J'adore New York (15 page)

“Y
ou need a break from all that hard work,” Jeffrey says, sitting across from me at Café des Artistes.

I look around the room to admire the art-covered walls. I feel like I’m in a Woody Allen movie.

“I know I do, but I’m stuck working on this annoying IPO with a super-demanding client,” I tease.

“Okay, okay, it’s all my fault.”

He stares at me hesitatingly before he continues.

“If I’m the one keeping you in the office, then I should be the one getting you out of it.” He gives me a mischievous look.

I feel my palms getting sweaty, as I suspect he’s about to propose something that I might not be ready for.

“I’ve got something to ask you,” he says, staring into his glass of Chardonnay.

“Sure.”

“I hope it isn’t too soon to ask, but how about spending the weekend in Bridgehampton? One of my friends owns a house out there and he’s invited me out for the weekend.”

The weekend?
Ooh la la…
Am I ready for this? Although my strong physical attraction to Jeffrey is coaxing me to accept on the spot, the professional side of me is riddled with worry. Spending the weekend means that we will inevitably sleep together and this might put me in a hot seat professionally. If I accept, there’ll be no going back.

He reads the expression on my face. “You don’t have to answer right away.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just a bit concerned about how this might affect my reputation at the firm. I know this seems like just another job to you, but I’ve been sweating it out at this firm for more than six years. I want to make partner.”

“I understand.” His hand softly brushes my cheek. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll make it.” Resolve melting…pull it together, Lambert!

“Let me think about it.”

“Okay, you have until dessert.” He reaches for my hand. “I’m sure you would really enjoy meeting my friends. They can’t wait to meet you.”

“I’m sure I would—it’s just that I have a lot going on at the office.” I throw a bit of work in there in case I decide against it.

“I’m the client, remember? Doesn’t the client always come first?”

“Yes, but you’re not my only client. That’s the problem.”

“Don’t you know that all problems are opportunities in disguise?” He winks and signals for the waiter to bring the cheque.

During the days that follow our lunch, Jeffrey sends me emails such as
“S’il vous plaît, Catherine! Dites oui!”
Like a good lawyer, I sit in my office listing the pros and cons of going away with him for the weekend:

Pros

—Salty Atlantic Ocean air is far more appealing than the office building’s ventilation system;

—Fresh lobster beats cold boardroom food;

—Bathing in salt water helps to reduce appearance of cellulite;

—Sharing common interests with Jeffrey will surely make the weekend memorable (My Nina Simone greatest hits CD is already in my bag!);

—Will spend the night with one very attractive male…
(Ouf, Catherine, try to beat that one!)

Cons

—BlackBerry reception may be spotty on the beach;

—Difficulty to maintain confidentiality of getaway;

—Open to office gossip if spotted out there by a colleague;

—Might fall behind (slightly) in the Dior file and other matters.

Somehow by magic, in my opinion, the pros outweigh the cons, so I cave in and accept his invitation. Now I need help with the important stuff. I call Rikash into my office.

“Jeffrey invited me to go the Hamptons for the weekend.”

“Lucky you. At least one of us will be getting some.”

“Stop it! I’m already anxious enough as it is.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll find a way to take away that anxiety.”

“Enough already! I didn’t call you in here to torture me, I need some wardrobe guidance.”

“No you don’t. You have more style than anybody I know.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere. I’d really like some insider expertise.”

“In that case, you’ve come to the right place.”

“Perfect—I want this to go well—I’m really looking forward to a quiet weekend away from this place.”

He gives me a puzzled look.

“Quiet? You really
do
need some help.”

“Why?”

He raises his perfect eyebrows. “The Hamptons has a scene that makes Saint-Tropez look like a sleepy town. You know that, right?”

I had read about it in a few travel magazines but had no idea as to what awaited me there.

“Okay, so what do I need to bring?”

“Anything that shows some skin.”

“But I’m as pale as Marie Antoinette right now—bare skin won’t be pretty.”

“Dah-ling, don’t worry about the tan, you can buy that in a bottle. But you definitely need some revealing outfits.” He pauses for a moment. “And some strength training.”

“Excuse me?”

“You should firm up if you’re going to get naked. Black-Berrying isn’t exactly the most body-enhancing workout.”

“I only have three days left before I leave.”

“With enough resistance training, you can change your body in forty-eight hours. Trust me, I do it all the time. You need to see Angel, my personal trainer. He’ll work wonders. Let me call him now to see whether he can take you right away for an emergency consultation.”

He struts out of my office with the satisfied look he gets from enlightening me about fashion, beauty, or the city. What would I do without him?

He buzzes me on the intercom.

“Okay, you’re in for five sharp. He’ll be waiting for you at the Reebok Sports Club.”

“Rikash, I don’t have any workout clothes with me and I’m swamped. I have a ream of papers to sort through for the Met Bank file. What if Bonnie calls looking for me?”

“Honey, Bonnie is out getting botoxed and shopping for her Crème de la Mer, so don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got it all covered.”

Being the jock that I am, I show up at the Reebok Sports Club on the Upper West in four-inch heels, a body-skimming dress, and pearls. I feel as though I’ve just flown in from outer space: the combination of sweat, grunting, muscle flexing, and pheromones flying around makes me dizzy. I take a seat as two men with enormous bulging chest muscles walk by me in the tightest Spandex I’ve ever seen. One of them stares at me lasciviously.

“New member?”

“Um, yes kind of.”

“See ya around then.” He winks.

What on earth am I doing here? I desperately want to run back to the office and hide under my desk. Maybe I should skip the workout and go for an espresso and a croque monsieur at the club café instead? As I pull out my BlackBerry to check my e-mail, a tall blond man wearing skin-tight black yoga pants and a black V-neck sweater enters the reception area.

“Catherine?”

“Angel?”

“Lovely to meet you, sweetie.” He kisses me twice. “Any friend of Rikash’s is a friend of mine.”

“Did he tell you, I don’t have any workout clothes?”

“No problem, sweetness, I have some for you in the women’s locker room. Here’s the key. Meet you back here in five.”

I quickly change into head-to-toe Lycra and futuristic sneakers and rush back to the waiting area.

He checks my body out for several minutes. I feel like a prize heifer at the country fair.

“Okay, I’ve identified the problem areas.”

Problem areas? Ouch, somehow, I already feel the pain he’s about to inflict on my body. The sauna is looking pretty good to me right now.

With a look of pity, Angel struts toward me and grabs my arm, nearly asphyxiating me with his Acqua Di Gio cologne.

“Let’s go, honey, there’s no time to waste. You need a serious workout.”

We enter a fishbowl of a room with equipment that could be in a James Bond movie. Catherine Deneuve once said that as a woman gets older, she needs to choose between maintaining her face and her fanny. By the looks of what awaits me, I’d rather save my face; facials are a lot less scary.

“Let’s start with some Pilates.”

He points to a contraption that looks like something out of a Chinese torture chamber.

“This is a Reformer. It will strengthen your core muscles and focus on the whole body rather than individual body parts.”

I nod apprehensively. Looking at this machine, I expect to be leaving the gym in several parts. I climb on and Angel makes me do resistance exercises until my face turns blue. After fifteen minutes, I try to escape by bringing up work.

“Angel, I need to go to the locker room to check my email. I’m working on an important transaction at the moment and—”

He shakes his head, not buying it.

“Not on my time you don’t. Come on, girl, give me twenty more! We need to burn those French food–induced calories.”

He starts his stopwatch and crosses his arms like a drill sergeant. As soon as I finish torturing myself, he approaches.

“Before I forget, could I call you about a personal legal matter? My insurance company is giving me a hard time.”

I’m not even remotely surprised by his request; lawyers are always being asked for free advice. Given that I’m upside down and totally at his mercy, I acquiesce.

Once we get out of the torture chamber, he makes me jump rope for twenty minutes. I try to alert him to the fact that I can feel a heart attack coming on, but there isn’t enough air in my lungs to do so.

“Okay, now the medicine ball exercises.”

He fetches an enormous red ball and makes me do a squatlike walk while holding the ball over my head.

“That’s great for your tushy, so keep doing this for at least fifteen minutes.”

I walk around the room looking like a retarded penguin and feel totally ridiculous. To make matters worse, Mr. Muscles is checking me out through the glass window while sweat is pouring down my face and I can’t stop worrying about all the work that is awaiting me back at the office. After an hour and a half of sweating and inflicting pain on my body, I throw in the towel.

“Angel, it’s been a real pleasure, but I need to run. Thank you so much for everything. I feel revitalized.”

“Good luck with the Hamptons.” He pats me on the back. “Rikash told me about your weekend.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll call you next week about my insurance question.”

“No problem.”

“See you again soon!”

That’s as likely to happen as me drinking red wine from a cardboard box.

Back at the office, Rikash stares at me as I wobble past his cubicle with a traumatized look on my face.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He sees from my pained expression that I’m dead serious. He turns back to his computer and continues typing.

My entire body feels like Jell-O; I have trouble sitting down and can barely lift my arms to keyboard level, so I try to think about my upcoming weekend with Jeffrey to make myself feel better. I get back to finalizing the memo on U.S. copyright laws for Dior, despite the pain emanating from my inner thighs.

“L
et’s go shopping at lunch. We need to get you something that’ll show some cleavage.”

“Rikash, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any cleavage. And when exactly am I supposed to have time to go shopping? Look at my desk.”

“Put your phone on call forward. I’ve been going out to the Hamptons film festival for years. Trust me, sweetheart, you need something really sexy.”

Rikash is making the scene out there sound like a Victoria’s Secret model convention and this is making me more nervous by the minute.

“How about at one o’clock?”

At one sharp, Rikash stands in my doorway making melodramatic gestures as I walk Amy through an SEC demand letter on the phone. I nod and give him the five minutes signal.

At two o’clock, while I’m still on the call, he again points to his watch and I nod but can’t move.

At three o’clock, he walks by and waves but I’m forced to ignore him—Scott and I are reviewing the draft Browser prospectus.

At four o’clock, Rikash once again attempts to lure me away by faking an emergency call while Nathan sits in one of my chairs. His attempt wields no reaction from Nathan, who prolongs his stay by asking more questions about the Browser IPO, when I plan to leave the corner office, and the status of my billable hours.

Five o’clock rolls around and I haven’t yet made it out of my chair. Rikash drops by on his way out.

“What happened to our shopping date? I’m going home now.”

“I know, I know, sorry. I had to put out a few fires. I’ll probably be here ‘til midnight. Can we do it tomorrow?” I follow him as he makes his way toward the elevators.

“Sure, but you can’t put this off any longer. You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says, shaking his head, visibly concerned about my cleavage-minimal wardrobe. “You need to channel your inner Brigitte Bardot this weekend. It’s time to bring sexy back.”

Friday morning turns out to be even more chaotic than I’d expected. I’m bombarded by the bankers and lawyers working on the Browser IPO and am under a tight deadline to
send the memo on U.S. copyright laws to Pierre Le Furet at Dior. At eleven thirty, I look up from a conference call to see that Rikash has planted himself right beside me with my bag in his hands.

“We’re going
now.
I’m not leaving your office until you follow me,” he whispers loudly. “I’m doing this for your own good. Come on.”

I gesture for him to hold on. As soon as the call ends, I send the memo off to Dior’s Paris headquarters and we rush out the door and make our way to Barneys for a sprint shopping session. He’s practically beaming as we push through the revolving door, while I’m trying to ignore the sharp pains coming from every muscle in my body.

“This will be good for my spirits. I can’t stand the negative atmosphere around the office these days.”

“You think office morale is lower than normal?”

“Low? Muffin, it’s downright in the dumps. All the political bull and the increase in billable hours seem to be taking its toll on everyone’s mood.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I heard that even the partner in charge of the Intellectual Property department might be leaving. And he’s been with the firm longer than some of the antiques in the reception area.”

“Really? How did you find out?”

“Everybody’s been talking about it. If he leaves, I bet he takes some important clients with him. I hope it won’t affect our jobs.”

“I doubt it. Have you seen the workload on our desks?”

“Of course, I’m the one who manages your in-tray, remember? I guess we just need to do what we can to keep up appearances and lay low until the storm blows over.”

“Is that why you’re wearing a tie on a Friday?”

“I’m doing what I can to play the game. Besides, you know I can’t stand casual Fridays. Have you seen how most people dress? It’s bloody awful.” He waves his hand in the air disdainfully. “I think I’m going to propose casual-sex Fridays instead at our next staff meeting. It would do wonders for the office morale.”

“Great idea. I’m sure Bonnie will buy into it.”

We make our way to Barneys Co-Op floor where they keep some of the trendiest collections; not my normal first stop. The first thing Rikash picks out is a bright fuchsia see-through top with tiny sequined butterflies that are positioned to strategically cover your nipples.

“This is hot.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t wear something like that, too see-through.”

“Come on, you’ll look great.” He stops to pick out a pair of skin-tight white jeans with sequined pockets. “These are amazing together!” he exclaims.

Despite my better judgment, I head to the changing rooms with an outfit straight out of
Boogie Nights,
complaining the whole way.

“I can’t believe you’re making me try this on. It’s so not me, you know that. I could never leave the house wearing this.” I come out of my dressing room clutching my chest to take a closer look at my outrageous accoutrement in the mirrors and
try to stand tall in front of the mirrors despite the pain in my legs caused by too many squats.

“Doesn’t she look fabulous?” he asks two women standing next to the change rooms’ entrance.

“Gorgeous,” one woman sighs wistfully. “I wish I could still wear stuff like that. My best friend had a top like that back in the days of Studio 54.”

Okay, now that gives me even less comfort. My assistant is about to send me off to a romantic weekend dressed in head-to-toe disco.

“I’ll take the white jeans,” I say, caving in to one of his choices to avoid a tantrum, “but let me find another top that isn’t so transparent. Save the nipple scandal for Indian Fashion Week.”

“You’re so prissy! Why don’t you get yourself a muumuu to wear at the beach? That would be a real turn-on.” Frustrated, he takes the pasties disguised as a shirt back to the racks.

“Now this is more like me.” I pick out a backless pink silk chiffon halter top sprinkled with dainty white flowers.

“You need matching shoes.”

“I need a new pair of shoes like Paris needs more traffic. I already have sandals that I picked up on the Côte d’Azur that will look amazing.”

“Oooh, perfect!” he gushes.

“I still can’t believe I’m going away with Jeffrey. I need to pinch myself!”

“I’ll take care of that for you.” He squeezes my right arm. “Oh, I feel some muscle there. Angel really made you work.”

“Work? He nearly killed me!”

He frowns as we head toward the elevators.

“Wait! What about a bathing suit?” he asks. “Do you have anything indecent?”

“I bought a new bikini last year.”

He stares at me with a baffled look.

“You need to get a super sexy one to make a big impression on the beach. Come on, hurry up.” He walks so quickly that I have a hard time keeping up. Looking around, it’s obvious that New York glamour girls with lots to spend and little to hide come here for of-the-moment bikinis. Rikash rattles off all the trendiest bathing suit designers and hands me five suits, each fit for a Brazilian bathing diva.

To his mild chagrin, I pick out a classic black two-piece that covers my so-called problem areas and head for the change rooms. I catch a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror and this reminds me that Jeffrey’s about to see me
au naturel.
Feeling insecure about my lack of
bronzage
and still slightly conflicted about my decision to spend the weekend with a client, I rush out of the change rooms.

Rikash approaches the counter as I pull out my wallet. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say, buttercup, but have you done a bit of background research on Jeffrey?”

“What do you mean?”

“Into his past. I just want to make sure he isn’t another one of those players you find in the Hamptons. There’s more out there by the square foot than privet hedges.”

Catching me off guard, my back goes up. Why would Rikash say something like that a few hours before I leave?

“Rikash, this is no time to plant any doubts in my mind, I’m already nervous enough about the weekend as it is. Do you know something I don’t?”

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

My shoulders relax. “Thanks for looking out for me.” I pat him on the back. “It’s time to go back to the office before Roxanne catches me shopping again.”

“No kidding. Miss Killjoy would love to catch you with those bags, wouldn’t she?”

“Mmm-hmm. Let’s not have her ruin our fabulous day, shall we.” I change the subject. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed with my bikini selection?”

“Diana Vreeland once said that you should never fear being vulgar, just boring.” He squeezes my shoulder tenderly.

“Are you calling me boring?”

“Of course not, dah-ling. I wouldn’t be caught dead in public with you if you were.”