J'adore Paris (15 page)

D
orothy Parker said,
It’s not the tragedies that kill us, it’s the messes
. After I listen to the messages from Antoine waiting in my voice mail, I’m convinced that she’s right.

“What the hell happened?” he says when we finally speak. “You didn’t even give me a chance to put our firm forward for the case. We have way more experience than Pineau does.” His voice is harsh. “Have you forgotten that Edwards & White paid your bills for close to seven years? Have you no sense of loyalty?”

He hangs up and I sit in my office chair, dejected. My insides feel like they’re filled with broken glass. Rikash is on the phone. When he finally turns my way, I can’t help getting emotional.

“Antoine wants to tear my head off because of the case,” I say pathetically.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” He comes over and kisses me on the side of the head. “Antoine loves you. I’m sure it will soon be forgotten. It’s just work, for god’s sake.”

But I can’t help but feel bad. This is the most important case yet to pit the French luxury industry against the websites. And Antoine was the one who introduced me to Dior in the first place.

“I feel awful. I just couldn’t bring myself to push for Antoine and my former bosses so soon after starting here. And now that Pineau has been retained, Antoine is livid. What kind of a girlfriend am I?” A tear runs down my cheek.

“Here, blow your nose.” He hands me a tissue. “He’ll get over it. It’s not the only case being tried in France, after all.”

“I’m not sure I can go home and face him. A shouting match is the last thing I need right now.”

“So he didn’t get the lawsuit. La-di-frickin-da. You should tell him off for being so self-centred. I mean, what’s more important: some lawsuit or your career?” He puts one hand on his hip and waves the other around theatrically, like Tyra Banks does when she’s ticked off.

“Come on, Rikash. I know Antoine cares about me, it’s just … the pressure, you know?”

“Whatever you say, pumpkin. Just take a moment to exhale all of your negative energy.” He circles his hands in front of his chest like a yogi.

I follow his instructions and immediately feel better, until I realize I haven’t told him about what happened with Yulia. “I also saw something awful yesterday. A perverted photographer was trying to take advantage of Yulia and some other really young models. It disgusted me.”

Rikash shakes his head. “Dah-ling, unless you’ve had your
head in the sand for the last twenty years, it’s a pretty well-known fact that some unscrupulous photographers take advantage of models.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t make sexual harassment acceptable. It’s revolting.”

“Speaking of which … you know I’ve been receiving copies of all your emails, right?” He returns to his computer with a look I haven’t seen before.

“Mmm-hmm. What did I receive now? A bomb threat?”

He crosses his legs and places his hands on his knees like a social worker. Now I know I’m in trouble. “You’ve received a half-dozen messages from a special dating website.”

I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well …” He pauses for a moment, at a rare loss for words. “It’s called S&M Wonderlove.”

“How would sadomasochists get my email address, and why would they be writing to me?” I ask him, bemused.

He hesitates, then opens a new window on his computer. “I think you’d better check this out for yourself.” He jumps from his chair, as though running for cover.

I bend at the waist and squint at the screen. There’s a picture of me under the words “New Member Profile.” My name and professional contact information are there, along with a description:
Dominatrix lawyer looking for some accomplices to tie up and get it on in hard-core style
.

Other pictures of me, ones I’ve posted on my social network profiles, have been modified to make me look as if I’m half-naked and holding a whip. I want to crawl under my desk and
never come out again. So much for trying to save Yulia from the soft porn industry. I’ve just found myself in the middle of it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of having your profile deleted,” Rikash is quick to reassure me. “I know someone who works for this site.”

“What are you waiting for? Do it now!” I gasp, mortified. “Who could have done this?”

“I’m sure it’s the same outfit that’s been calling and emailing you. It’s just another form of intimidation.”

“They’re really coming after me full force, aren’t they?” Their scare tactics are working. This last stunt has put me over the edge. It’s one thing to make threatening phone calls and send silly emails, but messing with my reputation is crossing the line. I haven’t worked hard all these years to have my name dragged through the mud by a bunch of hoodlums. I’m on the verge of tears, ready to raise the white flag and call it quits.

“I know how you must be feeling, but don’t you dare give up. That’s exactly what these counterfeiters want. But you can’t let them win,” Rikash insists, his hands on my shoulders in support. “Besides, you’ve been intimidated before, and you never backed down.” It’s true: Jeffrey attempted to keep me from speaking out about his financial fraud back in New York, but I stuck it out.

“I’m just really tired right now. It’s been a rough week.” Today’s roller coaster has me feeling burnt out. I wish I could escape to a winery in Bordeaux and lie low, gorging on red wine and foie gras until the storm passes. But Rikash is right. I need to face life’s challenges like an adult.

I force a smile. “So … what’s next?”

Rikash goes back to his computer and clicks on a message that turns out to be from François D’Avignon.

Rikash interrupts his reading to repeat the word “charming” twice.

“Did you hear how he finishes his message? You know what that means, sweetie? He’s yours for the taking.”

“Thanks, Rikash, but I don’t want him. I have a man waiting for me at home. At least, I think I do.”

“Okay, suit yourself. But if Antoine acts like a toad tonight, at least you have a backup plan with a solid backside.” He winks.

“Come on, I want to make my relationship work, not play childish games.”

“I know, honey: love is the answer,” he allows, purring like
Eartha Kitt. “But remember that carnal pleasures are equally satisfying.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” I put on my jacket and grab my handbag, ready to head home. “Don’t forget to remove my profile from that dating service.”

“Yes, of course. And don’t worry about the messages you’ve received from members wanting to hook up. I’ll gladly take care of those myself,” he tells me with a grin.

“How could you do this to me, Catou? You know how much I wanted this case.” Antoine is sitting on our living room sofa with his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. His Charvet shirt collar is unbuttoned and his silk tie loosened. His hair is dishevelled like he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times. I close the door, put my briefcase down, and silently take a seat next to him. I place a hand on his knee and tears roll down my face. I try to speak but can’t. I don’t know where to start.

“I’m sorry.” I begin with the obvious.

“Sometimes sorry just isn’t good enough.” He stands up, glaring at me with a fierce look I’ve never seen before. He places a hand on the mantle and looks away. “You know that developing our client base is one of my main responsibilities. Or maybe you’ve forgotten that now that you’ve joined the jet set,” he adds, a touch bitterly. “How quickly you’ve left us little people behind.”

Now I’m angry. Is one lawsuit so important? But I try to remain calm. “We’ve gone over this before, Antoine. It’s important to me that my personal and professional lives remain separate.”

“I know, but this will be a precedent-setting case, and you let Sandrine hand it to Pineau Larochelle without even giving me a chance to fight for it. Is that how you show your love? Did you even mention our firm to her?”

I look down at my stilettos. Antoine waits for my reply, but I can’t speak.

“In that case, your so-called two lives are not the only things about to be kept separate.” He storms out of the apartment and slams the door before I can say a word.

You knew this was going to happen, says a voice in my head. You could have avoided this awful scene. I berate myself for not having told him sooner.

After a few minutes of silence, I manage to get up from the sofa and walk past the fireplace. I catch my reflection in the starburst mirror above the mantle: a miserable-looking woman dressed to the nines in this season’s most fashionable styles stares back at me, and I begin to cry. I’ve landed both a dream job and the perfect man, but right now, my life feels like a nightmare.

As I head for the kitchen for a glass of water, the doorbell rings. Hoping against hope that it’s Antoine with an apology and sweet kisses, I rush to open it.

A skinny man in an ill-fitting suit stands in front of me. I could be facing my stalker! I realize I should run back inside
to activate Rikash’s tiny camera, but before I have the chance, the man shoves an envelope toward me.

“Mademoiselle Catherine Lambert?” he asks in a bored voice.

“
Oui
,” I say as my heart drops and my expression hardens. What is this about?

“Thierry Lebel, bailiff.” He points to the letter. “You’ve been served with a subpoena by the New York District Court.”

My hands trembling, I tear open the envelope and scan the document:

The trial is set for next week.

The bailiff vanishes, leaving me alone with this dreaded piece of paper. Just when I thought I’d reached an all-time low, this is the final nail in the coffin. I knew I couldn’t wash my hands of the Jeffrey situation forever, but the timing couldn’t be worse: I’m being threatened by sadomasochistic, counterfeiting thugs, Yulia is depressed, and Antoine has just walked out on me.

I shut the door and find myself gravitating toward a bottle of red wine. I pour a glass and gulp it down in ten seconds flat, then repeat this self-preserving gesture several times.

Some say if life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I say if you’re dealing with sour grapes, drink lots of wine.

I
wake up the next morning on our living room floor, hugging my vintage Madeline doll and feeling the effects of a deadly hangover, my shirt covered with purple stains.
Dieu merci
, it’s Saturday, the only silver lining to the dark clouds hovering over my day.

There’s no sign of Antoine, and the subpoena is lying at my feet, staring at me like some scary hallucination. I get up, grab the damned piece of paper, and fling it across the room.

My mind whirls at the thought of seeing Jeffrey again. Not only has he hurt and humiliated me, he came close to ruining my career. I go to the washroom for some cold compresses to soothe my throbbing head, wondering how I’ll explain this unexpected trip to New York to my colleagues—and to Antoine, if he ever decides to speak to me again.

Just then, my phone beeps with a text message from Antoine:
Please read your emails. Thx. A
.

Not very warm. I turn on my laptop, dreading what’s to come, while holding a wet facecloth to my forehead. In addition to a dozen new anonymous messages calling me a “mean cow” and a “nasty whore,” there’s something from Antoine sent at 11:56 last night:

I close my computer, wipe the tears from my cheeks, and force myself to take a freezing shower, hoping for some reinvigoration and some help making sense of it all.

As cold water pours over my body, I realize that throughout my life I’ve tended to shut myself off emotionally when times get tough. I have vague memories of my mother falling into a depression after my father passed away, and I’ve vowed to never let that happen to me. But perhaps I’ve taken it too far. Antoine is better than I am at expressing his feelings. I need to learn how to communicate my needs too.

The truth is that my career is satisfying, and helping my mother and Yulia has given me great joy and reconnected me with my creative spirit. But I love Antoine, too. How can I reconcile all the different passions pulling at my heartstrings? And do I want to be in a relationship where I constantly have to justify myself?

I don’t have a clear answer. For now, I’ll try to placate Antoine by recommending him as co-counsel on the case. Now that I’ve started to prove myself at Dior, it should be okay. And it’s true that Antoine’s knowledge of the company’s operations and his background in intellectual property might increase our chances of success.

I slip into a silk Princesse Tam. Tam robe, turn on the Nespresso machine, and dial Rikash.

“What now? Did someone break into your apartment?” He’s sarcastic.

“I guess you could say that.”

“What? Oh my god!” Now he’s shouting. “Things are getting out of control. You need to call the police!”

“Calm down. I was being facetious. But last night I got served with a subpoena. A bailiff showed up on my doorstep.”

“What’s this about?”

“Take a guess: I have to testify against Jeffrey.”

“Oh boy, here it is, coming back to you like a boomerang. Well, we knew this would happen sooner or later. What will you do, sweetie?”

I take a sip of coffee. “I could go to jail if I don’t show up, so I have to go to New York. Can you believe that the trial is next week?”

“You should be pleased the bastard is probably heading behind bars. It serves him right after what he did to you. Lucky for him, stripes are all the rage at the moment.”

“I’m not sure how to tell Sandrine and Frédéric that I need the time off.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” he says soothingly. “You’re complying with a court order. Dior can’t fault you for that.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I imagine the mental wheels in his head turning. “What I’m concerned about is your security. What if the stalker follows you to New York? It would be best if I came along.”

I briefly wonder if he wants to tag along for the sheer pleasure of seeing Jeffrey try to defend himself, but I know better. Rikash always has my best interests at heart.

“Will they let us both go? We’re swamped with work.”

“Hmm. Good point. Well, we can tell Frédéric and Sandrine that I worked on the case too, and that you need me for evidentiary purposes.”

Is this a good idea? We’ve already kept things from our bosses. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Rikash, but I think
we should come clean about the threatening calls and emails, in case something serious happens to either of us over there.”

“Do you really want to get them involved now?” He sounds almost offended. “We’re doing well so far. I even have a lead or two on the emails. We’ll bring them into the loop when we have something more solid. Hey, if we bust this counterfeit operation wide open, our next stop will be the executive suite.”

He’s all confidence, but I’m worried we’re in over our heads. “You may be right, Rikash. I just need to mull it over. I’m afraid I’m not thinking that clearly at the moment.” I pause before confessing, “I got into a big argument with Antoine last night, and he walked out on me.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. Same issue, I presume? He needs to sign up for anger management classes.”

“I should have put him forward as outside counsel on the eShop case. He didn’t come home last night.”

“Don’t worry, dah-ling. His lawyerly ego has been bruised, that’s all. It happens all the time with attorneys. The two of you will be just fine.”

“Thanks.” He’s speaking half in jest—I know he has respect for Antoine.

“I’m thinking of asking Frédéric to add Edwards & White as co-counsel on the eShop suit. Do you think he’d go for it?”

“Sounds reasonable. Do you have a persuasive argument?”

“Besides the expertise and knowledge they’d bring, I think it would be efficient: lawyers keeping other lawyers in check.”

“Not bad, counsellor. You may need to tweak your sales
pitch a bit, but you’re off to a good start. I’m sure you’ll find a way to bring Antoine into the fold. Do you at least know where he is?”

“Yes,” I say, finishing my coffee. “He’s staying with his friend Jacques in Neuilly. He needs time to think, he said.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. Taking time out from a relationship is never a good sign.

“Is that so? Well, if you’re in the mood for a distraction, don’t forget that Mr. D’Avignon is willing and able to help out in that department,” he says with mischief in his voice. “Have you at least replied to his invitation?”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.” I place the empty cup and saucer on the counter.

“It’s impolite to ignore such a generous offer. Tsk tsk.”

“I’ll just tell him my agenda is fully booked for the next fifty years.”

“Oh, puh-lease. Don’t do anything you might regret later. Go! Do it for
moi
.”

“Thank you, your highness, prince of etiquette. Your tips are much appreciated.”

“My pleasure. And just for the record, I’m not a prince, I’m a queen.”

When I hang up, my phone indicates that I’ve missed a call from a number with a blocked ID. I shake my head—probably my stalker again. As I stare at the crumpled subpoena at my feet, it occurs to me that Jeffrey could be paying someone to scare me off. I wouldn’t put it past his crooked mind. I run
to the door and turn the deadbolt, then draw the living room curtains. If it’s Jeffrey, I’ll know soon enough. He doesn’t scare me anymore. Not really.

I open a box of Pierre Hermé
macarons
and reach for a salted caramel treat. Overindulging in exquisite
macarons
is the French woman’s equivalent of drowning your sorrows in a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. The creamy ganache creates such an overwhelming sensation of
bien être
that you forget all your troubles after one bite. Today, I’m liable to finish the box.

I pull out a comfy cashmere blanket and turn on the television to watch the season finale of
Gossip Girl
. Watching Serena and Blair gallivant about in their fabulous frocks helps me forget my troubles for a little while, and I take comfort in the fact that there’s usually a happy ending on these shows.

I just hope there’s one in store for me.