J'adore New York: A Novel of Haute Couture and the Corner Office

by Isabelle Laflèche

  My horoscope must have been right when it said today was a good day to ask my boss for a favour. Now I can send the guarantee back to Elad and start making his life miserable.

  “If you don’t have any plans after work, I have two tickets for a party the American Bar Association is hosting at the Gramercy Hotel. You should go. It will be a great way to meet new people in the city.”

  This is a little unexpected, given the conversation he was having just minutes ago about my billable hours not being up to par. But if the boss is asking, pourquoi pas?

  “Rikash, how about joining me for an ABA party at the Rose Bar?”

  “You mean socialize with lawyers after my shift here is over? No thanks, I’d rather cut my right arm off.”

  “Come on, Rikash, please.”

  “Nope, sorry, dah-ling, I already have plans. I’m going to see some hot men dance on tables. It’s way more fun. Don’t you have any other friends in the city?”

  I decide it’s time to call Lisa. She was my closest friend the year I spent at Pepperdine, and she and I had kept in touch through sporadic birthday and Christmas emails, but I haven’t seen her in years. Like me, she ended up working for a large white-shoe law firm, one of those London-based international firms that form part of the Magic Circle.

  “Hello, ma chérie, guess who? Long time no speak, non?”

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Cathereeen! How are you?”

  “Great! You’ll never guess where I moved to?”

  “Let me guess. Some exotic French island like Martinique?”

  “Bien sûr que non, I’m not even close to semi-retirement. No, I’m here in New York!”

  “Aaahhh! That is so fabulous! When did you move? And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “It happened so quickly. The firm posted an announcement a few months ago saying they needed a few associates in New York and next thing I knew I was looking for an apartment on the Upper East Side.”

  “You moved to the Upper East Side?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my god, we’re neighbours. Let’s go out to celebrate!”

  The more things change…

  Back in university, Lisa was the ultimate party girl. Not only was she a social butterfly who knew everybody on campus, but she was also the treasurer of the student body, a position that not only helped her prepare for a career in international bank financing but, more importantly, provided her with an invite to every party.

  “My thoughts exactly. How about meeting up at the Rose Bar after work? There’s an ABA party tonight.”

  “I’ll be there at seven. Can’t wait!”

  Chapter 9

  I’m excited about my first big night out in the city that never sleeps. Sitting in the back seat of a cab flying down Park Avenue, I feel like a native New Yorker going out on the town. I catch a glimpse of the Chrysler Building’s jewel-like crown and a shiver goes down my spine. Who knows what awaits me tonight? The suspense makes the cab ride feel even more exhilarating.

  I arrive at the Rose Bar, an art-filled space in the Gramercy Park Hotel, and quickly pick out Lisa in the crowd. Always dressed in her trademark ultra-feminine attire, she is wearing a black sheath dress with a hot pink cardigan, a triple-strand pearl necklace, lace stockings, and the highest heels. Her hair is tied back in an elegant ponytail. She is chatting up the young bartender, who looks totally mesmerized by her big green eyes and outgoing personality. I’m so excited about our reunion that I cut through the crowd using my (ahem, new) J. Crew red satin clutch.

  “Bonjour, ma chérie.”

  She jumps into my arms and gives me a triple air kiss.

  “Catherine, I’m so happy you’re here!”

  “So am I, I’m really excited!”

  “You look great as usual.” She studies my outfit. “I see the French flair hasn’t disappeared with your move to the States. Wait. Is that a J. Crew bag? Don’t tell me you’ve gone American on me!”

  “As a matter of fact, I have!”

  “Welcome to America! The land of online shopping!” She hands me a glass of champagne. “Here, I ordered your old favourite: pink Taittinger. Let’s toast to your move to Manhattan!”

  She turns to the bartender.

  “Jamie, why don’t you pour yourself a glass to toast my friend Catherine—she just moved here from Paris!”

  The bartender willingly obliges and the three of us lift our glasses in perfect bubbly unison.

  “Here’s to being single, drinking double, and sleeping triple!” she toasts.

  “I see that you haven’t changed at all. And I mean that in a good way.”

  She giggles.

  “This is a great party, despite all the lawyers!”

  I scan the room: champagne is flowing by the caseload; a young woman wearing a tiny silver bikini who looks straight out of a Skyy Vodka ad is standing on top of the bar and pouring iced vodka into the martini glasses of drooling attorneys. Another woman wearing a tight strapless gown is standing behind a table serving oysters, smoked salmon, and caviar.

  “I can’t believe you finally moved here, Cat!”

  “I can’t believe it either. Even though I’ve already billed close to a hundred hours, signed a lease with Robespierre, and visited half the dry cleaners in Manhattan, it hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Why all the dry cleaners? Did you lose something?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” I try to change the subject to something more uplifting. “You’ll never guess who my new client is: Christian Dior! I’m so excited, Lisa, this has definitely confirmed my decision to move here.”

  “Oh my god, that’s amazing, Catherine. I always thought you should work in fashion. What will you do for them?”

  “I can’t say, but I’ll let you in on it as soon as I can.”

  She gives me a knowing smile; she understands that we are ethically bound not to divulge any client secrets.

  “Enough about my work. How are things in the Magic Circle?”

  “You mean the Magic Kingdom?”

  I laugh. “I’m glad to hear the firm hasn’t billed you out of your sense of humour.”

  “You can say that again. But don’t worry, I’ll show you a good time in this city.”

  “I’m sure you will. Remember all our crazy girls nights when we would go out in stretch limos and drink wine coolers until we fell over on the dance floor? We didn’t look like future legal gatekeepers.”

  “We were very classy back then, weren’t we? Believe it or not, I still do it! I have a group of fun girlfriends that I go out with. It’s good to let off steam once in a while.”

  “I haven’t done that in a long time. I’ve been so busy planning my move here. I could use a girls night out.”

  “You absolutely need to join us on Thursday night then, no excuses allowed.” She points a manicured finger at me.

  “Yes, madame.”

  After we joke around a bit, she becomes serious. “I have an important meeting tomorrow with my boss.”

  “What about?”

  “My future at the firm.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think I might be up for partnership.”

  My stomach drops. Thanks to her heavy partying agenda, I had better grades than Lisa in law school and had scored much higher in the moot court competition. Today, she’s made a giant leap forward in the great race for the legal Holy Grail. Still, I’m thrilled for her.

  “When do you think it’s going to happen?”

  “I’ll find out tomorrow. It’s the big talk.”

  “Wow. I feel like it’ll probably be another ten years before I get the big talk.”

  “Stop it, Cat. Be a little patient. You’re the sharpest lawyer I know.”

  “You need to repeat that to my warlord.”

  “To who?”

  “Never mind. Let’s not talk shop anymore.”

  After we order another glass of champagne, Lisa zeroes in on her favou
rite topic: men.

  “So I guess you’re still single if you moved to New York, hunh?”

  “Oui, ma chérie.”

  “That won’t last long. French women do very well here. You’re viewed as exotic, so that accent will do wonders for you.”

  “Oh? Like birds?”

  “Exactly. Like exotic birds with fast metabolisms!”

  “I didn’t move here to find a man, Lisa. I moved here for my career.”

  “How bo-ring.”

  “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I ask the question, even though I know that Lisa can’t stay single longer than a bee at the height of mating season.

  “Mmm-hmm. His name is Charles. He’s a senior associate at the firm.”

  “Things are going well?”

  She looks away for a moment before responding.

  “I feel like I’m always the one making the effort. I’m getting a bit tired of it.”

  I stare back into her green eyes for a few seconds and realize how grateful I am that we’ve slipped right back into our old friendship.

  “Why do you keep making the effort? Aren’t relationships supposed to be give and take?”

  “I know, but he cares about me. I guess he just has his own funny way of showing it.”

  This sounds so familiar. I hold back from rehashing the same advice I used to give her years ago. She always had a big appetite for toxic relationships and had dated every bad boy, narcissist, and egotistical scumbag on campus. She had blamed her father, an eccentric, philandering oil magnate, for her complicated relationships with men. I blamed peach schnapps.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks ago? That seems like a long time when you work in the same office.”

  “He’s been so busy with work. He was out entertaining clients all last week. And my work schedule has been insane…you know how it is.”

  “And what did you guys do on your last date?”

  She develops a sudden fascination with the stem of her martini glass, avoiding my gaze.

  I’ve heard this sad story before: Lisa stays by the phone waiting for her man to call after he’s finished drinking his tenth beer with the boys at some bar. And when he does make the call, she jumps in a cab, and, like a Chinese food delivery, arrives at his place within minutes. A pattern that inevitably causes men to lose interest faster than you can say, do you want an extra egg roll?

  “Well?”

  “Well, we didn’t really do anything. I just went over to see him.”

  It always amazes me that highly intelligent and educated women like Lisa (and me, I must admit) get involved in complicated, roller-coaster romances with dubious, uncaring, afraid-of-commitment types. Maybe the overuse of our left-hemisphere brain cells kills most of the cells on the right side? Or maybe we’re just desperate for some fun at the end of a long day.

  “He called me after having dinner with clients downtown and I met him for a drink at his place.”

  “Lisa, that’s not a date.”

  “Stop being so hard on me. We’re supposed to be catching up, not arguing.”

  “I don’t like to see you getting used by some jerk.”

  She gives me an offended look. “Wow. Don’t hold back, Catherine. Charles is not a jerk.”

  Seeing tears well up in her eyes, I apologize and swiftly change the subject to something lighter: shopping.

  “Can you get me into any of those great sample sales my assistant has been telling me about?”

  She instantly brightens.

  “Absolutely. My friends and I get invited to all the great sales. I can get you in anywhere you want—I’m assuming Dior is still top of the list?”

  “Bien sûr!”

  “Vous êtes Française?” A young man wearing a suit picks up on my accent and elbows into our space. Lisa raises her eyebrows at me and turns to chat with Jamie.

  “My name is Patrick, I’m from Lyon.” His strong tobacco breath nearly knocks me out.

  “Enchantée. What do you do here in Manhattan?” I ask.

  “I’m in finance. I work for Swiss Bank.”

  “What are you doing at an ABA party?”

  “Great place to pick up lawyer chicks. What about you?”

  “I work for Edwards and White,” I reply hesitatingly, trying to avoid a cheesy pickup line.

  “Hey, I know a guy named Antoine who works in your office.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. “How do you know him?”

  “He’s dating a friend of mine. She hardly sees him though, he’s always working.”

  Very interesting. Between the crazy hours he keeps at the office and his pro bono work on the weekends, when does Antoine find the time to date?

  I go for a final run at the bar after I air-kiss Patrick goodbye.

  “Let’s split,” Lisa suddenly announces, holding her jacket. “I know a great Moroccan restaurant not too far from here that has live music on Mondays. You’ll love it, it’s very French.”

  We arrive at L’Orange Bleue on Broome Street and not a moment too soon: I’m completely drunk. The room is a whirlwind of colour and a belly dancer is doing her thing to the thumping drums of musicians from North Africa.

  “Lisa, is the restaurant named after the Paul Éluard poem?”

  “Huh?”

  “Was L’Orange Bleue named after the poem by Paul Éluard?” I scream at the top of my lungs.

  “Who’s Paul? Did I date him in law school?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Here, drink this.” She hands me a martini glass containing an unknown toxic substance. I take a few sips and attempt to circumvent the belly dancer when a dark-haired man grabs my arm and drags me onto the small dance floor. Lisa claps her hands with excitement.

  “Go, Cat! Go!”

  After a few rounds of hip gyrations, I find myself perched atop a chair doing my own version of la danse du ventre. After the crowd urges me on for a solid ten minutes, I suddenly trip over and wind up on the restaurant’s very hard floor.

  “Oh my god, what happened?”

  “Lisa, I need some food. Fast.” She sees from the look on my face that I’m dead serious and rushes to the dining room to order something to eat.

  In the meantime, I run to the ladies room and collapse demurely in one of the stalls.

  A knock on the door and Lisa’s voice wakes me from my dizzy spell.

  “Catherine, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I open the door and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look like a cross between Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse. I don’t recall throwing up, but the large wet stain on the front of my jacket confirms that I regurgitated the mystery drink on my suit only seconds ago. Embarrassed, I grab a tissue to clean up the mess. Suddenly remembering that I have meetings and conference calls in the morning, I realize I need to get home now.

  I wake up to a pounding headache caused by a mélange of African drums, champagne, and martinis. I witness last night’s ugly reality: my agnès b. pantsuit is strewn across my living-room carpet, my grandmother’s pearl necklace is dangling from my bedside reading lamp, and one of my stilettos is balancing precariously on top of my bookshelf. The other one is nowhere to be found.

  I show up at the office around ten thirty completely hungover. As soon as I set foot in the reception area, Mimi whispers, “Hi, doll. Listen, Antoine has been looking for you. I think he’s a bit upset.”

  Noticing that I’ve just arrived, Rikash rushes into my office and shuts the door.

  “Dah-ling, you’re in major trouble. Antoine has been looking for you for the last hour.” He comes near me, then takes a quick step back after smelling the alcohol on my breath.

  “Oooh. You were a bad girl last night!”

  “How d’you guess?”

  “The smudged mascara is always a dead giveaway.”

  “I’m not feeling too good. I don�
��t know how I’ll get through the day.”

  “Don’t worry. I do this all the time. I actually come to work straight from the clubs and nobody can tell because of my little trick: a Gatorade and a dosa. I’ll run downstairs and fetch it for you; it works miracles. In the meantime, take deep breaths and stay put.”

  “Thanks, Rikash. You’re a lifesaver.”

  As he opens the door, I see Antoine waiting outside, pacing with his hands on his hips. He looks like a thundercloud.

  Bordel.

  “Catherine, I was counting on you to be on the conference call this morning for the PLC file. Now that I sat through it myself, I’m totally behind and I have six deadlines today.”

  I feel horrible, and not just physically. I can feel my cheeks redden as a sense of shame comes over me.

  “So how was the ABA party? Any good?” Scott asks as he stops by.

  “Um, it was fantastic, thanks.” Zut, Antoine’s going to be mad.

  As I expected, Antoine’s face turns purple. I suspect that while I was downing bubbly at record speed and belly dancing to North African beats, he was at the office working till the wee hours. I’m done for.

  When all else fails, resort to sex.

  “Antoine, I met someone who knows your girlfriend last night.”

  “Really?” He responds, looking embarrassed to admit having a personal life in front of Scott.

  “Yes. A banker named Patrick.”

  “Patrick? I don’t know any Patrick.”

  “Well, he knows you.”

  “Oh, Patrick. Yes, yes, I do remember him,” he adds after Scott has moved out of earshot. “Listen, I don’t have a girlfriend, okay? She’s just a friend.” The purple in his face has now turned to a bit of a blush. “Can you call Mel back on the PLC file? I’d really appreciate it. Thanks.”

  After I’m done with Mel, I call Lisa to get the details on what happened last night.

  “Quite a night, wasn’t it? You were smashed.”

  “I know. How did I get home?”

  “I put you in a cab and paid the driver a little extra to make sure you got there safely.”

  “I don’t even remember. How did your meeting with your boss go?”

  “Great! He confirmed that I’m up for partnership in the next year.”