J'adore Paris (10 page)

“That’s fantastic. Will do, thank you.”

“You have a great trip, okay? And give my regards to Rikash.”

I hang up. It was nice to hear a friendly voice.

Rikash stares at me expectantly. “So?”

“I’m meeting one of his employees in Shanghai for a bit of espionage.”

“Not about that.” He points at himself.

“He says hello.”

“Ah, I’m finally getting somewhere. I haven’t given up on him. It just takes longer for some men to come around.”

“Really? I didn’t think you were the patient type.” I think back to my recent trip to Aubervilliers with Chris and feel ridiculous for being attracted to a man Rikash is into.

“I’m not, but I have several side projects keeping me occupied. There’s one waiting for me in Shanghai, in fact.” He smiles naughtily.

“Oh? Who is it now?”

“A nightclub singer by the name of Zaza. He holds the keys to the city.”

“Oh dear, should I be worried?” I’m subtly referring to one of his ex-lovers back in New York, a colourful character who stole Rikash’s heart—and, later, his expensive camera too.

“No, mother.”

“I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

My phone rings again, and this time, I sigh with relief. “Antoine, I’ve been trying to reach you for the last four hours. Where have you been?”

“I was in a partners’ meeting.” His tone is stone cold.

“It didn’t go well, I presume?” I find myself pacing in front of the newspaper rack.

“No, it didn’t. I was hoping we could discuss it at home tonight.”

Guilt washes over me. For the past ten years I haven’t thought twice about leaving on spur-of-the-moment trips when work demands it. But maybe now that I’m in a committed relationship, I shouldn’t be taking off like this. I can’t help but feel horrible about leaving Antoine behind.

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t say no. I was asked to take Sandrine’s place at the company events.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I need to try harder to sell this. “The really fascinating part will be visiting some of the markets where knock-offs are sold. It will make the trip totally worthwhile—professionally, I mean.”

He’s silent for a long moment. “I guess. When are you coming back?”

“In four days. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Another awkward silence ensues. This cool conversation is making my heart hurt, and it only makes matters worse that I’m stuck in a noisy airport lounge, where it’s impossible to really talk.

“I’ll bake that soufflé you love,” I whisper into the phone, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’ll see you when you get back.” His voice is flat, then the line goes dead.

As we’re called for boarding, the knot in the pit of my stomach feels a bit tighter.

“Would you like another cappuccino, Mademoiselle Lambert?” The stewardess has asked three times in the last two hours. I’ve taken advantage of the lengthy flight to review the company’s copyright protection policies. The collected documents are about as thick as the
Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary
. I can’t sleep anyway, between the upsetting conversation with Antoine and Jeffrey’s trial looming. Rikash has been sleeping like a baby in his airline-furnished Balmain pyjamas.

“Dah-ling.” Rikash removes his silk travel mask and gives me an exasperated look. “If you continue drinking caffeine at this pace, you’ll be bouncing off the Great Wall.”

“The Great Wall is in Beijing, not Shanghai.”

“I know, that’s my point.”

“Sorry if I woke you. I’m using this quiet time to get a bit of work done.”

“Can’t it wait? You need to get some sleep or you’ll be a wreck when we land and you’ll look terrible at the show.”

“I’ll wear sunglasses. Nobody will know I’m there.”

“Come on, sweetie, this is our big chance to mingle with the in-crowd at Dior. You want to show those fashionistas that you know what time it is, don’t you?”

“I do know: I’m on borrowed time,” I say, feeling anxious about everything that’s going on.

“Oh, please. Enough with the drama.”

I hesitate. I haven’t yet told Rikash about Jeffrey’s indictment. It’s not that I don’t trust him; I’m just a bit tired of rehashing everything that’s been jumping around in my head.

He gazes at me with his deep brown eyes and, sensing my uncertainty, puts his hand on my shoulder so kindly that I can’t help but spill it.

“Jeffrey’s been indicted.”

“Ooh, that’s great news!” Then he frowns, seeing my uneasy face. “Why aren’t you thrilled about this?”

“It means that my letter to the SEC will probably come out publicly, and I’ll have to testify at the trial. You know I’ve been trying to put the whole thing behind me.”

“Of course I do.” He pats me on the knee. “But the sooner he gets sent away, the sooner you can move on with your life.”

I know Rikash is right, but I’d feel much better if I didn’t have to get my hands dirty and testify in court. The initial heartbreak and embarrassment were bad enough; I really don’t want to relive it all—publicly, no less.

The stewardess arrives with my cappuccino, served, of course, on a crisp white serviette next to a mango tartlet, and I give her a grateful nod.

I try to gather my thoughts. “You’re right. I’m just exhausted by all my new responsibilities, including being a decent girlfriend, which I’m not succeeding at, apparently.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be too hard on yourself. How many
times has Antoine flown off on business at the last minute?” He shakes his head and takes a sip of my cappuccino. “It seems to me that he’s acting a tad needy these days.” He then proceeds to drink the entire cup.

“Excuse me? I believe that was my coffee.”

“Not anymore, baby doll. We have to discuss your personal life.” He puts away his travel mask and matching ear plugs. “And we have a solid ten hours to do so.” He waves to the stewardess, signalling for her to bring us another round of coffees.

As he starts to turn his attention back to me, a young steward appears out of the blue, selling duty-free products. He’s tall, with a chiselled jaw and a taut torso, toned upper arms peeking out of his short-sleeved uniform. Rikash is captivated and stops him mid-aisle. “Hello, handsome. What are you selling?”

“Whatever you ask for, you shall receive,” the young man replies flirtatiously.

Oh boy, here we go again. I mentally say goodbye to the promised intimate conversation and pick up a copy of
Air France Madame
magazine.

“I’m looking for some moisturizer. Flying makes my skin flaky,” Rikash offers eagerly. “What would you recommend?”

The steward pulls at least five boxes from his trolley and begins a comparative demonstration that would rival the work of the most talented Avon lady, dabbing samples onto his forearm and leaning over my head for Rikash’s benefit. “They’re all-natural: no parabens, no phthalates,” he enthuses.

“And no shame,” I mutter under my breath.

The steward provides Rikash with the prices, the product ingredients, and his phone number. The other cabin staff are forced to circumvent the grand beauty product demonstration with their dinner trolleys, creating a kerfuffle in the aisle and provoking a few dirty looks from the other passengers. I give Rikash an evil glare, pull out my D. Porthault travel pillow, plug in my earphones, and select a different kind of romantic comedy to watch on the touch screen in front of me. There’s nothing quite like a Hollywood movie to make you forget your own romantic foibles.

“H
e’s very ku.” The young woman behind the reception desk at our hotel nods toward Rikash, who’s decked out in a three-piece suit and a striking grey fedora. The look is
GQ
meets New Orleans jazzman.

He turns to me, clearly satisfied. “It’s the Chinese slang for ‘cool.’”

We’re checking into the Okura Garden Hotel, located in Shanghai’s French Concession, an area of the city once administered by the French consulate. It has since been reclaimed by the Chinese government but retains its Gallic charm, with tree-lined streets and quaint boutiques, art galleries, and stylish bars and restaurants. In the Second World War era, Shanghai was known as the “Paris of the East”; now it’s often called “China’s New York.”

On our way to the hotel, I was blown away by the city’s spectacular skyline—dotted with landmarks such as the jewel-like
Oriental Pearl Tower and the Lego-style Pudong skyscrapers—as well as the energy that emanates from the city streets. Peering out onto the busy sidewalks, I can understand why companies like Dior are investing heavily in new retail outlets and splashy events here: a new and lucrative generation of shoppers is emerging. I have read that, by 2014, the Chinese are likely to displace the Japanese as the world’s predominant consumers of luxury goods. As we drive past Plaza 66 and the Bund, two of the city’s exclusive shopping areas, it’s clear to me why we’re here this week.

“Mais c’est pas possible!”
A tall man impeccably dressed in a newsboy cap, dark Wayfarer sunglasses, and a grey tweed suit calls out to Rikash from behind a cart of Louis Vuitton suitcases.

“
Ah, mon cher
, it is possible!” Rikash saunters to the man and leans in for an air kiss. “How are you? You look smashing, as always. I can’t believe you’re in Shanghai.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m a photographer—I follow the beautiful crowd. The question is, what are
you
doing here?”

“Moi?”
Rikash places his right hand on his slim waist. “I have a fabulous new job at Dior.” He wiggles his hips proudly.

“
Ah bon!
Since when?” His friend takes a step back.

“It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve been so busy, it feels like years. And I’ve loved every minute of it.” He waves me into the conversation.

“Edouard, I’d like you to meet Catherine, my charming boss.”

“It’s so lovely to meet you.” He kisses my hand. All this gallantry makes me feel like we’re in a movie set in La Belle Époque. I wish I was wearing a bustle skirt, and consider curtseying.
“Enchantée, Edouard.”

“I met Edouard in New York at a party during Fashion Week,” Rikash fills me in.

“I guess that means you’re attending the show tomorrow?” Edouard says.

“
Absolument
. We’re in the second row,” Rikash whispers, his eyes wide.

“
Ah non!
I’m so jealous! I’m in the bullpen with the rest of the photographers.”

One’s seating at a runway show tells the world where you stand in the international fashion pecking order. Being a newcomer to this scene, I must admit that I’m quite proud of our second-row status.

“I’ll see you there,
mon ami
.” Rikash air-kisses Edouard as we move on.

I look around the lobby. The crowd is uniformly lean, leggy, and clad in clothes that are black, tight, and expensive. I feel a surprising surge of adrenaline to be part of it all.

“So, dah-ling, are you up for cocktails with my friend Zaza tonight? We’re heading to the Velvet Lounge with Laetitia, Xavier, and the rest of the PR team.”

“Sorry, I’ll be turning in early tonight. I’m exhausted from the flight, and I have an early conference call with Chris’s local contact. Don’t forget we have lots on the agenda for tomorrow.”

Our stay in Shanghai was going to be a whirlwind four
days. Within the next ninety-six hours, there would be a fashion show, the opening of a new store, and a celebrity-filled party to celebrate a Dior retrospective at a contemporary art museum.

“Suit yourself, sweetie, but Zaza has access to all the VIP parties, so don’t complain tomorrow when you find out you’ve missed all the fun.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. And don’t stay out too late; we’re representing Sandrine at all the events, so we need to be good. Promise me I won’t smell anything suspicious on your breath in the morning.”

“I promise.” He turns around to show me the fingers crossed behind his back.

“The distribution channels have become less visible since the Xiangyang Road market shut down. It was a major sales area for fake merchandise,” Frank Lee advises me on the phone early the next morning.

I woke up feeling rested after a quiet evening in my room munching on mini-bar snacks and enjoying the hotel’s indecently-high-thread-count sheets. I’d resisted calling Antoine. Though I was still worried about his mood, I thought some space before we spoke again might be a good idea.

“Can you take me on a quick tour of one of the markets? I’d love to see how counterfeit merchandise is sold here.”

“Yes, of course. The Nanjing Road market is known for its high-quality fakes. Why don’t we go there?”

“How about tomorrow afternoon? I’m tied up most of today, but there’s some room in my schedule then.”

“Okay, Ms. Lambert. I’ll pick you up at your hotel at one o’clock.”

After I hang up, I fall back into the luxurious bed, thinking how lucky I am. During business trips for Edwards & White, I needed to be reachable at all hours of the day and night for conference calls, but today I feel free to manage my time as I please.

I’m grateful that I met Chris. His easygoing nature and helpful attitude are a breath of fresh air in the French business environment, which I have to admit has its own brand of rigidity.

I also reflect on my personal life and how far I’ve come in the last year. I’ve gone from having my heart mangled by a fraudster to finding Antoine, a loving and caring partner. Despite our petty squabbles, in my heart, I know that we’re meant to be together. I guess it took me a while to finally understand the wise words of one of my all-time favourite television characters, Carrie Bradshaw, when she suggested that it’s easier to spot a knock-off bag than a counterfeit love.

“I
sn’t this grand?” Rikash marvels as we take our seats at the day’s first and most spectacular event: the runway show. We’re seated in a twenty-thousand-square-foot tent on the Bund, along the Huangpu River. The space is luxuriously decorated with thousands of pink roses in honour of the company’s new Rose bag. Hair stylists and makeup artists have been flown in from all over the globe to make this one of the glitziest fashion events of the year. International celebrities mingle with local models and actresses, most dressed in the season’s collections and posing for the photographers and bloggers. It’s obvious that the event has been orchestrated with military precision, and I take a moment to acknowledge Laetitia’s organizational skills. I wink as Rikash fixes a pink flower to the lapel of my exquisite Dior pantsuit.

The fashion crowd reminds me of Yulia. “I forgot to tell
you, I met with the model from the anti-aging cream ad before we left,” I tell Rikash.

“Oh? What about?” Rikash turns my way while keeping his eyes on the A-list attendees taking their seats.

“Her name is Yulia. She asked me for legal advice; she’s having immigration issues.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you. I’m sure our marketing team will be grateful.”

“That’s not why I’m doing it. I just want to help out a girl who’s a bit lost in the big city.” As I say this, it occurs to me that I was pretty lost myself when I arrived in New York. Luckily, I had Rikash, Lisa, a decent amount of self-confidence, and some experience under my belt. It all makes me want to help Yulia even more.

We’ve been seated for twenty minutes when the crowd suddenly quiets and the mood intensifies. I assume this means that the show’s about to start. But then the editor-in-chief of
Vogue Paris
and her assistant make a dramatic entrance and sit down just in front of us on the spindled gold chairs. The photographers go nuts, and I’m now officially blind.

“God just walked in,” Rikash declares, gawking at our neighbours. “I could kiss the ground those two women walk on and breathe their second-hand smoke all day.”

“Just don’t forget that you have another day job.”

“As Oscar Wilde put it,
Looking good and dressing well is a necessity. Having a purpose in life is not
.” He crosses his legs and fans his face with the invitation.

I look at the women sitting in front of us. It’s obvious that
the real stars of the show are not the supermodels but the editors. Top fashion editors have become celebrities in their own right. They receive perks like chauffeured limos, private jets, island vacations, and even invitations to the White House. More influential than models and bloggers, they can make or break a designer’s career, and they have access to decision-makers in Washington and Hollywood alike.

A flock of young men begin to run around the tent, asking everyone in hushed voices to take their seats. Donna Summer’s hypnotic “I Feel Love” blares out from overhead. Soon the models are sashaying down the catwalk in a rainbow of pastel shades and an avalanche of rich fabrics. Their makeup is dramatic: pale foundation punctuated by shiny red lips and dramatic eyebrows that remind me of the 1950s model Suzy Parker. I wonder if Yulia would have liked being in this show. I hope Lisa has found someone willing to help her out.

As the models slink by in their whirling skirts and swooshing dresses, Rikash leans in toward me to share a bit of context. “This collection is a tribute to some of Dior’s earlier, classic collections: Corolle and Sirène.”

The soundtrack alternates between disco and urban jazz, and concludes with French chanteuse Françoise Hardy’s “Tous les garçons et les filles” for the evening gown finale. Emma Huan, a top local model, is wearing a dazzling layered red wedding dress, according to Chinese bridal tradition. Her beauty and the dreamy chiffon confection leave me breathless.

Rikash’s hand reaches for mine as we take in this special moment. When the music stops, though, my appetite for
beauty feels somehow unsatisfied. The fashion shows today are significantly briefer than they once were. We’ve been here for only twenty minutes. I read in the company archives that, back when Christian Dior presented the collections in his intimate salon, clients sometimes slipped out to get their hair done during the show, returning in plenty of time to catch the finale. Today, one couldn’t dash out for an emergency toilet break without missing the entire show.

After Wolfgang takes a bow and salutes the roaring crowd, Laetitia asks us to keep the momentum going by moving on to the next event, a luncheon where Champagne will be flowing by the caseload and a trunk show will allow local guests to purchase the runway looks. As we leave the tent, I take a moment to congratulate Laetitia on a job well done.

She beams with pride. “
Merci!
” She pats me on the shoulder with the back of her silk glove, which matches the lace detail of her blush pink dress. She looks more relaxed than the last time I saw her, and I can understand why. For me, working in fashion is fun and loose compared to my job on Wall Street, but for others in my office, it’s dead serious.

At the luncheon venue, a grand hotel atrium, I grab a Champagne flute from a passing tray. “That was sublime, wasn’t it?” I enthuse to Rikash. “But it was too short; it left me wanting more.”

“Yes, like most of my one-night stands.”

“Speaking of which, how was the Velvet Lounge?” Rikash hasn’t spilled on his big night out yet.

He replies by raising his eyebrows lasciviously.

“Okay, let’s hear the details.”

He looks around. “Well, it was a bit scandalous.”

I brace myself for the worst. “Oh?”

“I dirty-danced with everyone and kissed Xavier
and
Zaza,” he whispers. “And they almost got into a fight over me!” He shrugs his delicate shoulders. He knows he’s irresistible. Clearly, neither of them could help themselves.

“Okay, so you caused a commotion on the dance floor. What else is new?”

“Laetitia had to intervene to break it up. She was a sweetheart.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t put your job in jeopardy.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie, it was just an innocent flirtation fuelled by a few dirty martinis.”

I shake my head, noting his suspect use of the words “innocent” and “flirtation” in the same breath. “Whatever.”

We clink our glasses, giggling, as Edouard takes our picture for
Women’s Wear Monthly
.

We spend the rest of the day schmoozing with the in-crowd, greeting local business figures, and rubbing elbows with senior management. Whatever my initial hesitations, the trip now feels completely worth the effort. I really feel part of the team. Even Laetitia has warmed up and has offered to take me on a tour of the fine jewellery atelier when we get back.

We end the day with a party at the spectacular Museum of Contemporary Art in People’s Square. I’m over the moon as I slip into my rose chiffon Dior gown and Sabbia Rosa lace
dessous
. When we arrive at the museum, a thousand flashbulbs go off. Rikash smiles for the camera like a Hollywood actor hitting the red carpet on Oscar night. He slips my cashmere shawl off my shoulders, whispering, “Sophia Loren once said,
A woman’s dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view
”

We’re dizzy by the time we enter the museum.

“Dah-ling, you look absolutely ravishing.” Rikash makes me twirl around in front of Richard Avedon’s
Dovima with Elephants
, a photograph of a model dressed in a black Dior gown with a flowing white sash. She’s stretching her arms out toward two enormous pachyderms. “This print was apparently bought by Dior for over a million dollars at Christie’s last year,” Rikash tells me.

We walk toward a giant oval video installation decorated with a wide white ribbon. We come across a digital “book” where one can peruse Dior’s memorable words about beauty and fashion, then find a wall-sized star-shaped installation fitted with a tiny camera in its centre. Peering into it, I see a parade of Hollywood celebrities, including Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor in footage from the golden age of movies, Nicole Kidman in her classic, close-fitting Galliano at the Oscars, and Natalie Portman in a dreamy emerald green gown.

Rikash’s attention is drawn by something on the other side of the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some unfinished business
to take care of,” he tells me, then makes a beeline for the bar, heading straight for Xavier, who’s dressed in a sharp black tuxedo and making sweet eyes at him.

I catch a glimpse of Charlize Theron chatting with some company executives. As I take another sip of Champagne, I find myself wishing Antoine were here to share this dazzling, over-the-top moment with me. I take a peek at my phone.
Génial!
I’ve received a text message from him:
Sorry for being in a sour mood. I really miss u. Can’t wait to c u when u get back. Luv, A
.

We’re in sync again. I’m so relieved. I text him back, letting him know that I can’t wait to be back in his arms and adding,
Tu me manques
. The French version of “I miss you” literally means “You are missing from me.” In my opinion, the expression really does justice to the ache you feel when you’re longing to be with someone. That’s how I feel right now.

I chat a little more with some of our senior managers. To my surprise, one of them praises my work on the raid in Aubervilliers. I silently raise my glass to the room before slipping out the back door and heading back to my hotel room for a luxurious soak in the tub.