J'adore Paris (12 page)

I want to stand on my chair and scream that Edwards & White has the best intellectual property team in the city, the most aggressive group of litigators, and by far the most talented,
hard-working, and savvy lawyer that could ever handle this matter, but I hesitate, and Frédéric speaks up first.

“Let’s go with Pineau Larochelle, the firm we normally retain for these matters,” he says offhandedly. “Le Furet used them for intellectual property litigation for years, and we have a good relationship.”

Sandrine is staring out the window, and I wonder what she’s thinking. She turns to Frédéric, taking one last bizarre drag from her cigarette. “
D’accord
, it’s settled. Pineau it is.” With that, she’s out of the room like a flash, Coralie running behind her, carrying the glass Sandrine used as an ashtray.

I’m frustrated and look down at my shoes. Clearly, Pierre Le Furet’s influence is still felt in our department. It’s official: Antoine won’t get to work on this case. My heart sinks at the thought of telling him.

Frédéric notices the look on my face. “Don’t worry, Catherine. She’s just under tremendous pressure. She’s been in meetings with senior management all day long these last few weeks.” He pauses, then continues, “Sandrine thinks very highly of you.” He stops in the boardroom doorway. “Oh, before I forget, I’ll send you the catalogue for the security vests. It’s not nearly as glamorous as our resort collection, but it’s your life we’re dealing with here, not a day at the beach.” He winks.

A bulletproof vest might just be what I need to face Antoine later.

“H
ow about grabbing an Obama burger at Coffee Parisien after work?” Antoine asks.

This is one of our favourite eating spots, located on rue Princesse, in the heart of Saint-Germain. It has just the right mix of Americana, comfort food, and people-watching. You can even brush up on your American history by reviewing the list of U.S. presidents on your placemat. It reminds me a bit of P.J. Clark’s, a fun American pub near my former apartment on New York’s Upper East Side.

Coffee Parisien’s burgers are so popular that a rivalry has sprung up with Richard’s, another trendy restaurant on boulevard Saint-Germain. Coffee Parisien’s owner complained in a recent newspaper interview that Richard’s outright copied their restaurant concept and menu. Clearly, no business is immune to the perils of plagiarism.

The French were once ashamed to be seen eating burgers,
thinking they represented the worst of fast food: no taste, no sophistication. Now, following the lead of certain Michelin chefs, Coffee Parisien has joined the movement to make the burger more noble. It’s just another part of the cross-Atlantic love-hate relationship between
les américains
and
les français
.

“That would be lovely,” I answer quietly, knowing that our mealtime conversation won’t be all that pleasant.

Antoine doesn’t notice my tone. “I can be there for seven thirty.
À plus tard, ma chérie
. Can’t wait to see you.”

I wish Rikash was here to help me prepare for the difficult conversation. I decide to go for a walk along the Seine to clear my head. The right words tend to come to me when I’m strolling along the water. Before I can grab my coat and bag, my phone rings. The caller ID reads “anonymous,” and I perk up, thinking it might be Rikash calling from China. But when I answer, I hear only a long pause, accompanied by some heavy breathing.

“Rikash? Is that you?”

The caller remains silent. Just as I’m about to hang up, a deep, raspy male voice comes on the line. “Lady, lots of people are upset about what you’ve been doing lately. You need to start minding your own business.”

I freeze in my office chair, petrified. There’s no one around, and I’m on the receiving end of a threatening phone call. I inhale deeply, collect my thoughts, and try to regain my composure.

“Who is this? What do you want?” I muster my most controlled tone of voice, despite my racing pulse.

“You better leave us alone, or else.”

Click, then a dial tone.

“Mmm. Delicious. Now this is what I call a real burger.” Antoine takes another bite. “I wonder if Barack Obama is aware that a burger is named after him?” He cutely wipes ketchup off his chin, then takes a sip of his Diet Coke.

It’s nice to be eating out with Antoine, but the anonymous caller keeps creeping back into my mind, and I feel beads of sweat forming on my brow. Plus, I need to give Antoine the bad news about the eShop case. While we’re eating, though, I try to keep the mood light.

“You’re supposed to have that burger with a root beer.” I point to my half-empty glass. “That’s the complete American burger experience.”

“No thanks. You know I think it’s disgusting: it smells like my grandmother’s bathroom.” He’s not alone in feeling this way. Lots of people in France think root beer has the aroma of Canard WC, a popular brand of toilet-bowl cleaner.

“Speaking of the American experience, do you miss living in New York, Catou?” He reaches for my hand across the table.

Looking out the window and up at Paris’s grey skies, it hits me that I do miss the sunny New York weather, as well as its upbeat, go-getter attitude. “I miss seeing the sun every day.” I nod toward the window. “And I never thought I’d say it, but I miss the non-stop adrenaline rush.”

“I know what you mean. I miss it too sometimes.” He tries to cheer me up. “How about we go see some live music next weekend?”

“I’d love that. It would get my mind off work.”

“I hear there are some great bands playing at Le Pompon.”

Located in a former synagogue in the lively 10th arrondissement, in the east end of Paris, the quirky little venue is usually full of trendy local types.

“That sounds perfect. I just need to check my agenda and talk to my mother. We’re planning another shopping expedition for Lisa’s wedding, so she might be in town.”

His smile fades. “Catherine, I know you’re trying to help out your mother and Lisa, but … shouldn’t our relationship be a priority? With all your travel and shopping, we hardly ever go out on weekends.”

It’s true that I’ve been swamped. Work has been intense, and I’ve been out at the shops on my mother’s behalf in my free time. I can’t deny that it’s fun and interesting, though; the variety and activity feel as essential to my well-being as breathing. But I decide to avoid rocking the boat. He’s going to be upset enough when he hears about the eShop case.

“You’re right.” I squeeze his fingers tenderly. “Pick a night and I’ll be there.”

He smiles. “I missed you while you were away in Shanghai. We haven’t talked much about your trip. Was it worth it?”

“Absolutely. The runway show was divine, the opening at the museum was spectacular, and the visit to the markets was … well, umm … educational.”

“How so?” He hands his empty plate to the waitress. I had decided not to tell him about the photographs in the markets because I didn’t want him to worry unnecessarily. But after the call today, perhaps my safety really is a concern. And since we have a policy of being honest with each other, it’s probably best to share the details with him.

“I learned that Rikash and I are feared throughout Asia,” I say jokingly. I want him to know, but I don’t want to scare him.

“What do you mean?” He furrows his brow.

“We’ve been identified as threats to some Chinese counterfeiting operations.” I try to downplay the matter, rolling my eyes to make it seem like nothing more than a nuisance. “It’s no big deal, really.”

He crosses his legs and looks out the window. “I don’t like this, Catherine. You were in a country where you don’t speak the language. What if you had been kidnapped?” He’s imagining the worst.

“I was with a local investigator!” I protest.

“So? Both of you could have been taken away. These are dangerous people you’re dealing with here.” His voice is getting louder.

I look down at my unfinished Caesar salad. I have other things to tell him, but I don’t know where to start.

He reads my mind. “What? Is there something else I should know about?” He nervously runs his fingers through his hair.

I take a deep breath. “I received an anonymous call today,” I say without looking up.

“Oh?” I can tell he’s taken aback. “What about?”

“I’m not sure. It was a man’s voice, telling me to mind my own business. Clearly, someone’s not happy about my work.”

“A threatening call?
Merde
, Catherine! This is getting out of control! Have you told anyone at the office about this?”

“No, not yet. It happened right before I left.” I meet his eyes.

“Chinese counterfeiting operations, threatening phone calls … what’s next? Your body floating in the Canal Saint-Martin?” he asks, gesturing toward the river.

“I know what I’m doing, Antoine. I realize there are some risks, but I much prefer doing this to drafting prospectuses.” I’m trying to appear in control of the situation.

“I know that corporate work isn’t as exciting as going on raids, but Catherine, really. You need to tell your bosses about these threats immediately.” He points to my phone on the table between us.

“Frédéric knows the risks,” I counter. “He’s asked me to wear a bulletproof vest from now on.” I cringe in anticipation of his reaction.

“What?” Antoine howls, throwing his paper napkin on the table. “He thinks you might get shot?
Putain!
”

The people around us are staring now. Even the chef has stopped flipping burgers behind the grill to listen.

“Antoine, calm down. It’s a remote possibility. We’re just being overcautious,” I whisper, clenching my teeth and beseeching him to lower his voice.

He crosses his arms. “Look, Catherine, I love you, and I think you’re doing something very honourable here, but this
whole business is run by crooks who wouldn’t think twice about getting rid of you. You’re dealing with people who have criminal backgrounds. I just don’t think it’s worth risking your life. There are other interesting jobs in fashion.”

I know I’m involved in a dangerous game, but I don’t want to give it up. I think long and hard before replying, not wanting to add oil to the fire. I fall back on my heritage: for centuries, French women have been getting what they want by subtly combining their intellectual, psychological, and sensual resources.

“I understand, Antoine. I know you’re looking out for me,
mon amour
.” I take his hand and slip my fingers gently into his. “But I’m being protected by senior management. That’s why they want me to wear a vest. They just want to err on the side of caution.” I lean in to kiss his tender lips. “Let’s go. I’m in the mood for dessert.” I grin mischievously. He stares back at me, then picks up my trench coat from the empty chair next to him. “Okay, you win. You always win.” He kisses me on the side of the head as we stand to leave. “But I’m keeping a close eye on you, Mademoiselle Lambert.”

The waitress nods goodbye as the chef shoots a loud “Be careful, kids!” in our direction.

Outside the restaurant, while we wait for the light to change so we can cross the street, I notice something unusual: in a car parked across the street, two people are in the back seat, wearing dark sunglasses. At night. Strange.

Once we’ve crossed, I casually look back and see that one of the two has gotten out of the car and is walking behind us.
Oh
mon dieu
, am I being followed, on top of everything else? I get goosebumps. Is it the man who called me earlier? After a few long minutes, I look around again to see if the mystery man is still there, but he appears to have entered one of the cafés along the boulevard. I exhale with relief.

We reach our apartment at last, and it only then hits me that we haven’t discussed the eShop lawsuit. I decide to drop it for now; talking about my anonymous caller and bulletproof vests was painful enough.

No sooner have I hung up my coat than Antoine embraces me from behind and begins to kiss me while we stumble toward the couch. He lifts my hair and kisses the back of my neck. As his fingers make their way to the small of my back to remove my Dior trousers, all thoughts about lawsuits and stalkers melt away.

“B
onjour,
ma chérie
. I’m here in the city.” My mother’s cheery voice blasts through my office speakerphone. “Are you done work for the day? How about joining me for a few hours of shopping for Lisa’s wedding? After all, you know your friend’s taste better than I do.”

Despite my heavy workload, a somewhat frazzled state of mind, and Antoine’s protests about my packed schedule, I want to say yes. Our last shopping trip was fun, and accompanying my mother on one of her whirlwind excursions would be a welcome break, and inspiring, too.

“Where are you?”

“In the home decor department at Le Printemps.”

“I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

Thirty-five minutes later, I enter the famed department store on boulevard Haussmann in the 9th arrondissement. It’s known for its breathtaking display windows and the legendary
stained-glass cupola above its brasserie. Apparently, in 1939, to minimize the risk that it would be destroyed in bombing attacks, the cupola was dismantled and stored at Clichy, then later restored and registered as a historic monument. I’m in awe of its beauty and magnificence every time I set eyes on it.

I wend my way through the store’s luxury offerings until I arrive at the home decor department. I’m blown away by the unique flower arrangements, eye-popping colours, and designer accessories.

I see my mother across the room. She’s holding up a pair of vases, pensively peering through them as if looking into a crystal ball.

“Gazing into your future?” I ask, reaching her side.

“Non, non.”
She shakes her head. “I want to see which one reflects the light in a more natural way. It’s very important, you know.”

I have to smile. My mother’s as much of a perfectionist as I can be when it comes to work.

She puts down the vases and moves in for a hug. “I’m so happy you could make it,
ma chérie
. I need feedback on my ideas for the wedding.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing,” I say, casually scanning the room for suspicious-looking characters from behind my oversized Dior cat-eye sunglasses, which somehow make me feel safe. “Besides, I needed the fresh air.”

“I was thinking of a pastel theme for Lisa’s wedding, with pink as the primary colour. It’s fresh and feminine, just like your friend.”

“That sounds perfect. I’m sure Lisa will be thrilled.”

“Okay, so this is what I have in mind.” She rolls out her grand plan. “Bouquets of pastel balloons suspended over each table.” She lifts her arms over her head and stands on her toes. “Matching candles on candelabras at the centre of each table.” She walks around, pointing out pink and blue candles. “We could hand out sparklers to light when the bride and groom arrive in the tent, and I was thinking mint green cashmere blankets to keep the guests warm. You know how chilly it gets in Provence after the sun goes down.”

I’m amazed at her enthusiasm. I hope to have half her energy when I reach her age. “That sounds perfect,
maman
. Lisa will be over the moon.”

She places her middle finger on the tip of her nose. “I’m not sure about the centrepieces. What do you think? Roses?”

“What about bouquets of lavender? They smell heavenly and would add a different colour accent.” There are countless lavender bushes on my mother’s property.

As I think about how beautiful it will be, another idea bubbles to the surface. “We could give out locally made French milled soaps as party favours.”

My mother’s eyes light up. “What a fantastic idea, Catou! Why didn’t I think of that?” She flashes a grin.

Dior’s newest home collection includes embroidered placemats and napkins with touches of violet and pink. They’d look divine against the white linen tablecloths my mother has chosen. Given that a prominent magazine photographer will be documenting the event, perhaps Dior will lend samples for free publicity. I decide to ask our marketing director.

Working on the wedding with my mother is a stimulating combination of business and creativity. I just hope Antoine will give me the breathing room to do it right.

Once we’ve scanned Le Printemps’ entire home decor department, we leave the store feeling giddy.

“That was efficient! What a team we make!” my mother exclaims, balancing four packed shopping bags.

“You can’t imagine how happy Lisa will be. Your home will look breathtaking in these pretty colours.”

“That’s what my business is about,
ma chérie
. Making homes look beautiful and welcoming.”

“How does Christophe handle your busy schedule? Does he mind?” Maybe comparing notes will help me figure this out.

“Mind? Why would he mind? He loves that I’m successful and busy—he knows I wouldn’t be happy otherwise.” She studies my face, and I immediately regret asking the question. “Why do you ask?” she says suspiciously. She stops in the middle of the sidewalk in one of the city’s busiest neighbourhoods and puts her bags down. A few pedestrians nearly trip over them. “I’m speaking from experience,
ma chérie
,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “Never let a man tell you how to spend your time or stand in the way of your aspirations.”

“Don’t worry. Everything is fine,” I reassure her. “It’s just that my schedule has been unpredictable lately, and it’s taking Antoine some time to adjust. Things will get back to normal soon.”

I leave out a few things—that I have moments when I question my relationship and even my move to Paris, and that my life now includes threatening calls and having unflattering pictures of me posted halfway across the globe. When it comes to my mother, some things are better left unsaid.