J'adore Paris

by Isabelle Laflèche

  Chapter 37

  Winston Churchill said, Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm. I must admit that mine is starting to wane. Antoine and I are waiting for Rikash at Willi’s Wine Bar on rue des Petits Champs. We’re seated at the front oak bar, pretending to enjoy the red wine the bartender recommended while anxiously keeping an eye out for the man of the hour.

  I received a text from Rikash two hours after I left the office asking me to meet him somewhere in the 1st arrondissement. His message was cryptic and involved the words “urgent” and “top secret,” so I coaxed Antoine into coming with me. I’ve come to realize that it’s foolish for Rikash and me to keep trying to handle things on our own. After tonight, I’m calling it quits on our undercover mission.

  “Do you think Rikash has managed to get anywhere with this, or has it all been a colossal waste of time?” Antoine asks. “I’ve told you, I don’t want you fooling around with these guys, whoever they are. Your lives could be in danger, Catou.” He reaches for my hand, and I’m comforted.

  “You’re right. But Rikash is sure he’s on the right track,” I say, reaching for an olive from a platter on the bar.

  “I want these threats to stop. It’s gotten out of hand, don’t you think?” He absent-mindedly picks up his glass of wine and swirls it before continuing. “A fake profile of you on an S&M website? Imagine what else they can do to intimidate you. It’s only going to get worse.”

  I stare pensively out the window. As long as I’m director of intellectual property at Dior, dealing with counterfeiters will come with the territory. But I do need to draw the line at my reputation.

  Rikash is out of breath when he finally arrives, and looks as though he’s seen a ghost. I ask the waiter to bring him a glass of water, and he drinks it in one gulp, then pats his forehead with his silk pocket square.

  “I don’t know where to start,” he says.

  Antoine attempts to calm him down by patting him on the back. “The beginning would be a good place.”

  “I’m feeling dizzy. I need to eat.” Rikash looks around for a menu. Antoine shoots me a quizzical glance, but I shake my head. I have no clue why Rikash is in such a state, but for once I don’t think he’s just being dramatic.

  We head to the dining room, where we are approached by a young waiter who resembles Prince Harry. He makes sweet eyes at Rikash but is completely ignored. That makes me nervous. Whatever Rikash has uncovered must be very serious.

  After Rikash has devoured an entire bread basket—another shocker, since he shuns carbs—he finally manages to tell us what happened.

  “I tracked down the caller’s number via Catherine’s cellphone and was able to link it to an address. Once I got there, I didn’t want to look like I was lurking about, so I sat in the courtyard next door, pretending to read a book, and waited.” He gulps another glass of water. “I’d been there for about forty minutes when I saw a man come out onto the balcony. He was young, with a black leather jacket and slicked-back hair. He was talking loudly on the phone and had an American accent, so I was sure it was our man. He left the apartment just a few minutes after I saw him.”

  Antoine and I nod, like two young children riveted by a ghost tale by the campfire.

  “I sat out in the courtyard for another twenty minutes, and then another man appeared. He lit a cigarette and looked in my general direction, so I pulled out my phone and took some pictures—discreetly, of course. After a few minutes, he went back inside.” Rikash pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. “If I’m not mistaken, this is a familiar face.”

  He turns the screen toward us and Antoine gasps. My hands fly up to my mouth. “Oh mon dieu, it can’t be!” Rikash and I have seen this man in pictures in the company archives. It’s Pierre Le Furet, my predecessor at Dior. My mouth is agape, my heart is beating fast, and my enthusiasm for this mission just came roaring back.

  Chapter 38

  “Allez, a toast to our guests!” Sandrine raises her Champagne flute. Antoine and I are seated on an antique sofa in her elegantly appointed living room, getting better acquainted with her husband, Arnaud.

  Antoine and I have had a hard time sleeping since Rikash’s big discovery four days ago. Although we were shocked by the news—Antoine most of all, since he worked with Le Furet—we are both high on the thrill of the chase. It makes sense now: Le Furet is collaborating with counterfeiters! Maybe that’s why he left Dior; perhaps the retirement story was just a cover. Sandrine seems to react oddly every time his name is mentioned. Maybe that’s because she was forced to fire him after his unlawful activities were uncovered.

  Rikash and I are nearly ready to share our findings with Sandrine and Frédéric. We expect that a formal investigation will ensue, charges will be pressed, and we’ll be able to continue on with our work without these threats—or at least fewer of them. But Rikash has insisted that we wait just a few more days, to give him a chance to gather more evidence. His plan is to stake out Le Furet’s apartment over the weekend and try to catch him on film. The covert investigation feels a bit over the top, but it’s giving me a feeling of excitement I’ve never experienced before. I’m starting to agree with Katherine Hepburn, who said, If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.

  Arnaud is seated across from us in an opulent wing chair. He’s friendly, if a little distant. He’s dressed in a Prince of Wales sports coat, grey flannel pants with a light blue shirt, and a Patek Philippe watch. He’s tall, tanned, and debonair, and has the look of a former tennis champion, just as I imagined him.

  Sandrine’s home could be featured in Architectural Digest: cream leather couches are tastefully mixed with both modern and antique pieces. A large Cy Twombly painting hangs over the fireplace, and family portraits line the impressive hallway.

  Sandrine is friendly tonight. “Antoine, Catherine tells me you’re one of the brightest legal minds in Paris. I understand you worked on a few matters for us.”

  “Yes, Pierre Le Furet asked me to do some research on U.S. anti-counterfeiting laws for your company’s internal policies and procedures.”

  “I see.” She lights up a cigarette. “He never mentioned your work. Did you handle other files for him?” Her gaze zeros in on him, and I wonder if she thinks Antoine could have been in cahoots with Le Furet. There’s a lot of subtext going on here.

  He nods. “I sent out cease and desist letters to copyright infringers in the United States.”

  “Edwards & White breeds lots of talent,” she allows, turning toward me. “Catherine’s done a fantastic job so far, out on raids and in the courts, but I do prefer having her by my side in the office.”

  I hope to get back out on the streets with Chris and the gendarmes, but she’s complimenting my work, so I decide to keep quiet. “Thank you, Sandrine. I’m really enjoying it so far.”

  “You’re about to get an eyeful,” she says, taking an elegant drag from her cigarette, her wrist delicately bent skyward as she exhales. “Fashion Week begins tomorrow and it’s one big fête.”

  “So I understand.” I look toward Antoine and try to bring him back into the conversation. “Antoine also assisted Pierre in lobbying for changes in U.S. copyright laws.”

  “C’est vrai?” She reaches for a goat cheese canapé and suddenly looks interested. I sigh with relief.

  “It was fascinating to discuss the future of copyright with the big players on Seventh Avenue,” Antoine says with enthusiasm. “It would be great if the United States finally enacted laws to protect fashion designs.”

  I peer at Sandrine’s husband out of the corner of my eye. He’s pouring himself another whiskey, looking a little bored by our conversation. It hits me that Sandrine and Arnaud haven’t made eye contact with each other since we’ve arrived. Clearly, all is not well in the 16th arrondissement.

  I try to find a way to include him. It’s a breach of French etiquette to ask Arnaud personal questions so soon after meeting him, but surely Antoine and I can charm him.

/>   “What about you, Arnaud. What kind of work do you do?”

  He holds his glass of whiskey awkwardly in mid-air for a moment. “Not much these days, I’m afraid,” he finally says, a bit tensely. “I was let go a few months ago from my position as a managing director at an investment bank.” He looks at me and laughs. “My racquetball game has greatly improved, though.”

  Sandrine, now uncomfortable, squashes her cigarette into an expensive-looking porcelain ashtray and crosses her legs, glaring at her husband.

  Antoine tries to smooth things over. “I’m sorry to hear that, Arnaud. I have several clients who are going through the same thing. I can sympathize.”

  I squeeze Antoine’s hand tenderly, relieved that he’s covering for my faux pas.

  “Thanks, Antoine. I appreciate that.” Arnaud takes another sip of his drink. “It’s refreshing to hear some words of support.” He glowers in Sandrine’s direction, and she responds with a glacial stare. “Lucky for me, Sandrine is always here to save the day.”

  Sandrine ignores him and stands up. “Shall we?” she says, gesturing toward the dining room. As soon as I’m on my feet, Arnaud puts his arm in mine. “I’m dying to hear about that trial in New York, Mademoiselle Lambert,” he says, seeming more relaxed now. “I read about it in the Journal, and I admire your savoir faire.”

  I walk with Arnaud down the narrow hallway, shooting Antoine a look that says, Please save me now. He winks and continues making conversation with Sandrine. I’m comforted that he has my back. We walk past a vintage black-and-white photo of a surfer, and I blurt out, “Antoine loves to surf.”

  “Non! C’est pas vrai?” Sandrine flashes him a dazzling smile.

  “Yes, I took lessons in Sydney on college break once, many years ago.”

  “I’ve been dying to learn! I hear Elle Macpherson is amazing at it. Perhaps you can teach me?” Sandrine puts a hand on Antoine’s shoulder, a little flirtatiously it seems to me.

  I decide to ignore her. She’s probably just getting back at her husband for sharing details about their private life. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Despite her veneer of wealth and glamour, maybe she’s genuinely unhappy. I feel a little bit bad for her. But just a little.

  “Whoa, have you ever met a couple less in sync than those two?” Antoine says once we’ve settled into his car for the drive home.

  “I’m so sorry to have put you through that. I was just trying to get you in on the eShop lawsuit.”

  “I appreciate it, but I don’t really care about that anymore, Catou. I just want us to be happy—unlike those two.”

  “Her husband looked miserable, didn’t he?”

  “He’s with her for the money, I think,” Antoine says, turning toward the Champs Élysées. “It must come from her family.”

  “It’s a sad reason to stay in a relationship. No wonder they don’t seem close.”

  “No kidding. I wouldn’t want to live in that place, no matter how beautiful it is.”

  “I wonder what Arnaud meant when he said Sandrine always saves the day.” I open the window to get some fresh air. It’s a welcome treat after the claustrophobic evening.

  “Maybe she spent some time on the old promotion canapé. Is it possible she got where she is by sleeping her way up?”

  “Noooo … you think?”

  “It could be.”

  I look out wistfully at the shimmering Eiffel Tower, feeling a little saddened by the evening’s turn of events. Sandrine’s mood swings are making me wonder about the wisdom of Rikash’s plan. Who knows how she’ll react when she discovers we’ve been following a former Dior employee behind her back. My train of thought is interrupted when I realize that Antoine has missed our turn.

  “You just passed the bridge,” I say. He stays quiet. “Unless … we aren’t going home?”

  He smiles naughtily. “You’re correct about that.”

  “Ah bon, and why not?”

  “There’s somewhere we need to check into instead.”

  “Check into? You mean a hotel?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.

  I get a nod and a grin in return.

  “How fabulous! Which one?”

  He’s determined to surprise me. We zoom through the city until we get to rue de Navarin, in the 9th arrondissement near Pigalle. He stops the car in front of Hôtel Amour, a happening boutique hotel, and I grin like a Cheshire cat. We check in and climb the tiny staircase, taking in the erotic art on the walls and giggling. When we reach our room, Antoine opens the door to black lacquered walls, sexy vintage magazines, and a very large bed. He throws my handbag to the floor and begins to kiss me while unzipping my dress.

  I interrupt his ardour. “You always manage to save the day, don’t you, mon chéri?”

  He laughs as we fall to the black satin sheets and turn out the light.

  Vive la différence.

  Chapter 39

  “Where are you?” I ask Rikash over the phone as I’m browsing at Ragtime, one of my favourite vintage shops on rue de l’Echaudé. I adore its selection of little dresses by Cardin and Saint Laurent, and have become friends with the owner. The dainty vintage dresses and skirts have become my uniform, and I’ve been accessorizing them with modern costume jewellery and Dior heels.

  “In hot pursuit.” He’s walking fast, I can tell, because he’s huffing into his phone.

  “What do you mean?” I have visions of Rikash trailing Pierre Le Furet around Paris like Eliot Ness in purple cashmere.

  “We’re dealing with something major. I’ve seen cash being exchanged, and I’ve recognized some faces from our raids with Chris. You need to meet me as soon as possible. I need backup.” His voice is uncharacteristically tense.

  “Okay, where?” I drop two vintage dresses onto the counter in my haste.

  “I’ve overheard conversations. Something big is going down in the Jardin des Tuileries later this afternoon. Can we meet near there?”

  I think fast. “Let’s try to be inconspicuous and go somewhere you’d naturally be on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “Colette’s water bar. See you there in thirty minutes.”

  Colette is Paris’s hottest concept store. It’s a pioneering retailer that offers an eclectic selection of objets d’art, fashion accessories, CDs, and books to a savvy international clientele.

  Rikash is sitting downstairs at the water bar, sporting a sideways baseball cap, giant sunglasses, a T-shirt bearing an illustration of Bernadette Chirac, ripped jeans, and bright green sneakers.

  “If you’re trying to go incognito, it isn’t working,” I joke, but he doesn’t bite. Instead, he yanks his cap further down and lifts a newspaper in front of his face.

  “Have a seat, dah-ling. But please remain discreet in case we’re being watched.”

  “Okay, got it.” I smile exaggeratedly and pretend to read a magazine someone’s left behind on the table. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He scans the room from behind his shades before responding. “Something B-I-G.” He slides his glasses to the tip of his nose and looks straight into my eyes. “I caught Le Furet on film with a man we saw on our first raid—the one who took our picture.”

  “Oh!” I have flashbacks to the angry vendor spitting on the ground and telling his accomplice to take pictures of us. He’s right, this is major.

  “The good news is, I managed to plant a tiny microphone in his leather jacket. It was hanging on the back of a chair in a bistro, and I had an opportunity when he went to the bar for a drink.”

  I’m blown away by Rikash’s fearlessness. “Okay, so now what?” Call me crazy, but I’m convinced he has this sting operation under control, so I’ll let him call the shots.

  “I overheard them arranging another meeting in the Tuileries at four. This might break the case wide open.” He adjusts his cap and looks at his watch. “We have thirty minutes to get there, sweetie. Let’s hit the road.”

  We take the stairs up to the main floor, where a DJ is spinning trance music an
d a crowd of young hipsters is shopping for designer tchotchkes. There are gold balloons at the entrance in honour of Fashion Week. As we approach the door, Rikash pushes me behind a tall rack of sneakers. “Oh my god, Le Furet just walked by! Let’s wait a moment. Then we can follow him.”

  We exit onto rue Saint-Honoré. Le Furet is walking briskly and carrying a black leather suitcase. Rikash signals for me to keep up, but it’s a little tough in my Miu Miu platform heels. I feel like Diane Keaton in Woody Allen’s Manhattan Murder Mystery.

  When Le Furet suddenly turns around, Rikash grabs my arm and pulls me into Manoush, a French boutique best described as the Gypsy Kings meet Bollywood. To keep us from being spotted through the window, he holds a bright fuchsia dress adorned with oversized feathers up in front of us. The feathers tickle my nose, and I can’t suppress a sneeze. An employee gives us an evil stare and suggests with her eyes that we leave the premises if we’re going to mess with the merchandise.

  “That bitch nearly blew our cover,” Rikash says, panting, when we’re out on the street again. “Remind me not to shop there anymore.”

  “‘Anymore?’ You mean you’ve actually bought clothes there?”

  “Well, sure. Boas and sparkly jackets, for gay pride, you know. I love their collection, but not her.”

  “I think we lost him,” I say, looking down the street for Le Furet.

  “It doesn’t matter. I know where he’s headed. Let’s go.”

  During Fashion Week, the Jardin des Tuileries is jammed with fashionistas, editors, models, bloggers, and various varieties of hangers-on. A giant tent is installed at one end of the park for the shows themselves. Before anyone actually hits the runway, young women strut about in the garden in pieces from the season’s most recent collections. An impressive number of street-style photographers take their photos while the magazine editors and celebrities make their way to their seats. The street-stylers have become celebrities in their own right, and their mini photo shoots are a giant spectacle that impedes everyone’s entrance to the shows.