Authors: Isabelle Lafleche
“W
e’re going to be late!” Trying to hail a taxi in four-inch heels at the height of Paris’s morning rush hour is not easy. After meeting at Le Meurice again for a quick espresso, we’re heading off to our first day at Dior’s headquarters on avenue Montaigne in the 8th arrondissement.
“Don’t worry, sweetness. Punctuality is the virtue of the bored. Besides, we won’t be late; this is Paris, remember. Sandrine is probably stuck in traffic, in a public transit strike or in some sort of demonstration.”
“I hate being late. We should’ve ordered a taxi in advance for this morning.” I’m anxious.
“Believe me, I tried, but apparently you can’t reserve a taxi between 8 and 10 a.m. in Paris. It’s some new rule they enacted to add to the inefficiency of the transportation system.”
“We could rent some Vélib’ bikes.” I point to the public bike service that has drop-off stations at the city’s most popular
intersections. “Antoine uses one almost every day to get to work.”
He looks at me like I’ve just suggested we crawl to our destination. “You must be joking. I’m trying to make it to my first day on the job, not six feet under. Besides, I’m not in the mood to wrinkle my suit. It’s Dior Homme, and it’s new!”
“Okay, okay.” In New York, you can roll out of bed and into a cab, but here, taxis are more difficult to come by at this time of day.
As I do my best to flag one down, a car drives by us with its windows open. The driver is screaming at the top of his lungs while hitting the gas:
“Bordel de merde, que faites-vous dans le milieu de la rue? Tassez-vous bande de naz!”
Massively cleaned-up translation: “Get out of the way, you idiots!”
A sustained honk follows.
Rikash runs into the middle of the street, waving his Hermès attaché case over his head and shouting, “Fuck off, you freak!” He finishes up by giving the driver the supreme insulting gesture,
le bras d’honneur
, meaning “up yours” or something a lot less elegant.
This is where the Old World meets the New, the two cultures colliding with grand fanfare thanks to the internationally shared stress of getting to work on time.
“What a jerk,” he says, gliding his delicate hands over his pleated trousers to remove any creases.
We finally manage to get a ride. On our way to avenue Montaigne, I feel a frisson of excitement. High-profile intellectual
property work, a famous couture house, and hobnobbing with the biggest names in fashion: the idea makes me giddy. This is the first morning in a long while that I’m actually looking forward to going to the office.
My daydreams are interrupted by Rikash tapping me on the shoulder. “This is absolute madness!” His nose is pressed against the window. He is mesmerized by our progress around the Arc de Triomphe at rush hour. The French follow the rule that cars must give way to traffic coming onto the roundabout, but since there are twelve entrances, the only way it actually works is by constant hoots of the horn.
“A total recipe for disaster.” Rikash shakes his head. “You need to have four pairs of eyes to navigate out of this place.” He puts one hand on the door handle and one around the passenger’s headrest, as if holding on for dear life.
The next moment, his gaze zeroes in on a handsome young man in a tailored suit swooshing by us at top speed on a scooter. His tie is flapping in the wind, and his dirty blond curls are sneaking out from under his helmet. He successfully avoids colliding with three cars by engaging in a dangerous slalom manoeuvre, then disappears into the morning traffic.
“Wow, who was that helmeted man? He was hot.”
“And a bit suicidal.” I take a quick peek at my watch to make sure we’re still on time.
“This means something. It must be a metaphor for how French society operates.” He peers out the window as if looking for the right words to describe what he’s just seen. “It’s complete disarray in Jean Paul Gaultier.”
“
B
onjour, madame. Bonjour, monsieur
. Welcome to Dior.” A lithe brunette in a slim black skirt, simple turtleneck, and towering heels welcomes us into the foyer. “Madame Cordier will be here in a few minutes. You may take a seat in the salon.”
The offices are decorated with neo–Louis XVI furniture and are dominated by grey, Mr. Dior’s favoured colour when he opened the famous couture house on avenue Montaigne back in 1947. The design is even more stunning than I remembered: both chic and understated, with lots of open space—the apex of luxury. The silk curtains dressing the windows fall to the floor like ball gowns, delicate silver vases holding pink roses have been artfully placed throughout the room, and grey and white settees and oval-backed chairs provide artful seating areas.
The offices are abuzz with pretty young things running
about purposefully. Most of them are wearing tasteful knee-length black dresses and barely a trace of makeup. I see a lot of hair slicked back in neat ponytails or chignons. There isn’t any bling on display. This rarefied space exemplifies class, elegance, and luxury. I peer down at my outfit and sigh with relief: the navy blue Dior suit I picked up at an employee sale in New York and the new Repetto pumps I found last week at Les Galeries Lafayette—replicas of the ones Brigitte Bardot wore in
And God Created Woman
—are perfect.
Rikash nudges me in the shoulder as we walk past a giant framed advertisement for Lady Dior handbags. I can’t help giving him a huge grin. He knows how much this job means to me.
After a few nervous minutes on our part, Sandrine arrives. She makes quite a grand entrance, descending the imposing staircase from the upstairs offices while skimming a jewelled hand along its wrought-iron railing. She’s so elegant in a mauve silk blouse with a large bow tie collar, a charcoal grey A-line skirt, and a pair of charcoal grey booties adorned with straps and buckles. A chunky metal-coloured bracelet from Dior’s most recent jewellery collection—I recognize it from magazines—completes her look. This is such a far cry from the conservative work attire I’ve been used to (at the law firm, wearing an open-toe shoe was the equivalent of showing up for work in your bra), and so much more in line with what I’ve been dreaming about, that I need to hold myself back from jumping into her arms.
“Bonjour, les amis.”
Her voice is like music and she’s the picture of refinement when she stops before a glass case holding
a New Look–inspired two-piece ensemble of pink taffeta.
She greets us with a warm embrace instead of a handshake, and I’m taken aback. In the world of corporate law, keeping your distance is the norm. No one wants to seem too touchy-feely; it’s taken as a sign of weakness.
“Catherine, I’m thrilled you’re finally here. I have so much work for you.” She lifts one of her cuffed hands in the air to indicate the piles of paperwork waiting for me. “And you must be Monsieur Rikash. I’ve heard so many great things about you!” She points a ringed finger at his lapel.
A deep fuchsia rises in his cheeks. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him blush. Amazing.
“Don’t pay any attention to what you’ve heard about me, especially the parts that are true.”
She responds with a large smile. “
D’accord
. Shall we go upstairs?”
We follow her up the staircase and into a brightly lit office, where piles of manila folders are placed on her desk beside an elegant vintage lamp. A vase filled with red roses sits on top of an antique secretary, and photographs of Sandrine with a handsome man are scattered throughout the space. A large painting of an elegant older woman is hung on the wall facing the desk. Sandrine catches me staring at it.
“That’s my grandmother. She was an acquaintance and client of Mr. Dior.”
Rikash is practically drooling in front of the tableau. I imagine him hitting the floor and launching into a sun salutation in veneration of Sandrine’s grandmother.
“Please have a seat.” She crosses her legs and I see a hint of black lace stocking. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’ve been swamped since your predecessor, Mr. Le Furet, left us.”
“He seemed to manage a heavy workload. I could tell by the number of matters he sent to our firm.”
“Yes, he did. But he decided to retire in the south of France,” she adds, staring out the window with a faraway look in her eyes.
“Lucky him. It’s a beautiful region. That’s where I grew up. My mother still lives there.”
“Ah bon?”
She looks distracted. “Yes, it’s lovely, indeed.” She turns back to us alertly. “I was impressed with the memo you prepared for us on American anti-counterfeiting laws in New York. It was well written and thoroughly researched.”
“Thank you.” It’s the first compliment I’ve received in a while about my work, and my heart swells with delight. In New York, receiving a
bon mot
about your efforts was about as common as spotting a polar bear in the Sahara Desert. Rikash reads my mind and winks conspiratorially. “It’ll be interesting to see whether the proposed U.S. legislation meant to protect the copyright of fashion designs will be enacted. France is ahead of the game in that regard.” I’ve done my research.
Historically, unlike in the United States, fashion designs have received copyright protection under French law. Case in point: in 1994 a French court found that the American designer Jack Lawrence had copied the style of an Yves Le Grand dress too closely, and awarded a substantial sum to the French designer. This may change in the U.S., however; similar legislation is being proposed.
Sandrine smiles widely. “Your experience will help you manage the matters we have waiting for you. We’re about to commence a lawsuit against the website eShop concerning the sale of fake merchandise on their site. This issue has become of critical importance to Dior, and we have decided to become more aggressive. Your timing is perfect.”
“How long has counterfeiting been a problem for Dior?” Rikash asks, captivated.
“I’m afraid it’s been an issue for as long as the company has been in existence. There’s a record in the company archives of an incident in 1948 where a woman who had ordered a custom-made Dior ensemble came across another woman wearing the same outfit in a nightclub. There was an investigation by the French police that lasted over six years. The result was the arrest of a group who had bribed company seamstresses for patterns to copy.”
“Has it gotten worse over the years?” I know that counterfeiting has long been a problem for luxury companies, but if huge sums of money are spent fighting it, why hasn’t it tapered off?
“Exponentially. Although we’ve seen a slight drop in our brand’s fakes on the market, counterfeiting has steadily increased in all areas of retail. We certainly can’t ease up on our efforts against it, because as soon as we do, the fakes come flooding back.”
I think about how the market for luxury goods has skyrocketed in recent decades. Today, women of all ages and income levels long to own designer accessories to demonstrate their individuality and, paradoxically, a sense of belonging
and awareness of the latest status symbols. For many women, being caught carrying a no-name bag is inconceivable. But how many of us can afford the bags toted by Hollywood starlets? I wonder whether women who buy fakes would even be interested in the real thing if the copy weren’t available. But I decide to keep that to myself.
“I read in
Le Monde
yesterday that Dior won a ruling against a big Internet browser promoting ads for fake goods,” I say.
Sandrine seems delighted that I’ve kept up to date and gives me a warm smile. “Yes. I’m glad you mentioned it. You’ll be involved in that lawsuit.”
“You can count on us to keep up the fight.” Rikash grins.
“I love your attitude, Rikash,” she says warmly. “I’ll have my assistant, Coralie, take you to your new office so you can settle in. Before you get started on work, though, you must have a tour of the archives and the atelier. It’s important that you immerse yourselves in the Dior culture—and it might be fun, too.”
“That sounds perfect.” I’m weak in the knees at the thought of visiting the Dior atelier and seeing
les petites mains
at work. The “tiny hands” are the expert seamstresses who add the fine embroidery to ball gowns and create the delicate lace that makes a couture cocktail dress a red-carpet classic. I’ve read many articles about these genius craftswomen, who, unlike the star designers, work in anonymity, but I never imagined I would actually meet them.
Coralie, a petite blonde whose locks are swept up in a
soigné chignon
, leads us down the hall to an office with an adjoining
alcove. Two modern glass desks are lined up side by side facing rue François 1er. Delicate framed vintage illustrations by René Gruau line the walls, and a bouquet of red tulips is perched on a bookcase. Grey leather in-trays and Montblanc pens are sitting on both desks.
“Little welcome gifts from our perfume collection.” Coralie points to two Dior gift bags overflowing with light pink tissue paper. “Oh, and please don’t make any plans for lunch. Sandrine is taking you both to Ladurée.” It’s an iconic French tea salon, renowned for its gorgeous baroque decor, exquisite pastries and world-famous
macarons
. Ironically, an outpost had opened on Madison Avenue just as I was leaving New York.
“This is totally dreamy!” Rikash exclaims as soon as Coralie is out of earshot. He grabs my arm and kisses me on the side of the head. “This is so exciting! I feel like Gene Kelly in
An American in Paris
.” He does a little twirl and sprays some of his new Fahrenheit cologne all over our office.
“We’ll have lots of hard work to do, don’t forget.” But I can’t contain my excitement either. “And wait, this is just the beginning.”
I want to pinch myself. For the first time in a long while, reality has become better than my wildest dreams.
“I know, dah-ling. We will totally paint this town
rouge
.”
“B
rain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever,” Rikash chants as we exit the tea room on les Champs-Élysées. “That Saint-Honoré was totally sinful. I bet I put on five pounds in one sitting.”
“Why can’t you just enjoy it? You’re in a different place now, so stop counting calories. Besides, you’ll walk it off.”
As I say this, it hits me that we’re in a nation of contradictions. Despite our passionate love of food, the French are obsessed with maintaining their figures; all you need to do is walk into a local pharmacy to see the evidence. There are aisles of slimming gels, diuretic pills, and water with supposedly “eliminating” virtues. But I have yet to meet anyone capable of resisting a bite of a Saint-Honoré cake made with puff pastry, caramel, and whipped cream or a
religieuse
pastry filled with thick custard and topped with delicate, pretty icing (truly a religious experience).
“That was kind of Sandrine to take us for a lovely lunch,
non?
” I ask.
“Yes, it was. I’m just not used to finishing a meal with a ton of cream puffs. And I haven’t seen many Reebok Sports Clubs around here.”
Rikash’s observation is spot-on. New Yorkers set their alarms for the middle of the night to sneak in a gruelling workout before work, but the French don’t punish their bodies that way. People here just eat more moderately and burn off calories doing pleasurable things like walking to and from the metro, shopping, and love-making.
What’s more shocking to me is spending two hours in a restaurant at midday. I’ve become accustomed to the American way of doing lunch: gobbling up a sandwich in front of my computer. I need to reacquaint myself with the idea of taking my time—no easy task.
Sandrine rushed off to a meeting after lunch, so Rikash and I decided to stroll back to the office.
“The Saint-Honoré cake is a part of French culture. It’s been baked on special occasions for over a century. It’s named for the saint, of course, but also because the shop that first made it was on rue Saint-Honoré.”
“All right, it scores extra points for that—it’s my favourite street in Paris.” He winks. “I thought our lunch was very educational. Can you believe that counterfeit perfumes contain antifreeze and urine?”
“Crazy, right? That information almost killed my appetite.” I grimace.
“It gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘eau de toilette,’ doesn’t it?” he adds as we meander along the majestic Champs. “I guess it’s not half as bad as Lady Gaga’s perfume. I heard a rumour that it smells like blood and semen.” He puts two fingers in his mouth in a gagging gesture.
“It makes our work even more important. This isn’t just about lost profits; we’re dealing with people’s health. Some of this fake stuff is toxic.”
“No kidding. I’d freak if antifreeze were dabbed onto my delicate temple.”
We take in the beautiful store windows lining the boulevard, and Rikash shakes his head. “So I hear that sales only happen twice a year in Paris. Who decided
that
?”
I chuckle. Rikash won’t have quite as many opportunities to hunt down bargains at sample sales here. “The government regulates
Les Soldes
. The sales happen twice a year to encourage tourism during the slower months. But that’s not the worst of it: most shops outside the tourist areas are closed on Sundays. Good luck with
that
.”
“No!” He stops dead in his tracks. “Are you kidding me? What do people do on Sundays?”
“Go to museums, spend time with family.”
“Hmm. That’s an interesting concept.” I can see him trying to wrap his mind around what I’ve just said.
“Actually finding a drugstore open on Sunday when you’re feeling under the weather can be a challenge. You’d better stock up on necessities.”
“No kidding. Thanks for the heads-up.” He looks like I’ve
just informed him that the country is at war. It hits me that I’ll miss the convenience of having a Walgreens on every street corner, open at all hours of the day and night.
We’re about to cross toward avenue Montaigne when Rikash guides me wordlessly into a shopping arcade. I raise my eyebrows inquisitively, and he responds with a tilt of the head. “Follow me. I have something to show you.” He’s sporting a childlike grin that makes me
very
worried.
Past some touristy children’s boutiques and a few shoe shops, we make a sharp left and enter a place I never dreamed existed: Luxe WC, a luxury emporium dedicated exclusively to accessories for the bathroom. Chrome toilet paper holders shaped like tree branches sit next to scented candles and expensive air fresheners. You can even use the shop’s own facilities if you’re willing to pay a steep fee.
“Only Parisians could come up with something like this,” I marvel. “How did you find this place?”
“I accidentally came across it last weekend. You need to see this.” He takes me to the back of the shop, where he pulls aside a silk curtain to reveal
la crème de la crème
in accessories: a replica of Marie Antoinette’s cabinet at Versailles, on sale for 8,000 euros; shower curtains encrusted with Swarovski crystals; and a black padded toilet seat that looks suspiciously like the quilted motif of an authentic Lady Dior handbag. “It looks like we may have found our first anti-counterfeiting mission,” he jokes.
One of the first things we learn during our tour of the company archives is that none of Christian Dior’s collections failed, either critically or commercially, during his lifetime (he died of a heart attack in 1957). Style had been at a standstill internationally during the Second World War, and Paris had lost its title as the world’s fashion capital. When Dior emerged with the New Look in 1947, he re-established the city as a centre of sophistication and possibility.
Completely enthralled, we spend several hours in the archives’ rich historical space, getting lost in time and vintage photographs. There are countless albums showcasing the collections Yves Saint Laurent, Gianfranco Ferré, and Marc Bohan created for the couture house after Dior’s death; a Cecil Beaton portrait of Dior in his mansion at boulevard Jules Sandeau; shoe design sketches by Roger Vivier; black-and-white photographs of the first Dior shows; and splashy pictures of more recent runway events, including those by John Galliano.
Dior had always worked with celebrities and the entertainment world. Marlene Dietrich reportedly told Alfred Hitchcock, before accepting a role in the movie
Stage Fright
, “No Dior, no Dietrich!”
The records note that, in his autobiography, Christian Dior thanked psychics who predicted his success with women. This makes me smile; a psychic I visited during my time in the Big Apple recommended I abandon the practice of law to pursue a more fulfilling career in fashion. A coincidence? I don’t think so.
Before we leave the historical treasure trove, Rikash points
to some recent advertisements for diamond-encrusted cellphones bearing the company’s signature cross-hatching. He whispers that these devices go for a whopping 25,000 euros apiece. I make a face. They’re clearly not made for forgetful types like me, and I find them a little too flashy. I feel these gadgets symbolize wasteful excess, something that contradicts the very idea of refined elegance, but I realize that for some—in fact, for many—inaccessibility is synonymous with luxury.
I leave the room, wondering what ring tone I would choose for the blingy gadget: Marilyn Monroe’s “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” or the Beatles’ “Can’t Buy Me Love”?
We make our way toward the haute couture atelier to meet the real stars:
les petites mains
. The house contains two different ateliers:
le flou
, where flowing dresses and delicate blouses are created, and
le tailleur
, for the more structured, tailored pieces. Each atelier has its
première
, the first seamstress, who is traditionally dressed in black and manages the group, and two
secondes
, who direct a group of about twenty seamstresses and a handful of apprentices. I look on as one of the supremely talented ladies joins two pieces of fabric using
point de chausson
, a method inspired by embroidery. She’s surrounded by candy-coloured Cinderella dresses made with yards of gorgeous silk and princess-like tulle. I’m mesmerized: it’s inspiring to watch a skilled artisan work at her craft with such precision and patience, especially in a world where immediate gratification rules the day. Clearly, these artisans elevate a piece of clothing to a work of art.
“The house of Dior has always celebrated women,” Antoinette, a
seconde
in the
flou
atelier and our tour guide, advises us.
My eyes well up a bit: being here is like living a childhood dream.
Later, as we’re settling into our office, a high-pitched female voice blasts along the hallway. Rikash and I scurry to the door to take a peek. An imposing flame-haired woman is rushing down the hall with a harried-looking young man right behind. He’s wearing a close-fitting grey suit and oversized black-rimmed glasses, and is taking long strides down the hallway in an effort to keep up with her.
“Have we booked all the flights to Shanghai?” she barks.
“
Oui
.”
“Ordered the five thousand pink roses?”
“
Oui
,” he says, nodding repeatedly.
“Signed the contract with the DJ?”
“
Oui
,
madame
.”
“Have the fittings been done with all the models?”
There’s a brief silence.
“
Non
, we’re still waiting for Ruby to show up from New York. Her flight was delayed.”
“We’re behind schedule! Call the atelier immediately and let them know.”
The young man stops and fishes around in his trouser pockets to locate one of several communication devices he appears to be carrying.
“
Allez
, what are you waiting for? Call now!” she commands,
then turns on her heels to descend the grand staircase at breakneck pace.
The assistant’s shoulders droop, and he sighs audibly before placing the call. Seeing the bewildered look on our faces, Coralie rushes over to explain.
“That was Laetitia. She heads the public relations and special events department. Dior is hosting a major show in Shanghai next week, and the entire company is in a frenzy.”
“Who’s the poor chap working for her?” Rikash asks with a look of pity.
“Xavier, her assistant.”
“It looks like Xavier could use a little Xanax,” Rikash says. “She reminds me of someone we used to work with in New York. Bosses can be tough sometimes.” He taps me on the elbow.
I shudder at Rikash’s reference to Bonnie: she’d made my stay in New York a living hell.
“Yes, Laetitia can be a bit demanding.” Coralie smiles conspiratorially but kindly. She then disappears behind her desk, obviously trying to steer clear of office gossip.
“Thank goodness we don’t work for Laetitia. I don’t think I could take another diva, especially now that I’m sharing an office with one,” I joke.
“Ha! Very funny. You know you can’t live without me, so don’t even go there.” He pokes me with his fancy new pen.
“At least Laetitia is barking about fashion shows and roses, not prospectuses and public offerings.”
“And Xavier can bark at me anytime—especially in my boudoir.”
“I didn’t think a French hipster was in your palette.” I think back to a few of Rikash’s New York conquests. I remember a lot of muscled shoulders, rock-hard buttocks, and square jaws.
“Dah-ling, you should know by now that I’m just like any great painter: I like to dab my brush into the full range: acrylics, watercolours, oil paint—”
Sandrine appears in the doorway. “Okay, it’s time to meet the brains behind our department: Frédéric Canet, Dior’s assistant general counsel. He’s my right-hand man and will provide you with all the background information you need.”
She gestures for us to follow, her costume jewellery clinking as she sashays down the hall. We follow her to a large corner office. Inside, papers are strewn everywhere and books litter the floor. Diplomas from the Sorbonne, Oxford, and Yale are framed on the far wall. I’m taken aback: this is completely different from the rest of Dior’s headquarters. This looks more like a lawyer’s office. A tall man who looks like a cross between Jeremy Irons and Vincent Cassel sits at the desk, wearing a conservative suit and glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He’s reading a document the size of the Magna Carta.
As I glance up at the impressive collection of accolades, I’m reminded that prominent French companies tend to hire and promote only those who’ve attended the world’s top schools. Will I move up the corporate ladder with a law degree from l’Université de Provence and a one-year exchange program with Pepperdine? I’m not sure, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.
“
Excusez-moi, Frédéric
, but I’d like to introduce Catherine Lambert and her assistant, Rikash. They’ll be taking over Pierre’s files.” She slides her manicured hands down her hips and winks at us.
“Ah yes, you mentioned that.” He looks up momentarily to stare us up and down before going back to his document. “I hope they’re prepared for battles more fierce than the Napoleonic Wars.”
Rikash looks at me with raised eyebrows. It’s obvious that we’ve caught Frédéric at a bad time. He looks like he would rather be sweeping the streets of Paris than exchanging pleasantries with us.
Sandrine approaches his desk. She gently but pointedly pulls the document out of his hands and puts it in a file folder, signalling that it’s time to play nice with the new kids. “You need to discuss counterfeiting with them. It’s our new priority, remember?”
Frédéric removes his reading glasses, crosses his legs, and gives us an annoyed look. “Okay, where shall we start?”
“From the beginning,
mon cher
,” she answers breezily while walking toward the door.
“The beginning? I thought you said they had lots of experience.” He avoids making eye contact with either of us.
Frédéric’s demeanour brings me back to my days at Edwards & White, where I met a lifetime supply of overbearing types. It’s worrisome, but I tell myself I can handle it. This is no time to let myself be intimidated.