J'adore Paris (19 page)

“H
i,” Antoine says casually when he walks in the door an hour or so after me. I’ve unpacked, taken a bath, and put on some jazz to unwind. Dinah Washington’s “Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby” is playing in the background.

I’ve decided to follow Rikash’s advice and calmly try to get to the bottom of things. Instead of placing blame, I’ll focus on our future.

He walks over to the sofa tentatively, kissing me softly on the top of the head, and then on the lips. I’m surprised, and his kiss feels forced to me, but I let it go. He sees my bruised elbows. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing serious. I fell down a flight of stairs,” I say vaguely. I don’t want to start another fight, so I’ll wait until later to share the details of my Canal Street encounter.

“Really? That’s terrible, Catou.” He gently rubs my knee. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I had a meeting.”

Yes, I saw your meeting partner, and she had perfect hair and makeup
.

“No problem.” I try to sound nonchalant. “I took a bath; it was an exhausting trip.”

“Hmm.” He removes his tie and places it on the arm of the sofa. “I read about the trial in the
Journal
. It sounds like they really put you through the wringer.”

“Yes, they certainly did. The good news is that the prosecutor was permitted to play my tape in court. Jeffrey is probably heading to jail.” I sound surprisingly calm, but I can’t keep all my feelings inside. “Antoine, I think we should put the trial aside for a minute.” I pat the seat next to me, inviting him closer. “You’ve been distant lately and I don’t want it to be like that.”

He sighs, then slumps into the sofa resignedly. “I’m having trouble with your new job, I can’t deny it,” he says. “The threats, the stalkers, the bulletproof vests; it’s not exactly what I had in mind when we moved in together. And all the time you spend helping out Yulia and your mother … I’m just feeling left out.”

“I understand,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. I do.

“And you know I’ve been having a hard time getting over missing out on the eShop lawsuit.”

“I feel terrible about that. But there’s still a chance you could be retained as co-counsel. Dior might need the additional bench strength.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to be working on a class action suit for a big toy manufacturer. I just
got the go-ahead at lunch today, actually, over at Le Pré aux Clercs,” he says, his expression brightening.

“Oh,” I sigh with relief. I guess the woman I saw was a business contact, after all. “I’m so sorry about everything.” My shoulders drop and I let myself fall into his lap. “I don’t want to lose you.” Tears roll down my cheeks as he strokes my hair. “Please tell me we can work things out,” I plead.

“I’ll give it everything I’ve got,” he whispers, cupping my face into his hands, “if you do too, Catou.” He kisses me tenderly and I let myself melt into his embrace.

We fall asleep on the sofa in each other’s arms. I awaken a few hours later, feeling the warmth of his breath on my neck. For the first time in a long time, I feel at peace again.

O
n Sunday afternoon, I’m in an upbeat mood as I head to meet Yulia at one of the city’s trendy spots: Hotel Murano, located in the northern Marais. I found her work visa waiting for me at the apartment when I finally got around to opening my mail. I haven’t seen her since the disastrous magazine shoot and have been a bit worried about her. I hope she’s managing to navigate the murky waters of modelling and hasn’t been subjected to anything else awful.

I enter the beautiful, modern lobby and feel like I’m back in New York. Sleek white leather couches hold court in the atrium, flanked by sleek glass tables. Pink accessories and pastel lighting accent the room. Glass sculptures, chandeliers, and mirrors are showcased throughout the space, and relaxing lounge music is playing in the background.

I find Yulia at the hotel bar, curled up on a white banquette with a bottle of water in her hand. Her eyes are swollen,
her complexion is haggard, her hair is messy, and she reeks of nicotine. She looks nothing like the luminous beauty I first met at Angelina’s. I kiss her on both cheeks and notice her collarbones jutting out under her T-shirt. I fear she’s lost weight.

“
Bonjour
, Yulia. I’ve got your immigration papers to sign. I’m officially your sponsor, so it looks like you’re stuck with me for a while.” My attempt to make her smile falls flat, so I ask, “What’s wrong,
ma chérie
?”

She just shrugs and stares at her water bottle.

“Did something happen while I was in New York? You can tell me anything, Yulia. I won’t judge you.” I pray it’s nothing serious.

“I’ve been getting the cold shoulder from my agency ever since I told off that photographer. It’ll be a while before they forgive me for
that
.”

“They’ll get over it. Have you been working? Anything glamorous?” I try to be positive.

She shakes her head. “A few pictures for
La Redoute’
s fall catalogue, but nothing major.”

“I asked my contact at Dior to call your agency about the upcoming show. Have you heard anything?”

“Yes. I’ll be at the casting. Thanks for arranging that, Catherine.” But there’s no enthusiasm in her voice. Before I can say another word, she breaks down. “I can’t take this anymore!” she cries, looking lost and desperate.

I stroke her back gently. Right now my job is to listen.

“I’m so depressed,” she sniffles, pushing a loose strand of
hair behind her ear. “I’m not earning enough to cover my expenses, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Aren’t you getting paid for your work? What about that ad for the Dior cream?”

“I was paid for it, but I’m still reimbursing the agency, and then rent …”

She’s on a slippery slope. Some girls in the industry get sidelined into shady territory in an effort to make ends meet. My motherly instincts kick into high gear.

“It’s a cutthroat business and it’s really tough out there. Are you sure this is what you want to do?” I venture. I may work in fashion, but this is her life we’re talking about. “Have you thought of going to school instead?”

She nods, nervously scratching her hand. “Yes, but I can’t afford it.”

I lean back into the banquette, trying to figure this out. It’s not easy for a fifteen-year-old to find work that will allow her to pay her way through school. And if she quits modelling, she might be forced to leave the country. I resolve to find a solution somehow.

I catch a glimpse of a book peeking out of her Vanessa Bruno tote bag; she’s told me it was a gift from the designer. Hoping to distract her from her troubles, I ask, “What are you reading?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Books keep my mind occupied while I’m on the metro.”

“You’re lucky. I don’t have much time to read these days. Can I see?”

I’m expecting vampires and witches, so I’m caught off guard when she pulls out a book by the famed French decorator Jacques Grange.

“You’re into design?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

Her face brightens. “Yes. I love seeing how people decorate their homes—it’s inspiring.”

I’m taken aback. Aren’t most fifteen-year-old girls into boy bands, Coachella, and neon nail polish? I dig a little deeper. “Is this something you would be interested in studying?”

“Oh yes.” Her tone is unequivocal. “I’d love to be a designer. That would be my dream job.”

She pulls a camera from her bag and leans closer to show me some pictures. “This is my room at the agency apartment. I decorated it myself and hardly spent any money at all.” She’s proud, and rightfully so. I peer at the camera’s display and see a tableau straight out of the movie
Marie Antoinette:
billowy curtains frame the room’s small windows and antique furniture lines the wall opposite her bed. A lavender bedspread and flowery pink cushions add a feminine touch. “I found some of it in the trash and just repainted it. I made that bedspread from fabric scraps. There’s a Bulgarian seamstress in my neighbourhood who lets me use her sewing machine at night.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “I don’t know many girls your age who are as resourceful as you, or as creative.” I think back to my one teenage attempt to sew myself a pair of shorts. I gave up after an hour of mangling the expensive fabric I’d ambitiously bought.

Ideas are whirling through my mind. I’m stretched to the
limit at work, and helping out my mother has been taking up a fair bit of my free time. A competent assistant might come in handy. “Have you looked into taking design classes in Paris?” I ask.

“Yes. Once I’ve paid off my debts, I could probably afford it part time.”

It’s a long shot, but if my mother agrees to hire Yulia, maybe she could take classes at night. That would allow her to remain in France on a student visa. It could be a win-win, helping both of them. But I figure I should ask my mother before promising anything, so I keep the idea to myself for now.

“I hear Dior pays its runway models well.” I wink conspiratorially. “If you’re in the next show, maybe you’ll earn enough money to start.”

“I guess.” She finally grins, and it lights up the whole room.

I signal for the waiter to take our order. “I’ve heard that this place makes the best chocolate chip soufflé in all of Paris. Shall we?”

“
Absolument
. Thanks, Catherine.” She leans her pretty head on my shoulder, and it makes my day.

“A
ntoine and I have made up. All is good,” I tell Rikash when I get to the office on Monday morning.

“I’m so happy.” He comes over to hug me.

“You were right: I worried for nothing. The woman I saw him with was a work contact.”

“I knew it. Antoine isn’t the bad boy type.”

“But he did make me promise I would do something about the stalker and the threats,” I say, trying to send a not-so-subtle message. Since returning to Paris, I’ve received a dozen more nasty emails. “This nonsense has to stop, Rikash. I hope to god you’ve made progress in tracking down our
cher ami
.”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” He rubs his palms together. “I’ve identified the caller’s address. He’s from the 1st arrondissement, near Les Halles. I’m going to stop by there tonight after work to scope it out.”

I’m frightened to death by the thought of Rikash going
sleuthing without any backup, especially after what happened to me in New York. “Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of you going there alone. What if you get caught? Maybe we should contact Chris or Sergeant Larivière.”

“Please don’t worry, dah-ling. I know how to be very discreet. I’m just going to check it out and see what there is to see. Once I’ve identified who’s calling you, we can devise a plan.”

“All right, but please wear your vest.” I point to the as-yet-unworn piece of Kevlar lying under his desk. “And promise me that you’ll send me a text message when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.” His snippy tone makes me feel like the mother of a rebel teenager, but I’m genuinely worried. Is this espionage mission a good idea?

“How did things go in Manhattan?” Sandrine asks, gliding into our office late that afternoon. She’s wearing a silk blouse with blue-and-white stripes and wide masculine cuffs, matching blue palazzos, and nude platform heels. The look is sexy sailor meets serious business woman. She picks up a Haribo candy from a glass tray on Rikash’s desk.

I decide to be direct. “The conference was fantastic; the meeting with eShop’s U.S. counsel not so much. As for the trial, I’ll just have to wait for the jury’s decision.”

“My husband showed me the article in
The Wall Street Journal
. I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into it like this.”

Frédéric cautioned me about protecting Dior’s reputation. I tense up.

“You should be proud of yourself for standing up for what’s right and making an example out of that man,” she continues. “You’re a brave young woman.”

She’s caught me off guard, and my shoulders relax. Given how unpredictable Sandrine has been lately, I wasn’t expecting such an enthusiastic show of support.

“When will the verdict be announced?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I’ll hear from the prosecutor when the verdict is rendered. In the meantime, I’ve decided to stop reading about it in the press. I can’t wait for it to be behind me; the trial feels like a dark cloud hovering over a sunny Saturday afternoon.

“I hope everything works out for you,” she says. “Now, tell me about our friend Harry Traum. How’s he doing?”

“He’s not our friend, believe me.”

“
Ah
bon?
What happened?” She reaches for another candy.

“He and his partner tried to intimidate us, but it didn’t work. The bottom line: don’t expect a settlement cheque to come out of his client’s pocket anytime soon.”

Sandrine tilts her head back and laughs. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her so relaxed. It’s a refreshing sight.

“I wasn’t looking for a cheque; at least, not yet. I want them to sweat it out first.” She smirks.

“Harry thrives on the theatrics of the courtroom. He’s like an actor on stage,” I say. I’ve seen it. “He’s not going to back down from a chance to prove us wrong.”

She discards the candy wrapper and becomes serious. “It’s going to be a very costly battle for them. Harry should know that they’re going down on this one.” She looks down at her perfectly manicured nails. “We’re not settling.”

While she’s discussing strategy, I figure I might as well ask about getting Antoine’s foot in the door. I realize that it will look to Frédéric like I went over his head, but I’ll risk him being angry at me. Antoine is worth it. “Have you considered retaining another firm to act as co-counsel with Pineau? It appears to be eShop’s way of doing things. Is it an option?”

She looks up. “Who do you have in mind, Catherine?”

“The best person I know to get the job done: Antoine Brisson, a junior partner at Edwards & White.”

Sandrine gives me a look that tells me she’s aware of our relationship. She walks over to the window and looks out before speaking. “Are you looking out for the company’s interests or your own, Mademoiselle Lambert?” Her tone is colder now. But what did I expect?

“Both,” I reply coolly. “I’m looking out for Dior’s interests by recommending one of the best lawyers in the city, and for Antoine’s interests by offering him a chance to work on a precedent-setting case. That’s what I call a win-win situation.”

She remains planted at the window, with her arms crossed. I continue, “He’s experienced in this area: ask around. And
he’s worked on several Dior cases in the past. He understands our business.”

She turns to face me. “In that case, perhaps I should get to know him better over dinner at my home this weekend.” She walks toward me. “It would be a chance for us to finally meet, and I’m sure that my husband would love to meet you and share war stories about Wall Street.”

This invitation comes as a total surprise, but I jump at the chance to help Antoine get more work. “We would be delighted.”

“How about Friday at eight? We live in the 16th arrondissement.”

After she leaves, I shake my head in disbelief. Things are really starting to look up: Jeffrey’s trial is behind me now, Antoine and I have reconciled, I have a great idea about how to help both Yulia and my mother, and Sandrine has invited Antoine and me over for dinner. But my smile fades when I think of Rikash heading out to stalk our stalker. I tuck my cellphone into my jacket pocket and head home to wait for his text.