J'adore New York (18 page)

“T
hat was some party you attended, sweetie,” Rikash comments as he drops mail into my in-tray. “I’m just disappointed that there were no nude photographs of the bouncer. He has a nice backyard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t kid yourself, everyone in the office has seen those Hamptons pictures.”

“What?”

“Nathan has showed them to everybody in the department and I’m surprised he hasn’t added them on our intranet. He seems fascinated by that blogger’s lifestyle. Must be feeling like he’s missing out on real life or something.”

I drop into my chair, mortified. That means everyone here now knows that I’m seeing Jeffrey. This is the last thing I need
right now. Why am I always getting into trouble these days? Is someone trying to send me a message?

“Don’t worry, Jeffrey isn’t on any of the pictures…Just you in that killer outfit I picked out.” He winks.

Scott is next to drop by, with a “Great shot, Catherine. You should be in
Page Six Magazine
.”

I want to crawl under my desk. Thank god I didn’t buy that see-through top at Barneys, I’d never live that down.

“Thanks. I received a last-minute invitation I couldn’t refuse.”

“No kidding.”

A few minutes later, Bonnie storms into my office and slams the door. My office feels like it’s located at the foot of the Arc de Triomphe at the height of morning rush hour. If this traffic keeps up, I will either post a sign on my door that reads
ON STRIKE
or engage in the French driving manoeuvre of lifting my middle finger in the air while screaming, “
Vas te faire
…”

“Women like you make the rest of us look bad. Catherine, you’re a professional and we expect you to carry yourself that way.”

“Pardon?”

“All those pictures on the Net,” she snarls. “I can’t believe you would stoop that low. Don’t you know that it takes a lifetime to build a reputation and only a few minutes to ruin it?”

“I do. But unlike some people around here, I don’t think I’ve done anything to tarnish my reputation.”

“What are you trying to say, Catherine?” she shouts. Her face is now as red as her Valentino suit jacket.

“Nothing other than what I just said.”

“How dare you?” she hisses. “You think you know it all, don’t you? You have no idea what some of us have gone through. I’m not going to let some junior talk down to me, so you better watch your mouth, young lady. I certainly didn’t get where I am today by spending my weekends at degenerate parties in the Hamptons.”

“I didn’t realize I couldn’t have a social life when I joined the firm.”

“You should work on having an
appropriate
social life. You’re an ambassador of Edwards and White. You carry the firm’s reputation wherever you go, including to bordellos.”

Bordellos? I’m blown away. Why would
she
be upset by my appearance on some party website? Is it out of genuine concern for my reputation or just plain jealousy?

“There’s no easy way to the top, Catherine. Just remember that. And while we’re on the subject, you need to bring in some clients if you’re ever going to be considered for partnership. Spending your weekends at cheesy share houses isn’t where you’re going to drum up some lucrative business for the firm.”

Easy way to the top? If this is easy, I’d hate to see the hard way. I decide against telling her that I was the guest of one of the firm’s most important clients but decide to defend my rain making record instead.

“For your information, I’ve already brought in some business.”

“Is that right? Who?”

“The Reebok Sports Club.”

She looks stunned by my response.

“I didn’t see them in our client database.”

“That’s because I haven’t added them yet. I’m working on something for one of their fitness directors.” To make it sound important, I decide to exaggerate the truth.

“Pfff. Amateur stuff. You’re not even close to the big leagues, my dear,” she scoffs.

Even though it isn’t what I want to hear, I know Bonnie is giving me valuable advice; bringing in clients is a necessary step toward partnership. I wonder whether Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners would count as new business. They’ve asked me to represent them on a small claims court matter since I’ve sent them many new customers.

“One more thing,” she throws out at rapid-fire speed. “If you want to get ahead, you should get yourself a red suit.”

“A red suit?”

“Yes, all the powerful women on Capitol Hill wear red. It symbolizes power, passion, and prestige.”

This is the first time someone has told me how I should dress and I’m seriously offended. I’m dying to tell her that she should browse corporette.com for help in selecting a less provocative work attire, but I bite my tongue and go with:

“Yes, apparently red can bring out the fire in some people. I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

Annoyed that Nathan would show my pictures to everyone in our group, I make my way to his office for a strongly
worded chat. I barge into his office without knocking and recoil. He is perched above a small mirror with a fine line of white powder traced along its centre. As he turns toward me, I see a dusting of white on the tip of his nose.

“God, um, sorry.”

“Wait, Catherine, I can explain.”

“No thanks.” I shut the door as quickly as I opened it.

“B
onjour, ma chérie
.”

Ah, the familiar voice of home. I hadn’t taken the time to reach out to her recently, so I’m happy she takes the initiative to call.

“Bonjour, Maman.”

“How are you doing? I hope that they don’t have you working as hard these days.”

“No, of course not.”
Liar.

“I hope you’re taking good care of yourself. Have you been eating properly?”

I can’t bring myself to admit to her that I’ve been living on Gatorade, dosas, and bad coffee.

“
Mais oui
. How about you? How are things back home?” Not that it’s apparent, but I really do hate lying to my mother.

“Things are great. Christophe and I have been gardening and sailing every day. It’s been really wonderful.”

Sailing every day? The only “fresh” air I’ll inhale for the next while is the lemon-scented spritzer in the ladies room.

“Actually, I’m calling because we thought we’d surprise you and come to New York for a short visit. Christophe wants to visit his son—you remember, he’s attending summer classes at NYU.”

Oh god, her timing couldn’t be worse. But how can I manage to tell her that?

“Are you sure you want to come right now? It’s really not the best time of year to come to New York. The heat is really starting to get stifling. And I know how much you hate the muggy weather.”

“It’s okay, I really don’t mind.”

“I’d love to see you, but things are hectic with an important file right now and I may not be able to spend much time with you.”

“Don’t worry. It’s New York. There are plenty of things to do. I’m dying to do some shopping.”

Major panic attack. My mother coming to town means no time to study, a massive setback in my billables, and, more to the point, no Jeffrey. Given the ups and downs of my dating history, I haven’t told my mother about him. Why get her all excited too early in the process? More often than not, she’s ended up seeming more disappointed than I was when things didn’t work out with one of my boyfriends. I always thought it was best to wait until things were more serious. But given the amount of time
Jeffrey and I have been spending together and that Jeffrey seems completely smitten, I decide to break the news.

“Maman?”

“Yes,
ma chérie?
”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you. I’m seeing someone new. He’s really amazing.”

She lets out a shriek that I’m sure dogs in Central Park were able to hear. “I’m so happy to hear that there is someone to watch out for my angel! You know how I get worried about you living alone in New York. What’s his name?”

“Jeffrey.”

“Jeff-ree, what a beautiful name.” I can practically see her doing a romantic little dance to the syllables of his name. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

Zut!
I didn’t think this through; of course she wants to meet him. Not sure that he’ll feel the same way, though; girlfriends’ mothers can be scary. My mother is like an Impressionist painting: she’s really quite lovely but best appreciated at a distance.

“I don’t know. He’s as busy as I am with work these days.”

“Tell him your mother is coming to town. I’m sure that he’ll make the effort. We’ll be arriving next Friday.”

“You already booked your flight?”

“
Mais oui,
of course.”

My fate is sealed; no work, no fun for a whole weekend. And plenty of extra hours to make up for it.

“Okay, but I’m warning you, my apartment is very small.”

“
Pas de problème.
We don’t take up much room. See you Friday.”

I dialled the first five digits of his work number and hung up three times before I had the courage to actually call. Nothing like a visit from your mother to turn you into an awkward teenager again.

“Jeffrey? Um, I hate to bother you with this but can we have dinner with my mother and her boyfriend sometime this weekend? They’re coming to town for a few days.”

“Babe, you know how busy things are right now. I’ll do my best but can’t promise you anything.”
Merde,
this is really awkward. And I’ll have to explain this to my mother. Double
merde.

“I understand, let’s see how the week goes.”

He senses my disappointment and quickly backtracks.

“If I get out of the office early on Friday, I could have you over for dinner at my place—then I could cook for them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know that I’m a real cordon bleu, did you?”

He’s charming
and
knows how to cook. Could this get any better? My mother will just die. My father never cooked a meal in his life; now she had found herself a boyfriend who owned a restaurant and prepared three course meals like Alain Ducasse. She also made a point of reminding me that I needed to find a man who could at least make a decent coq au vin. A home-cooked meal by my new boyfriend will put her over the moon.

“My mother would be thrilled.”

That following Friday afternoon turns out to be madness, as usual.

“Rikash, how are we doing with that memo? I need it ASAP.”

“Whoa. Hold your horses, dah-ling. What do you think I am, a real secretary? Read my lips:
Re-lax
.”

“I need to send it out this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you go for a walk around the block? I can’t concentrate when people breathe down my neck.”

“No. I’ll just wait here.” I stand next to his cubicle with my hands on my hips.

“What’s the matter with you? If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a tad frantic today.”

I sigh. “My mother and her boyfriend are flying into town today.”

“Ah, now that explains it. The parents, huh? Where is Jeffrey going to sleep? Between
maman
and her
petit ami?
”

“
Très drôle.
Just keep typing, will you?”

About ten minutes later, my phone rings.

“
Bonjour,
Catherine, we’re here. We’re in a cab and on our way.”

My neck stiffens and my palms get sweaty.

“I’m still at the office.”

“That’s no problem. We’ll just meet you there. We know where it is. I have that business card you sent me. See you shortly.” She hangs up before I can object.

“Rikash, my mother is on her way.”

“What? Oooh, I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Never mind. Just finish the damn document.”

The next thing I know, my mother is sauntering down the hall. She throws her arms open wide a good six feet before she gets to me, then hugs me in front of the entire support staff.

“So this is where you slave away all these long hours,” she declares, winking at Rikash. “God, your office is fantastic. I love the views. And so spacious!”

“Thanks.”

I decide not to mention that this is only a temporary space and that I’ll soon be relegated to a windowless cubbyhole. Or that my office is about twice the size of my apartment.

“Mom, Christophe, this is Rikash, my invaluable assistant.”

“We’ve spoken a few times.
Bonjour, Maman!”
He walks toward my mother and gives her a hug. As he does, Christophe takes a quick step back to avoid his turn.

“I love what you’re wearing,” Rikash adds, staring at my mom. “God, you and Catherine could be sisters.”

She giggles like a child. I remind myself for the thousandth time how good he is.

“Catherine, where are we having dinner?” my mother addresses the office. “I’m dying to try a restaurant I was reading about in
Vogue
.”

I cut her off—this could go on for hours. “We’re invited to someone’s home for dinner.”

“Really, whose?”

I stare at her with big eyes while shaking my head, hoping
some sort of mystical mother-daughter bond gives her the message that she shouldn’t say his name.

“Is it Jeff—”

I cut her off again. Bad manners, but desperate times…

“Mom, why don’t you and Christophe drop your bags at my place and freshen up? I’ll meet you there in an hour. I still have a bit of work to do before I can leave tonight.” I pass her my keys.

“Make sure you leave shortly. It’s Friday night,” she says, as if that meant anything in this crazy place.

“Dah-ling, she’s so sweet,” Rikash comments after my mother has mercifully left the building.

“Don’t be fooled. She can be a tad sour.”

“Oh come on, don’t be too hard on her, she’s your mother.”

“Which means she can stress me out like nobody else. Let’s just finish the memo so I can go home.”

“Are you having dinner at Jeffrey’s tonight?”

I nod, putting my index finger to my lips.

“God, what a catch.”

“Jeffrey, your soufflé is absolutely
parfait
,” my mother gushes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lambert. It’s a family recipe.”

“And ordering the bread from the Poilâne bakery just for me,
mon dieu,
I feel so honoured! Catherine, do you still cook on the weekends?”

“It hasn’t exactly been at the top of my list—maybe soon.”

In Paris—back when I had spare time—I used to go shopping on weekends at the neighbourhood
marché
and pull together mini-feasts. Hearing my mom bring it up gives me a pang for those simpler and less stressful days—total French clichés of slow food, good company, and great wine. I occasionally daydream of that being my life again—cooking like Julia Child, my bosom pressed against the bowl while I mix delicious cakes. My mother quickly snaps me out of my reverie.

“But you have no kitchen; that’s a strange way to live,
ma chérie.”

A buzzing sound interrupts our conversation.

“Catherine, it’s your BlackBerry,” Jeffrey points out.

“Excuse me, I’ll go turn that thing off.”

As I make my way down the hallway toward the bedroom, my phone rings again. I bet I know who it is.

“Catherine? It’s Bonnie. I need you on a conference call in ten minutes.”

“I’m in the middle of a dinner party. Can’t we do this later?”

“No. The Met Bank is the target of a hostile takeover and I need you on the call.”

I sit in Jeffrey’s bedroom, stunned. It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night and I’m about to participate in a conference call. What’s wrong with this picture? If my mother finds out, she’ll kill me. I casually make my way to the kitchen and signal to Jeffrey to follow me back down the hall into the bedroom.

“I need to hop on a conference call in ten minutes. Can you cover for me? I don’t want my mother to find out. She’ll rip my head off.”

“No problem. Leave it with me.”

I finish my soufflé and then before the main course is served, I sneak off to dial into the conference call.

“Who just joined?” a voice asks as soon as I click in.

“Catherine Lambert from Edwards and White,” I answer in a hushed voice.

After about ten minutes of listening to senior management’s dissertation on the proposed takeover, I tiptoe back to the dining room to take a few bites of my main course.

“Are you okay, Catherine?” Christophe asks as I take my seat.

“Of course.”

Jeffrey bombards my mother with a million questions to keep her distracted. Five minutes later, I stand up again and make my way back to the bedroom. This time, my mother gives me one of her dirty looks.

“We believe that tendering our shares in this bid would be good for stockholders.”

I want to scream, “Why don’t all of you get a fucking life?” into the phone, but I bite my tongue given that I’m supposed to be an ambassador of the firm and presumably ambassadors don’t yell obscenities in the middle of conference calls.

“Sorry, who’s on the line from Edwards and White?” a voice asks. “We’ll need some help with the due diligence process.”

“We would be delighted to take on that mandate.” I recognize Bonnie’s best brown-nosing voice. “This is Bonnie Clark and I also have Catherine Lambert on the line. She worked on a recent regulatory inquiry with your legal department,
so she’ll be helping out. She’s extremely knowledgeable about your industry and your company.”

A compliment from Bonnie, now that’s a first; I feel all warm and fuzzy inside—and a little alarmed. She must really want this piece of business. I then realize what she just said, the part about me helping out. Don’t I have enough on my plate at the moment?

“Great news, we’re thrilled to have you on board, Catherine.”

“I agree that Catherine is quite knowledgeable about your company.”

I freeze as I hear Antoine’s voice. I take a quick look at my watch. It’s about two in the morning in Paris. Why is he involved in this deal?

“Catherine has most of the documentation in New York, but I’ll coordinate some of the documentation review from Paris,” he continues. “You still have the Met Bank files in your office, don’t you, Catherine?”

As I’m about to answer the question, I feel my mother’s Gallic glare eviscerating me from the bedroom doorway.

“What on earth are you doing,
bordel de merde
?” she barks loudly. I’m mortified at the thought of the entire deal team hearing my mother’s voice—this expression needs no translation. I wave her back to the dining room.

“Yes, um, I believe they’re still in my office.”

My mother doesn’t move. She remains planted in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

“Franchement!”
she shouts.

“I hear some noise in the background,” someone on the
conference call comments. “It sounds like someone’s watching a foreign film or something. Can whoever it is turn it down? It’s a bit annoying.”

I turn around to stare at the wall and, after a few long minutes during which I can feel her eyes boring holes in my spine, she finally leaves the room.

“As I was saying…”

The conference call ends and my phone rings again.

“Yes?”

“Catherine, it’s Bonnie. Can you conference in Antoine, I’m at Le Bernardin and can’t do it from here. This is important.”

“I’m in the middle of dinner and I don’t have his home number in Paris. Can we do this tomorrow?”

“No. Just call the local directory assistance.”

After spending twenty minutes with the international operator trying to find Antoine’s home number in France, I finally have my two esteemed colleagues together on the line.