J'adore Paris (8 page)

“H
ow about having breakfast in bed?”

“Yes, please,” I answer, throwing my head back onto one of the heavenly pillowcases. As I’m rolling around in the soft bedding, luxuriating in the down pillows, Antoine slips a tiny grey pouch into my hand.

“What is it?”

“Open it!”

I untie the delicate strings, and a dainty gold ring with the word “
oui
” inscribed in raised letters slips out of the pouch.

“Antoine! What did you do? This is from Dior’s fine jewellery collection!”

“I know. Do you like it?”

“OUIIIIIIIIII!”

“It’s to symbolize our commitment and your move back to France.” He slips it on my finger.
“Je t’aime, ma chérie.”

My pulse quickens as I gaze at the ring, such a thoughtful
gift. It’s the first time a man has declared his feelings for me in such a romantic way, and my eyes well up. I think back to my conversation with my mother and smile. I guess she has a sense for these things; while this isn’t an engagement ring, she wasn’t too far off.

I kiss him back passionately. In moments, my Chantal Thomass nightgown has somehow slipped off. Antoine gently caresses my thighs and nibbles at my scented pulse points. Although it’s now close to mid-morning, the inebriating effect of À la Nuit is still potent.

Oh my
.

On Sunday morning, I slip into a Saint-James striped top, a pleated vintage navy skirt, a cream fedora, and blue Tretorn sneakers. I haven’t lost my appreciation for the American preppy look I got a taste of in New York. We venture out for a stroll on the beach, and I feel like Anouk Aimée in
Un homme et une femme
. Afterward, we stop for coffee and hot croissants at Dupont, a delightful bakery in the heart of town and a perfect spot for people-watching. I feel drunk with happiness every time I look down at my hand and catch a glimpse of my ring; it’s a loud yes to commitment for the whole world to see, and I feel blessed.

On the drive home, we stop in Giverny, the village where Monet spent most of his life. We visit the famous gardens, take pictures in front of the lily pond, steal kisses in front of the roses, and admire the paintings that fill the old house.

Back on the highway, we talk about our plans to redecorate our apartment. “The first question should be, where will we put all those clothes while we repaint? Perhaps we can give them away to charity?” Antoine teases.

“
Ah, non!
Not a chance, mister.”

“Maybe we could make an offer on the villa in Granville?” he jokes. “It would accommodate at least half of your shoe collection.”

“Forget it. The commute would kill us both. The less expensive solution would be to build a walk-in.”

He stares at me with furrowed brows. “I guess that means I’m losing complete control of my apartment.”

I lift my left hand and show him the
oui
ring on my finger. It’s a bit of a risky move, but it was his idea.

He smiles tenderly. “Catherine, I’ve been meaning to apologize for ruining our first day in Normandy with all that office talk.”

“Don’t worry, it’s already forgotten.”

“It’s just … I’m a partner now, and they expect me to drum up some clients since I’m going to be getting a share of the firm’s profits.” He shoots me a sideways glance.

I tilt my head back on the headrest and take a deep breath. I know where this conversation is heading, and it’s not how I want our romantic weekend to end.

“Mmm-hmm. Yes, I know. I worked there, remember?”

“But you don’t anymore. And your new role at Dior could really help me. I haven’t heard from anyone in the legal department
since Le Furet left the company. He was my only contact there, and now you’re my only hope.”

Oh boy. Put on your seatbelt, Catherine, this is about to get rocky. “Haven’t we gone over this already? Do you want to start another argument?”

“No, of course not. I just want you to understand that things are difficult for me right now. A lot of multinationals are starting to outsource legal work to firms in India. There was an article about it in
The Economist
last week. And you know who I’m up against; you spent six years in that office. I’m just trying to make sure we have bread on the table.”

I remain silent and curl my lip, then respond emphatically. “I’m sure
that
is not a problem.”

He sighs with exasperation. “Catherine, you know Dior means a lot to me professionally. Can’t you put in a good word on my behalf? I don’t think I’m asking for a lot.”

Doesn’t he get that I’m not ready to recommend him to my boss after only one week? For the sake of keeping the peace and to avoid any potential road accidents, I grit my teeth and say, “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, though.”

T
he next morning, I sit in our office perusing fashion blogs and the latest Dior catalogue before Rikash arrives. I need a few minutes to collect myself and prepare for the day. I left our apartment early this morning in part to avoid another argument. Although I love Antoine dearly, sometimes I need time alone to figure things out.

A few minutes with the blogs gets my mind off this weekend’s less pleasurable moments. I’m particularly fond of
Making Magique
, which chronicles a stylish young American’s adventures in Paris,
My Little Fashion Diary
, and
Tales of Endearment
. The motivated young women behind these sites bring me back to my carefree younger days.

As I look through Dior’s upcoming ready-to-wear collection, the words of Voltaire spring to mind:
It is fancy rather than taste which produces so many new fashions
. I lobbied for my job at Dior because of my passion for fashion and beauty, but I’m
not blind to the industry’s main objective: getting you to part with your hard-earned dollars. Marketing campaigns make you drool over, and pine for, things like a “limited edition” handbag with a two-year waiting list—and your bag may or may not still be fashionable by the time you get it. It’s a bit sad, but one of our industry’s goals is to create irrepressible urges for things you never knew you wanted, never mind needed.

How many people can realistically afford a Hermès Birkin with an $80,000 price tag? Although I certainly don’t condone the sale of fake products, perhaps it’s this very inaccessibility that drives the demand for fakes in the first place. After all, it’s human nature to want things we can’t have.

A few years ago, I attended a conference in Paris and heard a talk by an internationally acclaimed interior designer. He ranted against the luxury industry, claiming that today’s youth was wasting their money chasing the new “it” fashions. People would be better off investing in art, a designer chair, or even real estate, he said. Looking at the catalogue before me, with the five-digit price tags next to some handbags, part of me believes this to be true.

After all, in the words of Karl Lagerfeld,
Elegance is a physical quality. If a woman doesn’t have it naked, she’ll never have it clothed
.

According to a study done at Stanford University, one of the best things a man can do for his health is to be married to a
woman, whereas one of the best things a woman can do for her health is to nurture relationships with her girlfriends.

Perhaps that’s why I’m so happy to hear a familiar female voice burst out of my cellphone this afternoon. “How’s my favourite Parisian?”

My dear friend Lisa and I attended law school together in California for a year and reconnected when I transferred to the New York offices of Edwards & White. I miss our chats, our shopping sprees, and, most importantly, our mutual support. I do have some friends in Paris, but most of them are married, have children, and have moved to the suburbs, so our lives don’t intersect as much as they used to.

“Lisa! So happy to hear from you. How are you?”

“Things are great. Work is crazy, as usual, and Charles and I are busy planning the wedding. I hope your mother is still okay with us having it at her beautiful home?”

Lisa had asked if she and her fiancé could get married at my mother’s property in the south of France. Given my mother’s workload, I realize now that organizing Lisa’s wedding might be bit of a stretch, but I keep that to myself. Knowing how much this means to Lisa, I’ll gladly pitch in; after all, it will give me an excuse to shop on someone else’s budget.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you here in Paris. My mother will take care of the decor and flowers.”

“That’s wonderful, but it isn’t why I called,” Lisa says, suddenly serious.

Given her tone of voice, I figure it can’t be good news. “
Ah bon?
What’s going on?”

“It’s about Jeffrey.”

I feel my insides becoming as tight as a knot. I’ve put thoughts of my ex-boyfriend at the back of my mind, in a place only my subconscious visits, usually at night. But I knew I would hear about him sooner or later. I was the one who reported his wrongdoings to the Securities and Exchange Commission, and some follow-up was inevitable.

“Okay. What about him?” I’m frozen in my chair, breathless.

“I guess you haven’t read the papers yet? He was indicted this morning. It’s all over the
Journal
.”

At the time of his company’s initial public offering, Jeffrey requested that I illegally transfer shares into an offshore bank account in his name. He was the chief financial officer of the company, I was acting as legal counsel on the deal, and we were dating. I subsequently sent a letter to the SEC, then got him to repeat his outrageous request on tape. I have visions of Jeffrey appearing in front of a grand jury in handcuffs, unshaven, flanked by members of the NYPD, all the while cursing me over and over.

“I didn’t realize it was today.” I feel silly for not having paid closer attention to the case. I’ve been so ashamed about the whole mess that I’ve purposely avoided hearing anything about it.

“The article mentions that he lost his job, had most of his assets frozen, and had his passport confiscated. I guess that’s what you call karmic payback,” Lisa says.

It suddenly occurs to me that my letter to the SEC might
have been leaked to the press. I ask, “Does the article mention anything about my letter?”

“No, don’t worry. Your name isn’t mentioned. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but I thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Lisa, I appreciate it. But I’ll feel much better when that part of my life is behind me for good.”

“Maybe we’ll be able to celebrate that at my wedding,” she says.

I certainly hope so.

“There’s somewhere we need to be right now,” Rikash calls out. His hands flutter around his head, and he wipes his brow with a silk polka dot handkerchief before whisking me up from my chair. I give him a curious look, but he’s silent until we reach the elevators.

“Photo shoot,” he says, after pressing the call button.

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”

“We need to wait for the light,” the photographer declares to no one in particular. We’ve just entered a huge white room filled with fashion assistants, makeup artists, hair stylists, and a contingent from the Dior publicity team. “The light just isn’t right.” The photographer shakes his head and darts
around the room, camera in hand, pointing to the tall windows that look onto avenue Montaigne. After a few moments of this, he comes face to face with Rikash and flashes him a grin. Rikash reciprocates, and some predictable flirtation ensues.

“Hello, I’m Rikash,” my assistant says, extending his hand. “We’re the party poopers from legal.” He points in my direction. “This is my colleague Catherine Lambert, chief pooper.”

I nudge him in the ribs and manage a tight smile. I still have no clue why I’m here. To make matters worse, my floor-length cherry red vintage skirt and blue-and-white-striped sweater are garnering looks from the black-clad fashion crowd here. I stand out like Minnie Mouse in a house of horrors. I decide to ignore it; they’ll just have to deal.

“Jean-Michel.” The photographer gives Rikash sweet eyes. “I was happy when I saw you walk in, but now I’m not so sure.” He laughs. “Please come in. We’re just getting started.” Jean-Michel claps his hands and everyone in the room freezes. “
Allez, on y va!
Get ready!” He points to the window. “The light is perfect now.”

A few assistants rush to adjust the lighting umbrellas. A model who looks to be in her teens is dressed in a bizarre outfit involving fur, black lace, and neon green underwear. Her dress is completely see-through, every inch of the racy undergarments exposed. She stands in front of the camera, suggestively licking a pink lollipop. She looks like a young woman who’s seen way too much for her age.

I lean toward Rikash. “What’s this shoot for? The latest
resort collection?” It’s the only explanation I can think of for the barely there get-up.

“No, it’s for our new anti-aging moisturizer,” he answers with a straight face.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head. “Why is she dressed like Lolita if they’re taking close-ups of her face?”

“Sweetie, it’s not about making sense, it’s about making an impression.” Rikash sprints onto the set to fix the model’s bra strap, saying, “Sorry, Jean-Michel, but I really hate to see an undergarment worn wrong.”

“Non, non, non!”
A loud voice thunders from the side of the room. I crane my neck to find out who’s interrupting and gasp to see someone I recognize—but only from magazines. It’s Wolfgang de Vrees, Dior’s famed designer. He’s a rock star. He’s leaning against a table near the makeup station, observing the shoot like a hawk. I’ve read about him. His entourage includes European royalty, políticos, and Hollywood starlets. He’s known to be exceptionally talented, hugely competitive, and notoriously difficult to work for. He rarely sleeps and survives on a diet of sunflower seeds and Diet Coke, though rumour has it that for some reason he also eats paper (yes, paper!).

He pays no attention to what critics or editors have to say about his work. Why would he? His annual salary is in the millions, and he is revered like a god. I just hope Rikash doesn’t get an earful from him for interrupting the photo session.

He points toward Rikash, shouting, “Who are these intruders?”

“They’re from the legal department,” Jean-Michel answers flatly.

Wolfgang raises his hands to the ceiling, exclaiming, “Lawyers? God, what a bore! Who invited them?”

Rikash glances my way, his shoulders drooping like a shrinking violet. His cheeks are flushed, and I can tell he’s embarrassed. He slinks to the back of the room, and I pat him on the shoulder.

No one has dared to answer Wolfgang’s question, so he continues his tirade. “Can we continue without any more interruptions, hmm?”

Jean-Michel obliges and the photo session begins. It’s a whirlwind. Assistants and stylists take turns teasing the model’s hair, adding eyeshadow, plumping the girl’s cleavage, adjusting her skirt, and changing her shoes (for a facial moisturizer … it makes sense,
non?
) After an hour of this, the team takes a break and I finally ask Rikash about our role in this charade. “Why are we here?”

He just whispers, “You’ll see.”

There’s a lot of work waiting for me on my desk, and I’m growing impatient. I hope Rikash didn’t drag me here just so he could flirt with the photographer. “I don’t want to wait and see. I want to know now,” I snap. “In case you aren’t aware, I have counterfeiters to arrest, lawsuits to win, and designs to protect.”

“Whoa, calm down, sweetie.” He encourages me to breathe. “If you must know, the publicity team asked us to be here because they intend to significantly modify some of the photos.”

I’m surprised. I know photos are routinely touched up with Photoshop to make a model’s lips plumper, erase fine lines, or narrow a waistline, but why ask a lawyer? It must be something major.

“How significant are the changes?” I ask Rikash. “Oh wait, let me guess: ‘You’ll see,’” I say before he has the chance. He rolls his eyes skyward.

I decide to wait this out. Now I’m curious about how they’ll alter Lolita’s image.

Once the shoot is over, the model departs and we’re left with Jean-Michel and a few senior members of the marketing team. Wolfgang has disappeared too, presumably to avoid further contact with members of the legal profession.

“This is what we’d like to do.” Jean-Michel shows me his computer screen. “We want to make her face wrinkly and publish before and after photos to show what can happen if you don’t use our product.”

He places the model’s picture next to a digitally altered version that makes her look at least fifty years older. The contrast is mind-boggling.

I now understand why they wanted us here. “Okay, first things first. Have you told the model that you’re doing this?”

The photographer and his team remain silent and stare blankly at each other.

“I guess that means no.” I’m trying to act like a team player, but something tells me that playtime is about to be cut short. “What does her contract say? Does anyone have a copy handy?”

It’s a few moments before anyone answers. “We don’t have a copy of it here,” the publicity director says, “but she signed our standard waiver.”

“I don’t think you should publish these photos without her written authorization,” I say. The group seems disappointed. “She could sue us for unauthorized and improper image manipulation. It’s happened before.” I’ve done my homework in this area.

“This is where our reputation as party poopers comes in,” Rikash says.

“Are you sure?” Jean-Michel asks. “If we make them look too young, we get shot down by the Advertising Standards Board, and if we make them look old, we get sued. We can’t win.” He shakes his head.

I want to say that he wouldn’t have any problems if he simply portrayed models realistically, but I keep it to myself. I already feel like the school principal calling an end to recess.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I say firmly. “She could claim that the retouched image might adversely affect her modelling career. I realize this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but I’m just looking out for the company’s interests. Let’s get her approval in writing, okay?”

After an awkward silence, the publicity director agrees. “She’s probably left the building by now, but we’ll try to figure something out with her agent.”

“Send me the contract. I’ll take care of it.” I might as well be cooperative, I figure.

I turn to leave the room, Rikash following close behind. As
I turn to wave goodbye, I catch him mouthing “Call me” to Jean-Michel.

He lifts his toned shoulders innocently. “Sorry, hon, I really can’t help myself. I was born this way.”

Back in our office, I return a few calls and emails. Before long, I receive a copy of the model’s contract from the publicity department. Her name is Yulia Mintovia, and she’s from Bulgaria. I speed-read through the preliminary details until I reach her date of birth. She’s just turned fifteen.