J'adore New York (21 page)

“I was out with Rikash, we went for a drink after work.”

“It sounded like some drink.”

“Where have you been? I tried calling you earlier.”

“I had a meeting at our bankers’ offices and then came home and crashed. Are you okay? You sound off. Where did you think I went?”

“Um, nowhere special.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about tonight, babe, I got stuck in meetings. I’ll make it up to you on Friday when I get back from San Fran. I really miss you.”

All doubts dissipate from my mind and I fall asleep on my bed fully clothed cuddling the phone.

W
hoever drafted the rule against perpetuities was either: a) sadistic, b) deranged, c) high on some really strong stuff, or d) most likely all of the above. As if learning the archaic vernacular of the law of real property wasn’t enough fun, we’re required to understand it. I’ve read it more than a hundred times, and I still don’t understand what the hell it’s about.

I spend the weekend locked up in my tiny apartment in the sweltering heat studying in my slip and brassiere. The only air in my self-made prison is coming from an old ceiling fan working at half its capacity. I make hourly trips to the Starbucks on the corner of Third and 66th for a double shot of espresso to prevent a complete shutdown of my nervous system. Jeffrey and I had agreed that it was best not to see each other until the following weekend, as I needed the little energy I had left to get through the exam. Since he didn’t want me
delegating work on the Browser deal on top of exam hell, I have to review emails and documents first thing in the morning or late at night before I go to sleep for a couple of hours.

I wake up the first day of the exam completely exhausted. I down two cans of Red Bull and half a banana for breakfast to survive the crazy day ahead. As I arrive at the Javits Center, thousands of people looking as tired as I feel are lined up like sheep waiting to be sent to the slaughterhouse. I join the line at the back and feel my pulse thundering like the Paris Metro. The doors open, revealing rows of tables and chairs that could fill a few football fields. I take a seat, set my pencils and bottle of water down, and wait for the start signal. The first day of exam is an intense six-hour marathon of multistate multiple-choice questions. After it’s over, I stumble home and have alphabet soup anxiety dreams all night.

The following day is no better, with fifty New York State multiple-choice questions and three hours of essays. It’s cruel for them to put the essays at the end. My head is pounding, my hair is filthy, and I have to answer this:

Jack approached Peter, an undercover police officer, and asked if Peter had one pound of marijuana for sale. Peter replied that he could provide it to him at a price of $1,000, and they made arrangements for the sale. At the appointed time and place, Jack paid $1,000 to Peter, who instead delivered one pound of oregano to Jack. Peter then arrested Jack and charged him with criminal solicitation and attempted possession of marijuana. Question: Can Jack be arrested for buying oregano?

The question that comes to my mind is, doesn’t the NYPD have more important things to do than sell oregano? And why isn’t Jack suing Peter after getting screwed on the sale?

The entire bar exam experience, a closed-book nightmare on twenty-four different legal topics, will go down in my personal history as one of my most challenging experiences. I walk out of the two-day examination feeling like a total zombie, and I can barely remember which continent I’m on or my last name. I have no clue as to whether I passed and won’t find out for several months. Right now, I don’t care. I go straight home, turn off my BlackBerry and computer, and fall into a well-deserved deep sleep.

H
ow about dinner Saturday night at Jean Georges?
is scribbled on a note attached to a bouquet of peonies from Jeffrey.

“I guess you guys made up,” Rikash says, staring at the bouquet.

“It was a misunderstanding. All that stress has been going to my brain. I should trust him more and freak out less. He’s been so good to me. He’s taking me to Jean Georges tomorrow night.”

“Wow, maybe he’ll pop the question.”

“Come on, we’ve only been dating seriously for a month.”

“This is New York, dah-ling, anything is possible. Remember what that psychic told you.”

“We’re definitely not there yet.”

He walks toward my desk and looks around to make sure no one is listening. “Catherine, I have to tell you what
happened to me the other night after you left the club. I met someone extraordinary. I think I may be falling in love.”

“What?
You
in
love?
I thought you didn’t want to be tied down to just one person?”

“That was before Dimitri. He’s the nicest guy I’ve met in a long time. We locked eyes as I was leaving Tenjune and he asked me if I wanted to join him for a coffee. We stayed up all night talking.”

“That’s great, Rikash! I’m so happy for you. You deserve to meet someone special.”

“It’s such an amazing feeling. We have so much in common. He’s a freelance filmmaker and we’re thinking of working together on a documentary. And oh—my phone is ringing.” He practically skips back to his cubicle.

I look in my inbox to see an email entitled
Firm Retreat in California
waiting for me.

To all Edwards & White Attorneys, In order to commemorate an outstanding year, Edwards & White will be holding a worldwide firm retreat in San Diego this fall. The agenda and list of activities will be circulated at a later date.

We look forward to seeing you there.

The Executive Committee

An outstanding year? For whom? The idea of travelling with my misfit colleagues so that we can waste a beautiful weekend on useless team-building exercises like paintball
(perhaps I could fill the balls with cement, let them harden, and shoot rocks instead?)
isn’t my idea of fun, but I try to look at the bright side: it’ll get me out of the office and will allow me to catch up with my Paris colleagues.

“Let’s order champagne! I’m in the mood to celebrate.” Jeffrey puts down his menu. “Your exam is over and the IPO road show went really well; we managed to gather a lot of interest from institutional investors,” he adds with relief.

“That’s great news. I’m really happy things are going well, but I have to admit that I can’t wait for it to be over.”

“We should take a trip in the fall. How about St. Barts? A friend of mine runs a resort over there.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Jeffrey reaches for my hand and slowly caresses my fingers.

“I really missed you. You have no idea.”

“So did I.” As I lock eyes with him, his gaze gets more intense by the moment.

“I can’t wait to take you home. You have the most beautiful, intense eyes. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, babe.”

I blush while sipping my wine. How perfect is this man?

“Every night after a long day of meetings I would lie in bed just thinking what a lucky guy I am, and I bought you a little something in San Francisco.”

“Not again?”

He pulls out a tiny grey silk pouch. Inside is a ring from
the Dior Gourmette collection with dainty flowers and butterflies. I try to be mature about it, but my eyes must be lighting up like a child entering FAO Schwartz for the first time. I’ve been drooling over this collection since before I left Paris.

“Oh my god, Jeffrey, it’s stunning!”

“I know how much you and Mr. Dior get along.”

“This is way too much.”

“No, it’s not. You totally deserve it.”

I slip the ring onto my middle finger and feel on top of the world. This man is so kind and generous. How could I have ever hesitated to date him?

“Can we get the cheque, please?” He signals to our waiter.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Before we go, I just have a small favour to ask you. I hope you won’t mind?”

“Anything.”

“It has to do with the directed share program you’ve been working on.”

“Okay,” I answer, assuming he wants to add a last-minute participant to the list of prospective shareholders.

“You know I was going to allocate a portion of the directed program shares to two Swiss business partners.” He’s staring into my eyes again with that ever increasing intensity, but this time it doesn’t feel romantic.

“Yes.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Right,” I answer, getting more uneasy with the sudden change in the tone of his voice.

“I want to transfer those shares into an account I hold with a trust company in the Cayman Islands. You won’t mind helping me out, will you, babe?”

I stare at him for a brief moment, completely shell-shocked. My entire body starts to tremble as I try to convince myself that this isn’t happening. He can’t be asking me to transfer shares from his own company to an offshore account; there must be another explanation. My legally trained mind is racing at frantic speed. Is he trying to get around those contractual lockup obligations? As a senior officer of the company, he is required to hold his IPO shares for a few months after Browser goes public before he can sell them. No matter what his intentions, what he’s asking for is totally illegal. He guesses my apprehension from my prolonged silence.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not doing anything illegal. I just want to avoid paying taxes on some money I’ll be making from selling some shares in the next few weeks. I’ve worked so hard for it, I don’t want to give it all to the taxman. Understand?”

You’re not supposed to be selling shares in the next few weeks; that’s the whole point of the lockup period. And more importantly, those shares don’t belong to you. I’m appalled and mortified that he’s asking me to do this. After he pays for our dinner, I excuse myself and run to the ladies room. I stare blankly in the mirror as tears slowly roll down my cheek; I wipe off the smudge caused by runny mascara and feel as used as the tissue I throw into the wastebasket. Nauseous, I hold my hands in front of my mouth to prevent my dinner from spewing over
my new Dior dress. Be calm, Catherine, everything will be okay. This must be some bad dream. This can’t be really happening. You’ll soon wake up and everything will be fine.

I sit in silence in the taxi on our way back to his apartment, crestfallen. My hands grasp my evening bag tightly as I mentally recap some of the events leading to tonight and a flashback of several conversations about the IPO comes to mind:
the directed share program.
This has been a topic of conversation since we met and he was probably planning this all along. How could I’ve let this happen? Stupid, Catherine. Really stupid.

“When this deal is over, babe, I’ll be able to afford a place in Bridgehampton and in St. Barts. I can have both. Can you imagine?” He becomes possessed by a crazed, eerie laugh. “Did you hear what I just said? We’ll have both. We can have it all!” He hollers at the taxi driver and to passersby walking along Park Avenue. Funny, I feel like I’ve been left with nothing at all.

At Jeffrey’s apartment, I lie on the edge of his low modern bed, silent. His hands caress my shoulders, but I remain paralyzed.

“Come on, baby. What’s wrong?”

“I feel sick. Must be the champagne and the wine. I’m not good with mixing.”

I run to the bathroom to vomit what feels like half of my body weight. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at
me in his oversized mirror, but I try to look back at her with comforting eyes. My mind backtracks to Jeffrey’s outrageous request and I want to scream, but I hit the marble counter with my fist instead. How could I have been so naïve and put my career in jeopardy for this man? I’ve got to get out of here.

I tiptoe out of the bedroom as soon as Jeffrey has fallen asleep and make my way to his kitchen. I try to scribble something on a piece of paper. I want to write,
I will send you to jail for this, you son of a bitch
but keep my cool and opt for:

Dear Jeffrey,

Sorry about last night. Wasn’t feeling very well.

Will call you later.

Catherine

It’s better for me to pretend like nothing’s wrong until I can figure out what to do. Maybe I’m totally blowing this out of proportion—I’m exhausted, after all. I walk aimlessly on the Upper East Side for a few hours trying to console myself by staring into shop windows before collapsing on a bench in tears. It was all an act, the flowers, the gifts, the dinners, and putting on a friendly face for my mother. And how could I not have seen the signs?
Merde!
My feelings of sadness turn into anger and then into guilt: Could my personal relationship with Jeffrey have clouded my professional judgment? How could I have been so stupid and fallen for such a smooth operator and put my career on the line for a scumbag? And
how will I handle this mess at the office? I dial Lisa’s number, but she doesn’t pick up.

Later, I hole myself up in my apartment; everything seems dreary and cramped. I turn off the phone, close the curtains, crash on my bed, and turn on the DVD player to watch a movie that is quite à propos in the circumstances:
Bonjour Tristesse.

“Lisa, it’s me. Sorry to phone-stalk you on a Sunday night, but I really need to talk.” After leaving about twenty messages on her voicemail, I finally get Lisa live.

“I want to die, Lisa. Jeffrey’s been using me all along,” I blurt into the phone before bursting into tears.

“Calm down, sweetie, what are you talking about?”

“Promise me you won’t tell anybody. This is really horrible. Jeffrey asked me to help him steal from his company.”

“What? You’re joking. This is a joke, right?”

“No, it’s not. Jeffrey had the nerve to ask me to illegally transfer Browser shares to an offshore account. He doesn’t care about me, Lisa. The only thing he cares about are the millions he’s about to make. I feel so gullible. I just want to go home.”

“I can’t believe it. What did you say to him?”

“Nothing, I felt so crushed. He completely silenced me. God, to think that I fell for his big charade and trusted him. What a sucker I am.”

“No, you’re not. You took a chance on love, which makes you brave. He’s a total asshole. What are you going to do about
it? Are you going to tell Scott? You can’t just let him get away with this.”

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” I answer after blowing my nose. “I keep hoping maybe I misunderstood him. That he wouldn’t do this to me…”

“There’s only one way to find out. Tell him you won’t do it and see how he reacts.”