J'adore New York (14 page)

T
hey say that youth is unduly busy pampering the outer person. That may be so, but given the amount of time I’ve spent in the office lately, a bit of pampering is definitely in order. Saturday afternoon I drop by the hair salon at Bergdorf’s to get a
brushing
as well as a manicure and pedicure. It took some serious detective work to finally get Lisa to share the names of her beauty specialists in the city, but it was well worth the effort.

Although Parisian women are known for enjoying lavish beauty rituals and treatments (Michel Perry, one of my favourite boutiques in Paris, offers nail lacquers that match the shades of the shoe designer’s creations), like everyone else in New York, Lisa treats her beauty regimen like a business; the return on investment carefully calculated with every appointment she makes. She must spend several hundred dollars a week keeping
up her appearance. The mani/pedi is a must (her favourite nail colours: Your place or mine? by Essie), she wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without first getting her hair blown out, and she relies on countless massages, rub downs, and other therapies to help her cope with her job. I’m not sure how she does it—her practice is as busy as mine. Although I love to splurge on facials, waxing, and spa treatments, I barely have enough energy after work these days to take care of basic maintenance.

After I get home, I lounge about reading the
The New York Times
and turn to the Wedding Announcements page. I love these; they remind me of the M&A pages of the deal.com where companies boast their most recent acquisitions. As I read about the new Mr. and Mrs. Ron Smithenhower, I find the whole thing deliciously pretentious. Isn’t marriage supposed to be about love? Not about sending your shares soaring on the social stock exchange?

I flip to the Business section and spot a brief mention of the Browser offering. The press is referring to it as the most highly anticipated IPO this year. Part of me can’t believe that I’m having dinner with the man orchestrating this whole deal. Another part of me can’t believe that I’m the lawyer behind it. This is exactly why I came to New York. I put on my new Dior dress and a pair of snakeskin sandals with patent leather ankle straps and spray on some J’adore before I dash out onto the street. At seven o’clock sharp, Jeffrey’s cab pulls up in front of my building.

“Are you ready to swing?”

“I am!”

“You look gorgeous.” He kisses me on the cheek.

“Thank you.”

“I think in France you kiss on both cheeks, don’t you?” He reaches for the other side of my face and brushes my lips. Our eyes lock for a long moment and I feel dizzy.

The concert begins and Dee Dee Bridgewater sings “Misty,” one of my favourite jazz standards. I find myself thinking that the lyrics sum up my feelings about Jeffrey, especially the part about wanting him to lead me on. Is it really what I want him to do?

During the concert intermission, we head for the bar for a glass of champagne.

“Wow!” Jeffrey looks like he’s trying to wrap his head around what we’ve just seen.

“I know—it was amazing! Did Diana Ross actually just make a surprise appearance? I couldn’t believe it when she walked on stage in that shimmering white dress.” My heart flutters with excitement as we clink our glasses. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“I know this may sound a bit corny, but I feel totally relaxed when I’m with you, Catherine. You have a very calming effect on me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I haven’t felt like this in a very long time.”

I try to focus on my professional self, which is reminding me that I’m about to dive deep into the choppy waters of being romantically involved with a client. This might be a terrible mistake, one that I might regret for a long time. But
Jeffrey is nothing like Mel. Still, I pull out the BlackBerry from my evening bag nonchalantly to signal that this soirée is really all about business. He shakes his head, laughing, confiscates the electronic device, and puts it in his suit jacket. He grabs my arm, pulls me in closer, and we kiss.

I let go of the buoy and feel myself drifting out to sea.

“G
ood morning, gorgeous,” I say to Rikash as I walk by his cubicle. “Love the shirt. How about a cappuccino? It’s on me today.”

“Dah-ling, you’re glowing. What happened to
you
over the weekend?”

I answer his question with a mischievous smile.

“Oh!” he blurts out, his eyes big as saucers. “No way…Jeffrey?”

I nod, grinning.

“You naughty girl you.”

“Shhh, keep it down.”

“I want all the details!” he exclaims as he follows me into my office and closes the door as I sway toward my chair.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. I’m already walking a thin line here after what happened with Mel Johnson and Harry Traum.”

“I promise, I promise.”

“Okay, he took me out to this fantastic jazz concert. We had an amazing time. He kissed me. It was magic.”

“Damn. I knew he was a good catch.”

“Hey, you know what? Let’s skip Starbucks today and order coffee from Fred’s at Barneys. I’m in the mood to celebrate.” I pull out some money from my wallet. “That should cover it. Order yourself a treat and get something for Mimi.”

He leaves my office whistling “La Vie en Rose” and struts back in about ten minutes later with a tray overflowing with coffee and danishes.

“There are studies that show that the smell of cinnamon buns increases penile blood flow, so I hope you won’t mind that I picked up a few.”

He drops off my latte with a big smile.

“You should shag more often, sweetie. It makes mornings a lot more fun for the rest of us.”

“Rikash, I didn’t.”

“Really? If this is pre-shag behaviour, I can’t wait to see what we’ll be ordering for breakfast when you
do
do it.”

Maria and Roxanne watch from their cubicles as Rikash, Mimi, and I dive into our fabulous breakfast.

“Mimi, haven’t you noticed something different about Catherine today?” Rikash asks, his mouth covered with powdered cinnamon.

“She looks radiant.”

“I know, she’s in lust,” Rikash says with a wiggle of his hips.

I give Rikash a look to make sure he doesn’t cross the line.

“
Goawd,
I wish I was your age again,” Mimi says with a sigh. “Lust is the greatest thing for your complexion.”

“Some people really like to show off,” Roxanne remarks loudly so we can hear her.

“What’s up with her? I’ve never met anyone so frustrated in my life,” I say after a sip of my latte.

“That’s nothin’, hon,” Mimi says, waving her gold bangles in the air while sipping her cappuccino, “you should have met some of the other secretaries we’ve had in this
oaffice
, somethin’ straight out of a Hitchcock movie. Real scary.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. We found a butcher knife once in one of the girls’ desk drawers. We had to call the police and sent her away in handcuffs.”

“No way!” Rikash and I exclaim in unison.

We sit in my office indulging in pastries and gossiping until Scott breaks up the tea party.

“Mimi, I need you to take care of the accounts receivable, not chat over coffee.” She follows him back to the reception area, sulking.

“It’s Roxanne. She’s such a tattletale. She can’t tolerate that anyone else would have a bit of fun in the office,” Rikash murmurs, visibly upset that Mimi should bear the brunt of our fun.

“All she and Maria do all day is talk about everybody else in the office behind their backs. You should hear what they say about Scott and Bonnie during their lunches in the boardroom: so nasty. They would definitely get fired for it.”

“Is that right?”

“Dah-ling, believe me. I can hear them when I cover the phones at reception.”

After Rikash settles back at his desk, I pull out of my drawer every lawyer’s best friend: the old Dictaphone. If it records legal documents for transcription, why couldn’t it also record bitchy secretaries who love to cause trouble for everyone else?

Around noon, before Maria and Roxanne come back to the boardroom with their pizzas from Famiglia, I surreptitiously place my Dictaphone at the opposite end of the boardroom table under a nondescript piece of paper and let it rip. Pleased with my plan, I run out to pick up a sandwich; I can’t wait to hear the scathing gossip on that tape. An hour or so later, I casually make my way back to the boardroom, retrieve my dear friend from under the piece of paper, settle back into my office, and let the good times roll.

“Oh god, this pizza’s so good, I could have it every day,” Maria starts.

“You do,” Roxanne replies.

“Oh yeah, you’re right,” Maria answers with her mouth full. “But it’s not from
Barneys
,” she says, putting on a hoity-toity accent. “Can you believe she ordered coffee from Barneys and she didn’t even offer us any. She hates our guts.” She continues chewing.

“It’s reciprocal,” Roxanne answers. “I can’t fucking stand her. She thinks she’s some prima donna or someting.”

I chuckle to myself.
Now this is getting
très
interesting.

“And Rikash kisses her butt all day long. He’s such a kiss ass.
He tries to be nice to her so she doesn’t find out he’s actually asleep all day after raving in the clubs all night,” Maria replies. “And I’m so glad Antoine finally moved to Paris,” she continues between bites. “I was about to tear his head off. He thought he was somethin’ special. Thank god I don’t ever have to stare at his scary face again.”

They both laugh hysterically.

“Want to hear the latest?” Maria asks. “I walked into Harry Traum’s office last week and found draft divorce papers on his desk. I guess his wife finally found out about his long lunches with Bonnie,” she says, updating Roxanne on the gossip front. “That might be why he’s thinking of leaving the firm; he likes to screw her but can’t stand working with her.”

So it’s Harry who might be leaving! This is proving more useful than I expected.

“I can’t say I blame him. She’s such a bitch. Anyway, you won’t believe what I did. I told him Catherine was spreading rumours at the firm about his divorce! Oh my god, you should have seen his face, he was so pissed.”

“You did not!” Roxanne yelps.

“Believe it, sista, but promise me you’ll never tell a soul.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be our little secret ’cause I sure wouldn’t want him to be pissed at me. I wouldn’t want to be cut off from the car service; I used it the other night to get to my hairdresser in Queens. It’s way more comfortable than the subway,” she admits, chuckling.

“And to go shopping at the outlet mall. Can you believe we actually got away with using the office car for that?” Maria retorts.

Bingo. I have the goods. Proud of my investigative skills, I turn off my Dictaphone. The next time either of them pulls anything nasty on me, it will be
checkmate, ladies.

T
here’s an Amy calling from the Met Bank. She sounds like she’s totally stressed out.”

“Thanks, Rikash, put her through.”

“Hi, Amy, I’m sorry I haven’t sent that memo Bonnie drafted, I’ll get it to you right away.”

“That’s not the reason for my call.” I suddenly register the note of panic in her voice. “We’ve just received notice that we’re under regulatory investigation, and Bonnie suggested I call you. I understand you’ve dealt with these types of issues for a French bank when you worked in Paris.”

“Um, yes I have.”

“Great. We’re hoping that you’re the best person to handle this.”

“What’s the investigation about?”

“One of our traders hid millions of dollars of trading losses from his manager and committed fraud in client accounts.”

Oh, this is serious. My mind spins through similar matters I’ve worked on in the past and I put on my regulatory hat.

“How did you find out?”

“He came clean after one of the clients complained. I hope we’re not in any major trouble”—her voice shakes—“I guess we could be subject to massive fines.”

“Not if you have adequate supervisory procedures in place to detect this type of behaviour.”

She remains silent. Uh-oh.

“You do have supervisory procedures and controls in place, don’t you?” They must. Everyone does these days.

“Yes…but I’m not sure they’re adequate. The Feds notified us last year that our procedures were faulty.” I can hear her breaths becoming shorter and faster. And I’m starting to understand why.

“Did you update them?” I ask with a sinking feeling that I already know the answer.

“Not yet. We’re understaffed and haven’t had the time to get to it.”

“Oh.”
Merde.
I try to keep my voice calm despite what she’s just told me. I don’t want to create unnecessary drama, but I now realize that Amy and her bank have a really serious problem.

“What’s the highest fine we can get? A few hundred thousand dollars?”

“It can actually be in the millions, but I wouldn’t go that far just yet.”

“Oh my god, I’ll lose my job!” she exclaims, now 100 percent panicked. “I’m the head of the legal and compliance departments; could I go to jail for this?”

I take a deep breath.

“It’s
extremely
unlikely unless there was intent on your part to commit fraud. But recent scandals and the climate of the last few years have changed the regulatory landscape so both regulators and prosecutors are aggressively pursuing any improprieties. So the answer, I’m afraid, to your question is that
yes,
it’s a possibility.”

She begins to sob. This is the rare occasion when I hate my job, when I’m the bearer of bad news. Do what you do best, Catherine, stay calm and remain optimistic.

“Listen, Amy, you need to keep your cool right now. Everything will be okay. Just do exactly what I tell you and nobody will go to jail.”

“Okay.” Her sobbing stops.

Good job, Catherine, stay strong and guide her confidently through this. You’ve done it before.

“Can you start by sending me a copy of the letter you received from the regulators?”

“Sure.”

“After that you should write a letter to your clients saying that you’re looking into this matter. Then you need to lock down any relevant background information, including emails and phone records. After that, you should decide whether to suspend the trader, but I strongly recommend that you do. Please remember to document all your actions. I also think that
you should take a collaborative approach with the regulator, so I would contact the investigator and tell him or her that this is your intention; cooperation will surely have a salutary effect.”

“We’ll get on it right away.”

“Good. Let’s talk again later today.”

“Thanks, Catherine, I knew you were the right person to call.”

As soon as I hang up with Amy, Bonnie’s voice erupts through the speakerphone.

“Did Amy call you?”

“Yes, she just did.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That she should collaborate with the regulators and that she needs to begin prepping to do that right away.”

“Not that, about her going to jail. I hope you told her that it’s not even a possibility.”

“I can’t say that; there’s always a remote possibility,” I answer, perturbed that she would suggest I lie to a client.

“What the fuck are you talking about? The client needs
reassurance
right now,” she shouts into the phone. “I think they should fight this. Jesus, I shouldn’t have sent her to you. What kind of a lawyer are you?”

“I’m an honest lawyer. I don’t like lying or giving people false hopes.”

“It is
not
lying to a client to say that she’s not going to jail when that’s what the case law says, got it?” Her voice has trailed up to high-pitched soprano vocals. “That’s what you
are paid to do, Catherine, to advise clients on the law, not to raise unlikely scenarios and act like the grim reaper.”

Oh zut!
Maybe she’s right. The case law does make it really unlikely. So far in my career, I’ve operated under the principle that, when asked by a client, it’s best to be honest and give the best- and worst-case scenarios. But I’m now questioning whether that is a realistic way to practise law—especially here in New York.

“Perhaps Amy would be better served by the litigation group?”

“Out of the question. We’re handling it, Amy’s
my
client.”

I’m right in the middle of another battle of the warlords.
Fantastique.

“And you better change that negative attitude or you’ll be drafting dry cleaning memos ten years from now.” She abruptly hangs up the phone.

“I’d much prefer to be pressing shirts at Madame Paulette’s than having to deal with you,” I mutter into the phone.

“We’re going to the Waverley Inn for drinks, want to come?” I had actually cringed when my phone rang right after my run-in with Bonnie, but I’m thrilled to hear Lisa’s voice.

“Who is ‘we’?”

I know she’s referring to the obnoxious trio but ask her anyway and then accept the invitation.
I need a drink.

“Sounds great. I’ll meet you guys there.”

“Perfect, we’ll see you at eight. Don’t be late, we don’t want to lose our table, it’s really hard to get a rezy.”

I arrive at seven forty-five and the bar is completely packed. The tiny room, which has dim lighting and low ceilings, is filled with fashion types, writers sporting the ubiquitous tweed jacket, and professionals in suits alongside the usual party crowd. I take a deep breath and can actually feel my shoulders start to relax back to their normal position.

Amanda waves from the far end of the bar and gives me one of her best Julia Roberts smiles.

“Catherine, how aaare you? You want a glass of Veuve?” Oops, there go my shoulders back up.

“No thanks.”

In no mood to engage in mindless chatter, I make my way around her to sit next to Lisa, who recognizes my
I need to talk
expression and orders me a glass of red wine.

“What’s up? You look awful.”

“Bonnie.”

“Again? What happened now?”

“She told me I was a bad lawyer.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I told a client the truth. She thinks that’s giving bad advice.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“It’s a long story, but a client asked me if it was a possibility that she could be fined or go to jail and, even though it’s
extremely unlikely, I told her that yes, it was a remote possibility. Bonnie got really pissed with me.”

As I recount the heated conversation, I feel even more dejected. I’ve been putting in long hours to earn partners’ respect and what do I get in return? Being told that I don’t know how to practise, in operalike fashion.

“I don’t understand why everyone just puts up with her abusive behaviour.”

“Don’t worry about it, she’s a bitch. Why don’t you join us for a long weekend in Ireland to forget about it?” Lisa asks while handing me a glass of Beaujolais.

Ireland? With these three divas? I’d rather spend the weekend at a camp for troubled teenagers.

“We’re staying at Philip Treacy’s G hotel, it’s totally fab!” Beverley gushes.

“But not as great as the newly revamped Hotel du Petit Moulin, the Christian Lacroix hotel in Paris; a real jewel!” Amanda interjects.

As I sit half-listening to another shallow conversation, my BlackBerry buzzes with an incoming email. Worried about finding a nasty message from Bonnie, my first reaction is to turn it off and get so sloshed that I completely embarrass the three hedonistas. But my professional self gets the better of me and I take a look.

From: Amy Lee

To: Catherine Lambert

CC: Bonnie Clark; Scott Robertson

Re: Thank You

Dear Catherine,

I just wanted to give you an update on our conversation. I followed your advice and contacted the regulators to demonstrate a willingness to cooperate. They were quite receptive to our approach and have confirmed they will keep this in mind should there be any penalties imposed on the firm. Also, I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be going to jail for this—although I don’t think the same can be said for our trader.

Thank you very much for being forthright with me today and not just telling me what I wanted to hear. I appreciate your honesty. You are a great lawyer, Catherine, and I’m delighted that you’ll be working with us on this matter.

I’ll call you tomorrow to discuss this further.

Kind Regards,

Amy

I’m on top of the world. The fact that she copied Bonnie and Scott on her note makes me want to burst with happiness. Just as I’m about to start screaming with joy, I receive a text message from Jeffrey that makes my heart flutter and puts me over the moon.

I miss u. Can’t wait 2 c u. R u free 4 lunch 2moro?

“Ladies, the next round is on me.”