“I think you should get the matching eye shadow and lipstick,” Rikash comments after the salesclerk hands me a box of pleasure-simulating face powder. “The ad in your magazine does say, why only have one when you can have four orgasms?”
I had picked up a copy of French Vogue on our way to brunch in the West Village this morning, and we had gushed over the new trends and giggled at the provocative ads.
“Good idea. I’ve never actually faked one, but now I’m going all the way. You’re a bad influence, Rikash.”
“I know, and I love it!” He wrinkles his nose.
Afterward, he takes me to see a friend’s art exhibit at a gallery on West Broadway, where we discuss contemporary art before we stop in at the Moss store to pick up a stunning pair of Plexiglas lamps for my new apartment. We then head to Balthazar to grab some coffee and French pastries.
“I still can’t believe you’re moving to the Upper East Side. It’s way more fun downtown. You could shop here every day.”
“I’m staying clear of all possible distractions and temptations. I’m here to work.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Don’t forget to smell the camellias, my friend. That firm will suck your soul dry if you let it. I’ve seen so many enthusiastic young associates come in all eager and what-not, and leave a few years later running on empty.”
I look away for a moment, trying to dismiss the doom and gloom of his statement.
“And don’t think it actually gets better once you’ve made partner. It’s like a giant–apple pie eating contest where all you win is more crust.”
“I could handle a pain au chocolat eating contest.” I point to our bag of goodies jokingly.
“Ah yes!” he sighs, his mouth covered with confectionary sugar from his almond croissant. “Me too.”
“Don’t worry about me, Rikash, I’m pretty tough. I’m not going to let myself get beaten down by the workload, not now.”
“It’s not the workload I’m referring to but the slave-driving cads running the show. They can drive you mad.”
“I’ve managed to maintain my sanity so far.”
“That’s what you think!”
“Ha! Very droll!”
“Let the galley slaves row together!” he shouts into the streets while mimicking a rowing gesture. “Row! Row! For fourteen, sixteen hours a day until you keel over and they throw your overexerted body to the sharks!”
“Shhh. Not so loud!”
“Are you embarrassed by my behaviour? You better get used to it, sweetie, ’cause you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Mon dieu, I’m not sure I can handle it.”
“Oh puh-leaze, don’t be such a bore.”
“I should probably get home soon. I need my beauty sleep. There’s only so much Mr. Nars can do to boost my skin tone.”
“Let’s get you a cab then, dah-ling. You definitely need to get some rest before you start your second week in la-la land.”
Chapter 7
“I need this yesterday,” Antoine announces while marching toward my desk.
It always makes me a little crazy when someone says they need something “yesterday” or “two weeks ago.” Why not go completely retro and say you need it back in 1895? (Refer back to character trait #2 of a type-A personality.)
“What is it?” I feel my shoulders stiffening. Whatever it is, I need to make up for last week’s major faux pas.
“Have you heard of the plain-English disclosure rules?”
“Of course. They’re the rules the SEC adopted several years ago to make financial disclosure more understandable to investors.”
His face softens. Contrary to Bindergate last week, I’m not a total idiot.
“I need you to convert some of the language from an old prospectus into plain English so that it complies.”
“Will do.”
“Do you have a second to talk?”
“Of course.”
He shuts the door before walking closer to my desk, and I feel momentarily intoxicated by his cologne. It catches me off guard. Could I be attracted to a man who treated me like a piece of papier mâché just a few days ago? No, it’s probably just that my hormones and pheromones are a bit out of whack from the stress—I’m reacting to any testosterone that comes within a five-foot radius of my body.
He looks out my window before taking a seat in one of the chairs.
“You really lucked out. The view is amazing.”
“Not for long. Everyone around here is making a point of reminding me that it’s only temporary.”
“They’re just jealous.” He runs a finger along one of the petals of the pink lilies I picked up to soften the masculine surroundings. “Catherine, I’m sorry I was abrupt with you the other day. I’m under a lot of pressure.” His eyes remain focused on the flowers.
Surprised by his apology, my body relaxes.
“It’s okay, I understand. Besides, you were right. I should have reviewed those documents more carefully.”
“I agree, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
“Apology accepted.”
He pauses, then shoots me a shy grin.
“I heard Bonnie made you draft a memo on dry cleaners.”
“How did you find out?”
“Rikash sent it to the entire support staff, and my secretary sent me a copy. Bonnie can be a bit demanding.”
A bit demanding? How about a lot of a dictator? I keep that one to myself.
“What do you think she’s trying to prove with that nonsense?”
“That she’s the boss. She’s worked really hard to get where she is, and I suppose she wants to share the pain.”
“She’s doing a fine job of it.”
“She was like that with me at first. But she eventually warms up,” he says unconvincingly.
“I bet she warms up to me like a polar bear does to a sea lion.”
He chuckles as he loosens his tie. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile.
“Catherine, I’d like to continue working with you on the Dior matter even after I’ve moved to Paris.”
“Of course,” I respond, trying to keep a straight face.
“It will be a good way for me to stay up to date with what’s going on in the New York office. I feel like I’m going to get disconnected from base camp.”
Sensing that he’s about to open up, I wait for him to continue.
“I’m worried that moving to Paris will mean taking a step back in my career.”
“Not necessarily, there’s lot of great work in that office, and the partners are exceptionally smart.”
“How was it for you? Did you have a good rapport with them?”
“I’d say yes. I had occasional run-ins with some of my colleagues, but they’re a talented bunch, and I completely respect them.”
He continues to stare at the floor as a moment of not-uncomfortable silence passes between us. The look on his face makes me wonder if his move was his decision.
“And I’m sure you could come back to New York if you wanted to.”
“Not once I’m out of the loop. I just hope this won’t ruin my chances of making partner. I’m up for it this year.”
“I’m sure it won’t. It seems like you’re one of the best they’ve got.”
He smiles tenderly before standing.
“Thanks, Catherine, I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. My pleasure.”
“I really mean it, thank you.” He turns around to look my way before crossing to the doorway. “Oh, and I meant to tell you that I really like what you’re wearing today. That dress looks brilliant on you.”
Surprised by his compliment, it takes a moment before it actually registers. I want to reply that he doesn’t look too shabby in his impeccably tailored pinstripe suit either.
“Thanks.”
He walks out into the hallway, both hands in his trouser pockets, looking sad, and my heart drops at the thought of no longer seeing him on a
daily basis.
Now that Antoine and I have connected on a personal level, it’s time to knock his socks off legally. I turn to my new plain-English project, which is actually much more interesting than it sounds. I’m all for getting rid of as much legal gobbledygook as possible, and I love the challenge of rewording legalese into plain English. I begin with a disclaimer located on the inside of the cover page:
NO PERSON HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED TO GIVE ANY INFORMATION OR MAKE ANY REPRESENTATION OTHER THAN THOSE CONTAINED OR INCORPORATED BY REFERENCE IN THIS PROSPECTUS, AND, IF GIVEN OR MADE, SUCH INFORMATION MUST NOT BE RELIED UPON AS HAVING BEEN AUTHORIZED.
Hmm, this is what I’d like to write:
Don’t read anything other than this document. If you do, you obviously have way too much time on your hands.
But my professional self jots this down instead:
PLEASE RELY EXCLUSIVELY ON THE CONTENTS OF THIS PROSPECTUS. NO OTHER DOCUMENT HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED BY THE COMPANY.
I then turn to the “Use of Proceeds” section, which highlights what the company will do with the money it raises in the proposed offering.
WE INTEND TO USE THE NET PROCEEDS FROM THIS OFFERING FOR GENERAL CORPORATE PURPOSES, INCLUDING DEVELOPING OUR INFRASTRUCTURE, PRODUCTS, AND SERVICES, ALL OF WHICH WE HAVE YET TO IDENTIFY.
My own plain-English version:
We do not yet offer any products or services of any value nor have we decided what to do with your hard-earned money. Basically, if you invest in our company, you’re the living pro of that there’s a sucker born every minute.
Legally correct plain-English version:
WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF IDENTIFYING AND DETERMINING WITH CERTAINTY THE INTENDED USE OF THE MONEY RAISED THROUGH THIS OFFERING.
I move on to the “Risk Factors,” a list advising prospective buyers about the potential risks associated with purchasing this company’s stock. This one catches my attention:
WE MAY NOT EFFECTIVELY MANAGE OUR LONG-TERM OBJECTIVES; OUR MANAGEMENT TEAM HAS BEEN HERETOFORE INEXPERIENCED IN THE MANAGEMENT OF A LARGE PUBLICLY TRADED COMPANY.
My plain-English version:
We have absolutely no freaking clue what we’re doing. Do you?
Correct plain-English translation:
MANAGEMENT MAY REQUIRE ASSISTANCE IN MANAGING THE CORPORATION.
I make my way cautiously but quickly through the entire fifty page prospectus. Satisfied with my work, I hit send and then move on to my favourite file: the battle against counterfeit goods.
As requested by Antoine, I go through the memo prepared by Dior’s intellectual property director, M. Le Furet, which outlines the adverse impact counterfeiting has had on its U.S. business and then start drafting a detailed summary of the PRO-IP Act. Finally, I go to Harper’s Bazaar fakesareneverinfashion.com website and am reading helpful tips for how to spot a fake bag when Rikash buzzes through on the intercom.
“Sorry to interrupt the shopping, but I have Mel on the line.”
“I’m not shopping. I’m actually doing research. Put him through.”
“Good morning. How’s my sweetie doing?”
“Great, thanks.” I mentally prepare for his advances.
“I have an urgent question about our Paris office.”
“Yes?”
“We’re in the process of hiring a managing director over there and need some assistance with his registration application with the European securities regulator.”
“No problem. I’ve completed hundreds of those forms.”
“Perfect, I knew my favourite little lawyer would take care of this.”
I bite my tongue after he uses the adjective little. Could he be more condescending?
“I’m emailing you a questionnaire right now. Can you ask the director to complete it and send it to me for review?”
He pauses, something I realize I’ve never heard him do. “What kind of questions do they ask?”
“The usual questions about integrity; whether they’ve committed fraud or have been convicted of any financial crime.”
There’s a long second silence.
“Well…our candidate has been reprimanded for something pretty minor: money laundering. We were hoping you could ask the securities regulator to overlook it, madame. You smell what I’m cookin’?”
Seriously? Is this guy for real? I stare out the window for a brief moment and regain my composure. If I asked this question to any of the regulatory staff at the securities commission, they would laugh me off the phone. How can someone like Mel be managing hundreds of millions of dollars of people’s money?
“No, Mel. There’s absolutely nothing I can do.”
“Oh come on, counselaaar, we’re not going to let something minor like that get in the way of hiring a good candidate, are we?”
“Mel, we’re talking about a serious financial crime here. The regulator will never go for it. The answer is no.” I repeat firmly, hoping to resolve the matter definitively.
After I stick to my guns, Mel agrees to find a new candidate and I go back to defending Dior’s interests.
Chapter 8
“Iknow what you’re doing, dah-ling, and it’s not bill-able.”
Busted. I know that it seems contrary to the straight-line lawyer side of me, but I love to occasionally check my horoscope. Despite the naysayers, some astrological forecasts are startlingly accurate. A close friend in Paris gave me one for my birthday and it had predicted every disappointing relationship and misstep in my career, including the time I fell flat on my face during a client presentation as I attempted to explain complex banking regulations in four-inch heels. Friends sigh with disbelief when I tell them that their lost luggage or misplaced car keys are caused by Mercury retrograde or that their Chinese sign incompatibility is the real reason why they never hear back from a date, but deep down I know astrology holds most of the answers.
“I’m just taking a few seconds to read my horoscope. What’s the big deal?”
“God, you sound like my mother. She had my astrological chart prepared when I was born but probably fainted when she read that her eldest son was going to be gay.”
“Did you keep a copy?”
“No, I smoked it.”
“Come on, Rikash, stop making fun. I actually believe in this.”
“Okay, what’s my sign?”
“You’re a Taurus monkey.”
“That makes sense. It’s monkey business all the way.”
“And monkeys are spunky and charming.”
“Well, thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Surprisingly, I haven’t received any yet today so that will do just fine. What about you, what’s your sign?”
“A Virgo dog. You know, the dedicated perfectionist type.”
“Yes, but remember that dogs are insecure and usually have their noses up someone else’s rear end.”
“Thanks for the reminder. I wonder what Bonnie’s sign is. Probably a dragon or a snake.”
“No, I’d say she’s a rabbit.” He gives me a dirty wink.
After a final sip of my espresso, I gather the courage to ask Scott to be my lease guarantor.
As I make my way toward his office, I overhear him speaking with Antoine.
“How’s Catherine doing?”
“Not bad, so far,” Antoine replies. “Not sure her billing is up to par, though.”
Not bad so far? Her billing not up to par? Merde! Is this what I get for spending every waking minute of last week in my office tied to my desk eating day-old sandwiches, writing dry cleaning memos for Bonnie the Vampire Slayer, putting up with ridiculous come-ons from gross-me-out clients, and still billing no less than fifty hours in my first week in New York?
I try to calm down, but anger bubbles in my brain. How can Antoine stab me in the back after being so friendly? I guess it’s every lawyer for herself in this crazy jungle. I tiptoe closer to Scott’s office and am about to aggressively chime in to defend my honour when I hear Antoine’s voice softening.
“A
nyway, Mel seems to really like her and she did a fantastic job on some plain-English disclosure I gave her. And the fact that she speaks French will help us with the Dior file. I’ll hand her a few more files today to see how she handles the pressure.”
As Antoine stands to leave, he sees me standing in the doorway and looks startled.
“Good morning.”
“Oh, is it?” I ask before entering Scott’s office.
He gives me a bewildered look before walking away.
“Hey, Catherine, have a seat. How’s everything so far? I hear Mel enjoyed meeting you last week.”
“He seems…interesting.”
Scott laughs. “That’s a good way to put it. I may have an even more interesting project coming up for you. We’re involved in a beauty contest and vying for the financing of a large technology company. If we get it, it’ll be a great deal to sink your teeth into.”
“Sounds amazing,” I hear a voice that sounds like mine blurt out. God, can I handle another matter on my to-do list? How will I manage to stay on top of the Dior counterfeiting project? I might need to quit sleeping.
“Antoine was just telling me how lucky we are to have you. He thinks you were a great transfer.”
“Really? I thought—”
He cuts me off.
“Antoine is as hard on others as he is on himself. He’s a perfectionist at heart.”
“I’ve noticed. Nothing wrong with that.” Relieved that I didn’t barge in on their conversation, I finally relax into his leather wing chair.
“So how’s the apartment hunt? Any luck?”
“Well, I was actually, um, going to ask you about the process. I hear that landlords sometimes ask for a guarantee.”
“Just call Mimi, we’ll have someone in accounting take care of it. We do it all the time.”
J'adore New York: A Novel of Haute Couture and the Corner Office Page 6
