J'adore Paris

by Isabelle Laflèche

  “I’ll try,” I say, reassured. Speaking to him has lifted a weight from me. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” I continue tentatively. “I’ve been served with a subpoena to testify at a trial in New York.”

  “Oh?” He’s surprised.

  “Yes, and it’s set for next week.” I cringe.

  “That’s short notice.” He frowns.

  “I realize that the timing isn’t great. It’s regarding a matter I was involved in last year at Edwards & White.”

  “I see.” He takes a sip of water. “Could this trial bring negative publicity to Dior? You must know by now that senior management frowns upon anything that could tarnish our reputation.”

  Testifying about the financial misdeeds of a CFO with whom I had a romantic liaison isn’t exactly synonymous with refinement and luxury, but I refrain from sharing any details. I just hope the trial will receive minimal media coverage.

  “Not to worry. It’s about an IPO that went sour,” I say, going for nonchalance.

  “Ah, one of those.” He sounds relieved. “I bet you encountered a few in your days at Edwards & White.”

  I nod, trying to keep the conversation short. “Rikash needs to accompany me to New York. He was involved with the matter too.”

  “Well, if you’ve been subpoenaed, then what can I say? I’ll ask someone else to cover the eShop paper chase while you two are away.”

  I figure that, while I’m on a roll, I might as well keep going. “One last thing. Speaking of eShop, have you considered retaining another firm as co-counsel? It’s a major lawsuit, and sometimes it’s better to have two firms on board. The added expertise is a bonus, and it tends to keep both firms honest.”

  “That hadn’t occurred to me, but we’ve budgeted for only one firm and, frankly, I have my hands full trying to manage it.”

  He clearly feels I’ve overstepped my bounds. Merde. I try to backpedal. “It was just a suggestion. Of course, I understand your position.”

  Just then, Sandrine sashays into the room in ivory palazzo pants, a royal blue silk blouse, and a collection of enamel Hermès bangles. She looks as though she’s just come from the salon.

  “Catherine needs to run off to New York next week,” Frédéric says. “She’s been subpoenaed to testify at a trial.”

  “Really?” Sandrine smiles. “It’s always exciting to go back to New York, isn’t it? While you’re there, you must try this new restaurant I heard about in the East Village; apparently, they make the best truffle risotto.”

  I’m surprised. I expected her to be annoyed about this sudden leave of absence, but instead she’s sharing restaurant recommendations?

  Frédéric looks puzzled also. He crosses his arms. “Rikash needs to go too, it seems.”

  She’s unperturbed. “Actually, this timing is perfect. If the two of you are going to be in New York anyway, I’d like you to attend an anti-counterfeiting conference on my behalf. It’s being hosted by one of the magazines. Also, I’d appreciate it if you could meet with the American firm representing eShop. It might help us in our negotiations.” She leans against Frédéric’s desk, nearly knocking off his eyeglasses with her elbow.

  “We’d be happy to attend the conference and meet with eShop’s lawyers,” I say, relieved that I’ll be able to do something productive for Dior while I’m in New York.

  “Fantastique! I’ll have Coralie arrange a meeting as soon as your plans are confirmed. I think you’ll enjoy the conference. Diane von Lucas is the master of ceremonies.”

  I gasp. “She’s one my favourite designers.”

  Frédéric rolls his eyes and bites his lower lip. I’m guessing these types of job perks don’t come his way very often.

  “Now that I think of it,” Sandrine continues, “you may know eShop’s lawyers. They’re using Harry Traum’s new firm, Traum and Associates. Wasn’t he a partner at your firm in New York?”

  When Harry Traum, the former managing partner of Edwards & White, decided to branch out on his own, he had offered me a junior partner position. But I’d run far and fast upon finding out that Bonnie Clark, his lover and my former boss, would be part of the new outfit. The thought of seeing them nearly makes me keel over.

  “Catherine?” Sandrine asks. “Are you okay?”

  Her voice snaps me out of my trance. “Yes, sorry. I do know him. We worked together on a few matters at Edwards.”

  Testifying against my ex-boyfriend in a criminal court might be a breeze compared to coming face to face with Harry and Bonnie again. This trip promises to be anything but dull.

  I turn to Frédéric. “Where did you say I could find those bulletproof vests you ordered? I may need to take one along in my suitcase.”

  Chapter 28

  “What the fuck are you doing? Can’t you see this is a drop-off zone?” A limo driver is shouting at our cabby and spitting toward our car with such force that I can almost feel the saliva hitting my hair.

  “Jesus Christ, what does it look like I’m doing?” our driver screams. “We’re coming from the airport.”

  “What’s taking so long, a-hole?”

  “Whoa, calm down, children!” Rikash calls out from the back seat. “Let’s play nice and no name-calling, okay? It’s offensive to my virgin ears.” He covers the sides of his head while I pull out my wallet.

  Welcome back to New York.

  The Gramercy Park Hotel brings back some of my best New York memories. I spent hours gossiping with Lisa at the Rose Bar, sipping their killer fig and ginger martinis. As we walk through the door, a bellboy takes my bags with a welcoming smile. It’s clear that we’re not in Paris anymore, the cab melee notwithstanding. I’ve actually heard the words “How can I help you?”; “My pleasure”; “No problem”; and “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cheery American optimism is scarce in France. Even after-work drinks have an upbeat name here: “happy hour.” The French equivalent is the unimaginative “5 à 7.” (Why be so restrictive?)

  It’s also refreshing to see ordinary people dressed boldly and with individuality, something rarely seen in Paris these days. A tall blonde woman sitting at the bar in a periwinkle blue top and brightly coloured paisley pants, a fuchsia scarf around her neck, is a case in point.

  After checking in, we rush to our hotel room to change. We’ll just make it to the conference on time. I slip into a light grey chiffon cocktail dress and matching dove grey satin pumps, courtesy of la Maison Dior. A touch of hot pink lip gloss gives me a bit of colour after the long trans-Atlantic flight.

  Waiting for Rikash in the hotel lobby, I text Antoine to let him know I’ve arrived safely. We spoke only briefly before I left Paris. Despite my pleas for us to meet and resolve our differences, he wanted to wait until my return. I also text Laetitia about casting Yulia in future Dior shows—not really my area, but can it hurt?

  Rikash struts into the lobby, as ebullient as a soufflé, looking dashing in a striped grey and navy suit, a pair of stylish leather brogues, and his Ray-Bans.

  “Ready when you are, dah-ling. We don’t want to keep Lady Diane waiting.”

  Just as we hop in a cab, my cellphone rings. A blocked number. I pass the phone over to Rikash. “This one’s all yours, Mr. Bond.”

  “Hello, this is Rikash.” He activates the speaker feature so that I can hear.

  “I see the two of you have made it safely to New York.”

  My eyes widen. How does this guy know our whereabouts? Did he follow us here?

  “Yes, we have, and I must say the weather is simply spectacular on this side of the pond.” Rikash is nonchalant, crossing his legs as if talking to a friend.

  I frown, wondering why he isn’t being more aggressive, but he waves me off with the back of his hand.

  “I must commend you on your choice of hotel. It’s one of the best in the city.” Now it’s our stalker who sounds casual.

  Okay, now I’m really starting to panic. This maniac knows where we’re staying, and I’m not wearing my bulletproof v
est. I’m under enough stress as it is with Jeffrey’s trial; I don’t need this added anxiety.

  “Well, I have simple taste—I’m only satisfied with the best.” Rikash likes to paraphrase Oscar Wilde.

  I give him an exasperated look and nudge him in the ribs. This is no time to make small talk.

  “So, what gives us the pleasure of your call, scumbag?” To my relief, he finally kicks it up a notch.

  “Just making sure neither of you gets into any trouble while you’re here. You’ve shown way too much initiative in the recent past, and we strongly recommend that you keep a lid on it.”

  Rikash’s face turns purple, but I can see he’s trying to stay composed. He signals for me to talk while he fishes for a gadget in his suit pocket.

  “We wouldn’t dare do anything out of the ordinary. That’s not the purpose of our trip.” I try to play along.

  Rikash plugs a wire into my phone and gives me the okay signal.

  “That’s what we like to hear, Miss Lambert. But we’ll be keeping an eye on you two, just in case.” The line goes dead, just when we were getting somewhere.

  “Should we head back to the hotel?” I’m a little panicky. “What if he’s following us to the conference?”

  “Not so fast, sweetie.” Rikash grabs my arm as I’m about to instruct our driver to do a U-turn. “Don’t do that. He’s probably bluffing to scare us off. For now, just put on a smile for the cameras.”

  I take a deep breath and put my phone back into my Lady Dior bag. We arrive at Hearst Tower, on Eighth Avenue. There’s a scene outside: Cecily Dutton, the pop singer, is stepping out of her limo. Cecily caused a minor scandal by buying fake purses in Shanghai, I remember.

  “How quickly the world forgets,” Rikash murmurs, clearing a path through the crowd.

  Inside, we’re ushered into a ballroom, where scores of counterfeit bags, sunglasses, and perfume bottles are lined up on a long table next to signs identifying them as fake.

  “Nothing we haven’t seen a hundred times,” Rikash declares. But when an attractive waiter cruises by offering Champagne, he perks up. “Okay, now we’re talking. Here’s something I haven’t come across before.” He watches the man walk away.

  We make small talk with lawyers from a number of New York luxury goods companies and compare notes about recent raids.

  “One guy hit me with a giant garbage bag filled with fake handbags,” says a lanky man.

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” a woman in her early forties, wearing a red suit, chimes in. “While I was on a raid, someone pushed me out of a second-storey window. I broke my arm!”

  “Once, I was held up at gunpoint,” a man in a sharp pinstriped suit says. “I thought I was going to get killed right there in the middle of Canal Street.”

  I raise my eyebrows and glance over at Rikash. Having our pictures taken and being threatened over the phone seems pretty tame in comparison. I just hope we don’t have any experiences like theirs.

  “Thank you for being here today.” Diane von Lucas stands at the front of the room, ravishing in one of her signature silk dresses. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but it’s been reported that the Madrid train bombings of 2004 were financed in part by the sale of counterfeit DVDs.” You can hear a pin drop. “It’s a major epidemic that we need to fight together.” She clears her throat. “But there’s an added complexity to the fight against counterfeiting today: eighty percent of fakes are sold online.”

  Rikash is scribbling on a napkin. Good idea: I should take notes in case Sandrine wants a report.

  Once the panel discussion is over and dessert arrives, my shoulders loosen and I turn to Rikash, only to catch him passing his napkin to the handsome waiter.

  “What was that about?” I ask him.

  “I have a date tonight.”

  “What? You can’t leave me alone the night before Jeffrey’s trial! I’ll be a nervous wreck. Besides, I need your help going over some of the practice questions the prosecutor sent me.”

  “Don’t worry, dah-ling. It’s a very late rendezvous. You’ll be sound asleep by the time I slip out.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s say our goodbyes and get out of here. We need to pay a visit to our old friend Harry.”

  Chapter 29

  Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow notoriously became both lovers and partners in crime. This is what comes to mind when I step into the white marble lobby of Traum and Associates. Not that Harry and Bonnie have engaged in illegal activities, that I know of; rather, they shared the most titillating secret of all—illicit sex. Bonnie was Harry’s mistress and the cause of his divorce.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the French B team back to play in the major leagues.” Harry Traum’s voice bursts down the hallway. He reaches for my hand, and I remember that unmistakable iron grip. “So nice to see you again, Catherine.” He turns to Rikash and asks, “What’s your name again, son?” He moves in for a handshake, and I fear for my assistant’s delicate fingers. Rikash answers but looks insulted.

  “Ah yes, now I remember,” Harry says. “I knew it started with an R.”

  “As long as you don’t call me ‘Reject,’ we’ll be fine.” Rikash says, using his fingers as quotation marks.

  Harry lets out a loud belly laugh, causing the receptionist to jump in her seat. “God almighty, I forgot how funny you two can be!” He slaps his beige Dockers while holding on to one of his suspender straps, then wipes his face with a handkerchief and shows us the way to the boardroom. “Have a seat, kids. I’ll fetch my files and be right back.”

  As soon as he walks out the door, Rikash lets it rip. “Can you believe that big toad doesn’t remember my name?” he whispers loudly. “After all those personal errands I ran for him. That’s outrageous.” He shakes his head. “He once made me go across town in the middle of rush hour to pick up some wines for his cellar.” He crosses his arms and pouts.

  “Don’t take it personally. That’s just the way he is: rude. We should be out of here in less than an hour. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

  “Hello, Catherine.”

  I freeze in my seat. That voice is like nails on a chalkboard. I look up, and there she is in all her glory: Bonnie Clark, fresh as a rose in a suede Oscar de la Renta safari jacket with a low-cut camisole, a close-fitting black skirt, and killer metallic Louboutin heels. She approaches the boardroom table, and we’re greeted by a wave of her Joy de Patou.

  I grit my teeth. “Hello, Bonnie, nice to see you again.”

  “Yes, it is.” She nods. “Hello, Rikash. How are you?” She closes in on him with her arms open, obviously looking for a hug. He takes a step back and pats her shoulder awkwardly instead.

  “You have beautiful offices,” Rikash says, looking around the spare, modernist boardroom. “They’re very you.” I know he’s only being polite—white, chrome, and shag carpet isn’t his style.

  She accepts the compliment graciously. “Thank you, Rikash. That’s very sweet of you. I worked hard to make it look good. I’m glad you like it.” She flips her hair back as she takes a seat. “It’s great to have you both here, even if you’re not on our side. Which is too bad for Dior.”

  I realize we might well have an uphill battle ahead of us. Bonnie and Harry are heavyweights. Bonnie wasn’t easy to work for, but she’s one hell of a corporate lawyer, and Harry, a former military man, is a formidable litigator with a take-no-prisoners attitude: he aims to win every time.

  “Yes, it was quite a surprise for us to find out that you’re on the other side. It’ll be quite a challenge,” I say with my best poker face.

  “May the best client win,” Harry adds, re-entering the room with a stack of manila folders in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He’s already spilled a few drops onto his shirt. Bonnie shakes her head in disgust. “Okey-dokey,” he continues. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Your company is taking a very aggressive approach in this lawsuit, Ms. Lambert. You’re well aware that this case w
ould never fly in front of an American court. The damages claimed by Dior are astronomical, and the basis for your demands is pretty shaky. However, we know that the French tribunal de commerce will likely side with a homegrown company like yours.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Not to mention that the luxury market represents a big chunk of France’s exports, so chances are you’ll try to take us to the cleaners.” He looks over at Bonnie, who’s silent but watching like a hawk. “But, just as with everything in life, there has to be a quid pro quo.”

  I nod, waiting for him to go on, but there’s just silence.

  “What do you mean?” I finally ask.

  “Listen, kiddo, eShop isn’t going anywhere. It’s the largest online auctioneer in the world. We all know this is an intimidation gesture by your company to gain greater control of the distribution channels, at the expense of consumer choice and law-abiding sellers. I don’t believe it’s in either side’s interest to let this lawsuit get out of control.” He finishes his coffee in one giant swig.

  I take in what he’s just said. Despite his rough exterior and less than refined manners, Harry is one smart cookie, and he’s clearly trying to get me to convince Sandrine to settle. But based on what I’ve heard from her, there’s no way that’s going to happen.

  “I understand your position, Mr. Traum,” I say slowly, “but Dior isn’t backing down on this one. We can’t allow counterfeit sellers to continue to flood the market with fakes. We’re not going to resolve this out of court unless your client is willing to write a big cheque.”

  Bonnie smirks, then kicks Harry’s leg under the table, and Rikash looks my way with an expression that tells me he thinks we’re a step closer to success. I must confess to feeling some satisfaction; for the first time in our professional relationship, I have the upper hand.

  “Okay, suit yourself, but don’t come crying to old Harry when we appeal the decision of the French magistrate and it costs you guys an arm and a leg in legal fees.”