a sushi restaurant. She’s wearing skinny red jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a navy blazer. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, giving her a polished and professional look. I wave and smile.

  “I have some great news,” I tell her.

  Her face lights up like a Times Square billboard.

  “We’ve found a solution to your visa issue.”

  “Really? How did you manage that?”

  “A colleague of a friend of mine works here in Paris and has connections with local immigration officials.”

  “Will this be expensive? I’m not sure I can afford a lawyer.” Her face becomes serious, and I remind myself that I’m discussing legal fees with a fifteen-year-old.

  “No need to worry. My friend is doing this as a favour.”

  “Really? That’s amazing, Catherine!” She reaches across the table and gives me a warm hug. I wish all my clients and colleagues were this grateful. “What a good friend you have.”

  “Yes, well, I’m helping her organize her wedding, and it’s no small task. Besides, that’s what friends are for, non?”

  “Oh, I love weddings!” she gushes. “Especially the flower arrangements. I can’t wait for my own big day,” she says, a dreamy expression in her eyes.

  “You have plenty of time to worry about that, ma chérie. There’s no rush.” Oddly, I’ve caught myself blurting out something my mother would say. I look at my watch. “Speaking of time, I think we should order; otherwise, we’ll be late.”

  “I’m so excited about this magazine cover; apparently the photographer is a rising star in the industry.” She smiles broadly, revealing her sweet dimples.

  “I’m happy for you, Yulia. It seems like things are looking up.”

  “Catherine, you are one cool lady. I like you a lot.”

  Her comment warms my heart and makes me feel as though I’m helping the younger sister I never had. “The feeling is mutual, Yulia. So what are we having for lunch? I’m starving.”

  After taking the metro to the 15th arrondissement and walking along boulevard du Montparnasse, we wind up at a large warehouse. We trek up to the third floor and enter a spare, dusty room. There’s just a single photo umbrella, a far cry from the Dior photo shoot with Jean-Michel. There are no platters of fresh fruit, no miniature bottles of Perrier, no battery of assistants or stylists on hand. A scrawny man with tattoos, dishevelled hair, hipster glasses, and baggy jeans is fiddling with a camera lens while a bored-looking hairstylist in a tight black top sucks on a cigarette.

  “Bonjour. I’m here for the cover shoot,” Yulia says, attempting to hand over her portfolio.

  The photographer barely looks at her and seems uninterested in taking it. “Just sit over there with the others and wait your turn, okay, sweetie pie?”

  “The others?” I mutter. Perhaps it’s a group photo, I tell myself.

  I see two girls sitting in the dank hallway. One has dark hair and heavily glossed red lips, and is wearing a white tube top that leaves little to the imagination. The other, a petite blonde with high cheekbones, looks like a young Diane Kruger. When I say hello, they respond by smacking their gum and staring at their nails.

  Yulia joins them on the row of chairs in silence and nods my way, hinting that I should do the same.

  The type A in me decides to figure out what’s going on. I approach the photographer. “Excuse me. Why do we have to wait in line? Isn’t Yulia on the cover of the magazine?”

  “Who are you? Her mother?” He looks me up and down condescendingly, like I have as much right to be on the set of a photo shoot as Lindsey Lohan does designing a Paris couture collection.

  “If you must know,” he says, grimacing, “there are three candidates for the cover of Italiana. It hasn’t officially been decided yet.”

  I walk back to the hallway and pull Yulia aside as discreetly as I can. “I don’t like this guy, and I don’t have a good feeling about this. I think we should leave.”

  She stares at me incredulously. “You can’t be serious. Catherine, I need this cover for my portfolio. And I still owe my agency money; they would never forgive me if I walked out on a job. Please stay. I need your support.”

  I’m a sucker for puppy dog eyes. I give in. Who am I to come between Yulia and her dreams?

  The photographer calls out the first model’s name. “Okay, Athina, mon bébé, you’re up. Show me what you’ve got.” His tone and the lecherous look in his eyes give me the creeps.

  The dark-haired girl disappears behind a thin white curtain and reappears moments later in a leopard-print bra with neon pink straps and matching panties. The hairstylist teases her dark mane and adds bronzing powder to her face and cleavage. I want to hide under my chair as Athina begins to gyrate her tiny hips and pout for the camera. She rolls on the floor and poses suggestively. So much for teen magazines, I think. In my day, the covers featured Matt Dillon and Duran Duran in pastel shirts.

  I’m embarrassed watching this spectacle, and I cringe at the thought of Yulia going through a similar degrading exercise. Sensing my discomfort, she reaches for my hand, pressing her palm tenderly against mine. She’s soothing me when it should be the other way around, and I’m reminded that the fashion world isn’t just about handcrafted gowns and photo shoots at Versailles. There is a darker side to this shiny world, and I’m witnessing it first-hand.

  When I look back, the photographer has removed his shirt and is kneeling on the floor. Athina is sucking her thumb and placing her other hand down her panties. This makes me want to take two showers and bolt out of here, even if I have to carry Yulia away kicking and screaming.

  Once the creepy guy is done with Athina, he slaps her on one butt cheek, then calls for Yulia and the blonde girl. I flinch in my chair. Will he be taking lewd pictures of them together? I imagine the worst and try to calm myself by checking my messages. Being threatened by counterfeiters all of a sudden seems easier to deal with than watching the creation of borderline child pornography.

  After a few moments, I hear a shriek from behind the curtain and recognize Yulia’s voice.

  “Espèce de connard!” She throws a red two-piece bikini at the photographer and runs toward the exit with flushed cheeks.

  “Vas te faire foutre!” he yells. “And take your mother with you!”

  I waste no time reciprocating. “Salaud!” I shout back, giving him the middle finger. If I learned one thing in New York, it’s how to use it.

  “Yulia, please wait for me!” I try to catch up with her, tottering in my four-inch heels.

  Once we’re outside, she finally speaks. “What a jerk! I’m so ashamed.” She places her face in her hands and begins to sob.

  “What did he do?”

  She stares at the sidewalk. “He waited for us to undress, then told tell us that Athina was getting the cover. He said something about blow jobs …”

  Merde! I want to sue this jerk for sexual harassment and file a criminal complaint with the police. I try to cool down and think this through: I’m disgusted by his act
ions but relieved the peep show is over. The legal world is competitive, with its backstabbing and politics, but the modelling world makes it look like a day at the beach. At least lawyers have a steady income and the means to defend themselves, unlike fifteen-year-old girls.

  “You deserve better than this,” I tell Yulia.

  She closes her eyes.

  I imagine scores of underage girls keep this kind of exploitation to themselves for fear of the consequences. I decide I’d better tell our marketing team, as well as Yulia’s agency, about this so-called prominent photographer/predator/pervert.

  “I’m proud of you for telling him off. Not many girls would have the courage to stand up to him like that,” I say.

  “I’ll probably get blacklisted for it.” She shrugs.

  “So what? You don’t want to work with him. It’s degrading.” I wonder how long Yulia will put up with this kind of treatment. I know full well that for every top model, there are thousands of girls who get burned by the industry. Of course, it’s easy for me to say—I have a law degree on my side. I try to be positive. “There’ll be other covers, Yulia,” I chirp reassuringly, but it’s hard given what we’ve just seen. “Your career is only beginning.”

  “You just don’t understand.” She starts to walk toward the metro, tears filling the corners of her eyes.

  My heart sinks seeing her so dejected, and I search for comforting words. “Fashion Week is coming up. I’ll speak to our PR director about the casting for the show.”

  She shrugs her slender shoulders and places one hand in her jeans pocket, like she’s given up.

  I guess she’s right: there are certain things I just don’t understand.

  Chapter 24

  “We’ve ordered the vests,” Frédéric says the next day, when I walk into his office. “You should be receiving yours shortly so you can get back to the streets.”

  “Can’t wait,” I lie, knowing that whoever sent me those vicious emails, posted the pictures in Shanghai, and has been following me around town will be tickled pink. I might as well paint a bull’s eye on my back.

  “In the meantime, you can sink your teeth into the eShop lawsuit. It will be a precedent-setting case. Did you know that a pair of shoes is sold every eight seconds on that site?” he asks conspiratorially. “I’d be curious to know what percentage of those shoes are fake.”

  I do my best to appear interested, but I’m stressed about my stalker and sad about the outcome of Yulia’s photo shoot. I try to focus. “What are our chances of success, do you think? The American courts have ruled that eShop does enough to track down fakes on its site through its verification program. Are we not wasting time and energy?” Clearly, I’m a little punchy.

  A broad smile appears on his face. He looks amused. “Mademoiselle Lambert, have you forgotten how important the luxury industry is to France? Perhaps you’ve spent too much time in New York?” He laughs good-naturedly. “As you know, the French courts are very diligent in protecting this industry’s intellectual property rights. It’s critical to the national economy. I think we have a strong case and excellent representation.”

  I’m reminded of my bookshop encounter. “Speaking of outside counsel, I ran into someone from Pineau Larochelle the other day: François D’Avignon. He’s a partner, and said he specializes in medical malpractice.” I refrain from telling him that I almost scared the poor man to death, and also leave out that he’s got some impressive credentials in the hotness department. “It’s a great firm. I see why Dior retains their services,” I hear myself say. Why can’t I start bragging about Edwards & White instead?

  “We’ll find out soon enough if they’re still as good,” says Frédéric. “The court documents were filed against eShop this morning.”

  Merde. That means Antoine probably knows about the filing and is fuming that I didn’t give him a chance to work on the case. I want to call him, but Frédéric pulls out some more documents.

  “I’ll need your help to prepare for the information requests we’re likely to receive from eShop’s lawyers.” He hands me a large manila folder. “This is the information we’ve gathered so far about the supposed Dior products for sale on the site. Perhaps you could spend some time going over it?”

  “Yes, of course.” I prepare to return to my office, but Frédéric signals for me to sit back down.

  “Catherine, I know we never got back to you about your suggestion to publically destroy the fakes stored in the warehouse. I want to explain. Sandrine is under lots of pressure these days with this lawsuit. She’s asked me to tell you that she thinks it’s a great idea, but the timing is just off.”

  Oh well. It’s too bad, really. In New York, this type of initiative would likely have been applauded. In the land of opportunity, talent and boldness are both revered and rewarded. I feel the more conservative French business attitude is holding me back a bit. But really, I’ve got enough going on.

  “I understand. I have lots on my plate, anyway. Is that all?” I’m eager to call Antoine.

  “Yes, and good luck with everything.” He gives me a grave look, as though he senses what’s ahead for me.

  Chapter 25

  Dorothy Parker said, It’s not the tragedies that kill us, it’s the messes. After I listen to the messages from Antoine waiting in my voice mail, I’m convinced that she’s right.

  “What the hell happened?” he says when we finally speak. “You didn’t even give me a chance to put our firm forward for the case. We have way more experience than Pineau does.” His voice is harsh. “Have you forgotten that Edwards & White paid your bills for close to seven years? Have you no sense of loyalty?”

  He hangs up and I sit in my office chair, dejected. My insides feel like they’re filled with broken glass. Rikash is on the phone. When he finally turns my way, I can’t help getting emotional.

  “Antoine wants to tear my head off because of the case,” I say pathetically.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” He comes over and kisses me on the side of the head. “Antoine loves you. I’m sure it will soon be forgotten. It’s just work, for god’s sake.”

  But I can’t help but feel bad. This is the most important case yet to pit the French luxury industry against the websites. And Antoine was the one who introduced me to Dior in the first place.

  “I feel awful. I just couldn’t bring myself to push for Antoine and my former bosses so soon after starting here. And now that Pineau has been retained, Antoine is livid. What kind of a girlfriend am I?” A tear runs down my cheek.

  “Here, blow your nose.” He hands me a tissue. “He’ll get over it. It’s not the only case being tried in France, after all.”

  “I’m not sure I can go home and face him. A shouting match is the last thing I need right now.”

  “So he didn’t get the lawsuit. La-di-frickin-da. You should tell him off for being so self-centred. I mean, what’s more important: some lawsuit or your career?” He puts one hand on his hip and waves the other around theatrically, like Tyra Banks does when she’s ticked off.

  “Come on, Rikash. I know Antoine cares about me, it’s just … the pressure, you know?”

  “Whatever you say, pumpkin. Just take a moment to exhale all of your negative energy.” He circles his hands in front of his chest like a yogi.

  I follow his instructions and immediately feel better, until I realize I haven’t told him about what happened with Yulia. “I also saw something awful yesterday. A perverted photographer was trying to take advantage of Yulia and some other really young models. It disgusted me.”

  Rikash shakes his head. “Dah-ling, unless you’ve had your head in the sand for the last twenty years, it’s a pretty well-known fact that some unscrupulous photographers take advantage of models.”

  “Okay, but that doesn’t make sexual harassment acceptable. It’s revolting.”

  “Speaking of which … you know I’ve been receiving copies of all your emails, right?” He returns to his computer with a look I haven’t
seen before.

  “Mmm-hmm. What did I receive now? A bomb threat?”

  He crosses his legs and places his hands on his knees like a social worker. Now I know I’m in trouble. “You’ve received a half-dozen messages from a special dating website.”

  I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Well …” He pauses for a moment, at a rare loss for words. “It’s called S&M Wonderlove.”

  “How would sadomasochists get my email address, and why would they be writing to me?” I ask him, bemused.

  He hesitates, then opens a new window on his computer. “I think you’d better check this out for yourself.” He jumps from his chair, as though running for cover.

  I bend at the waist and squint at the screen. There’s a picture of me under the words “New Member Profile.” My name and professional contact information are there, along with a description: Dominatrix lawyer looking for some accomplices to tie up and get it on in hard-core style.

  Other pictures of me, ones I’ve posted on my social network profiles, have been modified to make me look as if I’m half-naked and holding a whip. I want to crawl under my desk and never come out again. So much for trying to save Yulia from the soft porn industry. I’ve just found myself in the middle of it.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of having your profile deleted,” Rikash is quick to reassure me. “I know someone who works for this site.”

  “What are you waiting for? Do it now!” I gasp, mortified. “Who could have done this?”

  “I’m sure it’s the same outfit that’s been calling and emailing you. It’s just another form of intimidation.”

  “They’re really coming after me full force, aren’t they?” Their scare tactics are working. This last stunt has put me over the edge. It’s one thing to make threatening phone calls and send silly emails, but messing with my reputation is crossing the line. I haven’t worked hard all these years to have my name dragged through the mud by a bunch of hoodlums. I’m on the verge of tears, ready to raise the white flag and call it quits.