J'adore New York (4 page)

“Who moves to New York City to sleep?” He takes a bite from his salad. “Speaking of getting no sleep, have you started dating yet?” he asks with a mischievous glance.

I take a sip of Beaujolais before answering. “Rikash, it’s not a priority for me right now.”

“Ah yes, the old not-a-priority syndrome.”

Unaware that I was afflicted with a syndrome, I pry for more information.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve met so many women your age, totally consumed by their careers and ambition, going out bar hoping, luxuriating in the blush of money, not one bit concerned about finding a mate, and then one day, poof!” He snaps his fingers. “They reach forty and freak out.”

Startled by his abrupt gesture, I nearly jump from my seat.

“You know, they join those dating sites, buy a book about how to find a man, and become aggressive huntresses. Don’t let that happen to you, dah-ling. Get in the market while the going is good and you don’t have cheek implants.”

I reach for my glass and swirl my wine pensively before finishing it in one large gulp. Although I know he’s right, I’m not ready to face the reality he’s describing; it seems so distant. After all, I’m in my early thirties and I don’t have time for a committed relationship.

“You’re probably right, but for the moment, work is my priority, not finding true love.”

He nearly chokes on his salad.

“True love? Who’s talking about true love? I just think you need to get out there and get some. It’ll help your practice. Look at Bonnie.” He covers his mouth and I know he’s just revealed some juicy information.

“What about Bonnie?”

“I really shouldn’t say.”

“Oh come on, you can’t do this to me, Rikash! Spill it.”

He looks around the room before answering.

“Okay, I won’t say much, but I’ll say this. She’s sleeping with someone at the firm and she’s very territorial about it.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say.”

“How can I stay out of her way if I don’t know who it is?”

“Just watch, you’ll figure it out. Like I said, be careful or she’ll make your life a living hell. And you definitely don’t need that right now. There are enough turf wars going on at the office as it is.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Information circulates at lightning speed, especially
that
kind of information. Rumour has it Bonnie was engaged a few years ago to a senior partner in London, but he broke it off a week before the wedding. She never got over it and has been fishing in the office pool ever since.”

Stunned, I lean back into my chair. I then try to analyze my reaction: If Bonnie were a man, would I be so shocked? Of course not. But doesn’t she know that a woman’s reputation at work can be destroyed faster than you can say
déshabillé
?

“Okay, now tell me about the turf wars.”

“I wish I could, dah-ling, but I don’t know much. I overheard someone in the elevator say something about a senior partner leaving, but I have no idea who it is. All I know is that there have been lots of closed-door meetings lately and that everyone seems to be on edge.”

“I’m not surprised. There’s always some kind of drama
going on. What about Antoine? What’s his story?” While Rikash is dishing, I might as well ask.

“He’s a fantastic lawyer, but I’ve had a hard time trying to figure him out. He keeps mostly to himself. I think he’s sexy and I was hoping he’d be otherwise inclined, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the only sheets I’ll ever see him in are his damn time sheets.”

“I know. I’ve had trouble sizing him up too. He’s so intense. One minute he’s yelling, the next he’s offering advice. But you’re right, he is pretty sexy.”

“He just needs to take that highlighter out of his buttocks.”

I giggle. “What about you? You always have an interesting project in the works.”

Rikash rambles on about his recent amorous conquests—“Men are like fish, the longer your rod, the better their bod”; his upcoming documentary about an Indian transsexual, “The title is
Mahotmama
”; India fashion week, “Have you ever heard about the nipplegate scandal?”; Bollywood movies, “You definitely get your money’s worth with a thousand pelvic thrusts a minute”—until our talk turns back to office gossip.

“Please stay away from Harry Traum,” he warns. “He’s in the middle of a messy divorce so he’s a real nightmare. And you better watch out for some of the secretaries, they’re real bitches: Roxanne is psychotic and Maria’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown; you’ll see, sooner or later she’ll crack. Antoine and Bonnie have been working her around the clock.”

When Rikash mentions Antoine and Bonnie, I nervously look at my watch. Our lunch has gone on for an hour and a
half and now I’m seriously behind in my work. I’ll be stuck in the office late again tonight.

“Sorry to cut our lunch short, but we aren’t in Paris. I need to get back to the office and bill some hours.”

“Thanks for cheering me up, dah-ling. This lunch gave me a nice little morale boost. Now I’ll make it through the afternoon without having to pop any pills.”

“I need you to create a new client profile for me.” I stand beaming in front of Rikash’s cubicle. “Christian Dior.”

“Are you serious? You can’t kid around about things like that. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“I’m not. They’re a new client. Exciting, isn’t it?”

He jumps up from his chair with hands stretched high above his head. “Yay! Finally an interesting file that isn’t named after some barbaric war or military program!”

I can’t help but smile at Rikash’s reaction. It’s true that many acquisition files are opened under secret code names such as Operation Gulf War, Kandahar II, or Minuteman Missile Project. I guess they’re appropriately named given the internal wars being waged at Edwards & White these days.

Antoine passes by en route to the reception area.

“Going out to grab lunch. Catherine, don’t forget to finalize those files for tomorrow morning.”

I nod and close my office door to get some work done.

At six thirty, after printing out the PRO-IP Act and reading
the white paper prepared by the Anti-Counterfeiting Coalition, I emerge from my office. Rikash has left, but Maria and Roxanne are whispering away. They immediately stop and try to look innocent. I’ve obviously walked in on some heavy gossip.

“Working late?”

“Yep. We have four files to finish for Antoine tonight,” Maria replies, looking annoyed that I’ve interrupted their dishing session. In her late thirties, Maria has a penchant for long-sleeved T-shirts that have slogans like
Here comes trouble
or
No more problems please, I’m trying to quitwritten
in sparkly glitter across her large bosom. Today’s shirt reads,
Keep calm and carry on.

I follow her shirt’s advice and go back to reading the anti-counterfeiting white paper. Its contents are fascinating; it describes the broad range of products counterfeited in America, which range from helicopter parts to Viagra. It further explains that counterfeiting has been linked to terrorism, human trafficking, and child labour. Buying fake merchandise clearly isn’t as harmless as I thought it was, and I make a mental note to tell friends who occasionally pick up a knock-off bag on the street. At nine thirty, I open my door again and Maria is still typing away while intermittently nibbling on her General Tao chicken and crispy Grand Marnier prawns.

“Want a prawn?” Maria asks. “They’re really tasty.”

“No thanks.”

I remain completely engrossed in Dior until ten thirty, when my empty stomach wakes me from my trance and forces me to rove the various boardrooms looking for old meeting food. Despite the lavish meals the firm offers, I am never able
to order any before the cut-off time and end up munching on leftover ham sandwiches with wilting lettuce.

At eleven thirty, after putting together a closing binder for Allen Partners, I decide to turn off my computer. Not for the first time, I catch myself wondering why it is that other professionals can leave their offices at a decent hour, while attorneys are expected to meet and greet the cleaning staff.

“Want a lift home?” Maria asks as she puts on her coat. “I have a car waiting downstairs. We’ll drop you off.”

“No thanks, I need some air. I’ll walk you to the elevators, though.”

On our way out, we walk by Bonnie’s office. She is shoeless and has both feet on her desk, which is nearly buried beneath a huge pile of documents and dotted with empty cans of Diet Coke with smears of red lipstick. Her hair is piled high on her head and secured with a Montblanc pen, and she has a Hermès scarf tied around her neck.

Based on the information Rikash shared earlier, I can’t help but wonder which lawyer is getting tied up with her scarf tonight à la
Basic Instinct
. Could it be Alfred? Maybe Alfred is good in bed.

Antoine catches up with Maria and me as he shrugs on his suit jacket. He makes a point of looking the other way when passing Bonnie’s office and there is no exchange of “good nights.” I’m beginning to suspect that the Friendship Program memo got lost in the mail.

“Going home?”

“No, I’m meeting someone for a quick bite. I’ll be back later.”

Back later? It’s almost midnight. Who’s he meeting at this hour?

After he’s left the building, Maria looks at me and rolls her eyes. “He does this all the time. Never sleeps.”

I decide to stroll up to Madison Avenue on my way home to the corporate apartment at 74th and Fifth. I need a little time for window shopping. Back in Paris, it was how I’d wind down from work. I’d spend Sunday afternoons on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré nursing a latte and stopping in for a quick peek at Colette before making my way to Place Vendôme. The vibrant colours and the sheer beauty of high fashion are the perfect counterpoint to the high pressure and piles of manila folders I spend most of my day with.

I stop in front of Dior’s majestic store on 57th and take in every detail. They have multi-tiered beaded heels on display and ruffled leather handbags that make my jaw drop. I still can’t believe I’ll be doing legal work for Dior. I take a deep breath and feel totally intoxicated by the idea. I then move on to Madison and peek into Barneys’ windows. I love looking at the cuts, the fabrics, and the way the designers play with proportions. All the stores I’ve only read about in American
Vogue
and seen on my favourite French fashion blog, Garance Doré, are here in front of me. I let the world of prospectuses, memos, and legal briefs slip away for today. Now I’m ready for dreams of taffeta, organza, and mousseline.

“W
hat the hell is this?” Antoine marches into my office looking thoroughly pissed off, brandishing the binder I worked on yesterday.

“Um, it’s the binder I put together for the Allen Partners closing next week.” My mind is spinning through last night. Why does he look so angry? What could I possibly have done wrong?

“Is that right?” His furious flipping of the binder’s pages is punctuated by the tapping of his cuff links on my desk.

Given the serious look on his face, I remain silent.

“This is absolute garbage, Catherine. Did you actually look at this before putting it in the binder?” He points to a page marred with yellow marker and bullet points.

Merde.
In a panic, I nervously check my email to see which file I sent to Maria before leaving the office yesterday.

“You’re right, those are the drafts. They aren’t the documents I asked Maria to print for me.”

“Maria?” he asks, his voice getting increasingly louder and more aggressive. “Are you telling me that you rely on
my
secretary to review
your
work?” His face turns a deep mauve that matches his tie.

“No…um. I just thought that I could trust her to print the final document correctly.”

My stomach is in knots so tight they could hold together the sails on a tall ship navigating through the Bermuda Triangle.

“I can’t fucking believe this! Catherine, you’re the lawyer, not Maria. Thank god I caught this. Can you imagine how bad it would make me look if this had been sent out to Allen Partners?”

I sit in my chair, mortified. I’m sure I sent her the right document but should have checked the final product anyway. Ashamed of my oversight, I stand to apologize, my hands shaking.

“I’m really sorry about this, Antoine. I’ll double check next time.”

He takes a deep breath and stares coldly into my eyes. “There better not be a next time, Catherine.” He storms out of my office.

Merde. Merde. Merde
. What do I do? Part of me desperately wants to run after him into the hallway and get down on my knees begging for forgiveness while kissing his Boss shoes, but my rational self realizes that literally prostrating myself would cross the line from screwing up to sucking up.

How could I have been so careless? This could cost me something vital:
his respect.
I try to dive into Bonnie’s ABC file, but it takes me an hour before I can focus. I’ve spent six long and painful years trying to climb the ladder to become a partner, an accomplishment reached only by a minority of women in big law firms. And now my chance at making it to the top might be up in smoke because of a careless oversight.

I try to do some work on the Dior file to get my mind off things, but I get only temporarily distracted before Mel Johnson manages to track me down.

“Counselaaar! Are you ready for our conference call?”

“Hi, Mel, yes, yes. Can we start now? I have another call at noon with a Brazilian client.”

“You’re such an international woman of mystery, I love it. Hang on.”

I sit on a call for more than an hour with Mel and his colleagues discussing their company’s international expansion plans while staring out the window. Not wanting to sound unprofessional, I try to clearly answer questions about European securities registration requirements even though I’m secretly hyperventilating because of the episode with Antoine.

“Can we talk further over drinks after work?” Mel asks once the conference call ends.

“Sorry, Mel, I’m going to be tied up with a big project tonight.”

“You’re going to be tied up tonight? Wow, I just love it when a woman talks dirty.”

In no mood for his double entendre, I cut the conversation short.

“I had so much work to do yesterday, all I ate was half a yogurt,” a tall blonde announces to her enthralled audience.

I stop by the staff breakroom around noon to pick up a bottle of water and accidentally drop in on a conversation among three young female lawyers from the litigation group.

A short brunette responds eagerly. “God, I was in court most of the day and all
I
ate was a carrot stick during recess.”

“Wow,” the blonde responds, clearly impressed.

The third participant puts her hands on her hips before blurting out, “Jeez, ladies, if you think that’s bad, I was stuck in the library doing research for Harry Traum until two in the morning and didn’t eat a thing all day!”

To my dismay, a look of admiration comes across the other two women’s faces. Could they be proud of starving themselves for the sake of work? Or is it that as a group, lawyers are so fiercely competitive that we feel the need to compete in every single thing we do, including not eating? I’m convinced that competitiveness is the answer, as it’s fair to say that most lawyers have a type-A personality. Here in New York, most lawyers fit into the AAA category; sort of like the batteries but with levels of energy, competitiveness, and ambition that never run out. There is no need for chargers here, as the fuel is in endless supply: money, power, sex, peer recognition, and ego stroking.

It’s no surprise then that conversations by the proverbial water cooler at the firm typically revolve around upcoming triathlons
(when do they train, in their sleep?),
exotic or physically challenging trips
(climb Mount Kilimanjaro for fun anyone?),
and time-consuming cultural or artistic endeavours such as learning a fourth language or to play a musical instrument
(during extensive bathroom breaks?).

I read an article in
Psychology Today
recently that outlined the major character traits of type-A personalities: 1) insecurity about status, which translates into excessive competition; 2) time urgency and impatience, which causes irritation and exasperation; and 3) free-floating hostility, which can be triggered by the most minor incidents.

I seem to fit somewhere in between types A and B. I’m definitely competitive, there’s no question about it. I finished at the top of my class in law school, competed on a ski team, and have engaged in my fair share of office politics, but I consider myself pretty easygoing, level-headed, and, while I get frustrated, I have never raised my voice or been hostile toward anyone at the firm. At least,
not until now.

“Maria, run down and have my jacket dry cleaned. I spilled Diet Coke all over the front and I have a client meeting this afternoon,” Bonnie demands, standing in the middle of the hallway holding her suit jacket in one hand. The silk of her ruffle blouse is so thin and the cleavage so revealing that she’s
practically standing in her brassiere. I guess she’s unaware that a transparent silk square barely covering her unmentionables does not a blouse make.

I can’t help but smirk a little. Why go to the trouble of getting her jacket dry cleaned when Bonnie will pull her usual
femme fatale
routine of making some remark about the room temperature, then slowly but strategically unbutton her suit jacket so every straight man in the room will lose track of the conversation. She could be reciting her favourite pumpkin pie recipe and nobody would even blink an eye. From what I’ve seen, Bonnie knows how to close a deal and it rarely involves wearing a suit jacket.

“Catherine, I’ve been thinking,” she calls after me as I fail to sneak into my office unnoticed. “I need to know where the best dry cleaners near the office are. Why don’t you research that for me? Today.”

Dry cleaners? Excuse me? Did I go to law school and bust my derrière for the last six years to research
dry cleaners?

“Is that billable to any particular file?” I mutter under my breath.

“No, it’s not. Also note that I like any research done for me to be presented in memo format,” she shouts into the hallway before slinking back to her office. (Refer to character trait #3 of type-A personality.)

I slam my door so hard that they must have heard it in Brooklyn. Rikash buzzes me on the intercom, but I don’t respond.

“
Salope!
” My hatred is so intense that “bitch” doesn’t even begin to describe her.

I’m tempted to call Scott and let him know how I’ll be spending the next few hours of my billable time, but I swallow my pride to start doing the research. If that’s what the ice queen wants, that’s what she’ll get.

E
DWARDS
& W
HITE
O
FFICE
M
EMORANDUM

To: Bonnie Clark

From: Catherine Lambert

Re: Dry Cleaners on the Upper East Side

I
Purpose

The purpose of this memorandum and the attached exhibit is to identify the highest quality dry cleaners near our office. While there are about ten dry cleaners at every intersection in Manhattan, their levels of quality and service diverge greatly. Hereinafter is a list of those top-quality cleaners that I would most recommend.

II
Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners

Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners would appear to be the top choice for your dry cleaning needs. They boast a long list of distinguished couture designers such as Dior, Chanel, Givenchy, Gucci, Prada, and Hugo Boss
¹
as faithful clients. Conveniently located on Second Avenue between 65th and 66th streets, their website offers rave reviews and glowing testimonials from well-known, satisfied customers. “It’s very exciting, in the dry-cleaning end of things. They turned a delicate silk blouse from sad yellow back to
white.”
²
In addition, Madame Paulette has been described as the dry cleaner of choice for the perfectionist and the merely finicky.
³
It is famously snooty but well worth the effort because it has rescued many a garment from the edge of ruin.
⁴

Finally, it is worth noting that they specialize in the maintenance and preservation of wedding gowns, both old and new. “The only establishment I trust to maintain, renew, and preserve my bridal collection is Madame Paulette.”
⁵
So that you can examine their high standard of care, I have attached for your convenience as Exhibit 1 a jacket dry cleaned this afternoon by Madame Paulette Dry Cleaners.

III
Alpian’s Garment Care of New York

They are located a stone’s throw away from our office, at 325 E. 48th Street.

“Alpian’s knows garment care” is their motto. Their website offers a reassuringly precise description of services available. Their attention to detail is impressive: employees are trained to look for loose buttons, open seams, lint, and unresolved stains. Furthermore, they use a wide array of devices to make your garment look its best in your closet, in your suitcase, and, most importantly, on you.

In order to ensure the absence of material misrepresentations in the above-referenced website, a few of Alpian’s clients were interviewed by a junior associate this afternoon. Most clients
questioned for the purposes of this memorandum declared themselves completely satisfied with Alpian’s services.

IV
Anel French Cleaners

They are located on Columbus Avenue between 69th and 70th.

Although further written evidence about the services they offer is scarce, I was immediately drawn to their name. How could a business that was wise enough to select a name that rhymes with Chanel and have an Eiffel Tower as its logo fail to be equally astute in its execution of dry cleaning services? In addition, a sign in the window promises that “satisfaction is guaranteed.”

It should be noted, however, that in a recent court decision,
Roy Pearson vs. Custom Cleaners,
this type of guarantee was interpreted and it was concluded that a customer cannot demand any type of service he or she desires based on such a sign. As a result, a D.C. judge’s $65 million lawsuit against the cleaners, which allegedly lost a pair of his pants, was dismissed.

Anel’s most noteworthy feature is its fast and reliable delivery services, which will allow you to focus on work or extracurricular activities.

V
Conclusion

In conclusion, it can be successfully argued that within a close distance from our offices, your garments can be cleaned rapidly, safely, and satisfactorily. I hope the above information will be helpful in assisting you with your dry cleaning needs in the future. Please do not hesitate to contact me should you have any questions (or excess lint).

After I press send, I stare at the blank wall wondering why I followed her silly memo instructions. Why stoop as low as to draft a memo on dry cleaning? Why didn’t I just tell her to go to hell? After all, I’ve been with the firm for six years and developed a good rapport with some senior partners in Paris. I square my shoulders and tell myself the truth: this is a childish game to see what I’m made of. If I dare object, complain, whine, shed a few tears, or threaten to jump ship, she wins and I lose. And I’ve worked way too hard to lose now. Am I willing to give up my place in the race for partnership?

Non
, I’m ready for the next round.