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

by Isabelle Laflèche

  “Good. Let’s talk again later today.”

  “Thanks, Catherine, I knew you were the right person to call.”

  As soon as I hang up with Amy, Bonnie’s voice erupts through the speakerphone.

  “Did Amy call you?”

  “Yes, she just did.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That she should collaborate with the regulators and that she needs to begin prepping to do that right away.”

  “Not that, about her going to jail. I hope you told her that it’s not even a possibility.”

  “I can’t say that; there’s always a remote possibility,” I answer, perturbed that she would suggest I lie to a client.

  “What the fuck are you talking about? The client needs reassurance right now,” she shouts into the phone. “I think they should fight this. Jesus, I shouldn’t have sent her to you. What kind of a lawyer are you?”

  “I’m an honest lawyer. I don’t like lying or giving people false hopes.”

  “It is not lying to a client to say that she’s not going to jail when that’s what the case law says, got it?” Her voice has trailed up to high-pitched soprano vocals. “That’s what you are paid to do, Catherine, to advise clients on the law, not to raise unlikely scenarios and act like the grim reaper.”

  Oh zut! Maybe she’s right. The case law does make it really unlikely. So far in my career, I’ve operated under the principle that, when asked by a client, it’s best to be honest and give the best- and worst-case scenarios. But I’m now questioning whether that is a realistic way to practise law—especially here in New York.

  “Perhaps Amy would be better served by the litigation group?”

  “Out of the question. We’re handling it, Amy’s my client.”

  I’m right in the middle of another battle of the warlords. Fantastique.

  “And you better change that negative attitude or you’ll be drafting dry cleaning memos ten years from now.” She abruptly hangs up the phone.

  “I’d much prefer to be pressing shirts at Madame Paulette’s than having to deal with you,” I mutter into the phone.

  “We’re going to the Waverley Inn for drinks, want to come?” I had actually cringed when my phone rang right after my run-in with Bonnie, but I’m thrilled to hear Lisa’s voice.

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  I know she’s referring to the obnoxious trio but ask her anyway and then accept the invitation. I need a drink.

  “Sounds great. I’ll meet you guys there.”

  “Perfect, we’ll see you at eight. Don’t be late, we don’t want to lose our table, it’s really hard to get a rezy.”

  I arrive at seven forty-five and the bar is completely packed. The tiny room, which has dim lighting and low ceilings, is filled with fashion types, writers sporting the ubiquitous tweed jacket, and professionals in suits alongside the usual party crowd. I take a deep breath and can actually feel my shoulders start to relax back to their normal position.

  Amanda waves from the far end of the bar and gives me one of her best Julia Roberts smiles.

  “Catherine, how aaare you? You want a glass of Veuve?” Oops, there go my shoulders back up.

  “No thanks.”

  In no mood to engage in mindless chatter, I make my way around her to sit next to Lisa, who recognizes my I need to talk expression and orders me a glass of red wine.

  “What’s up? You look awful.”

  “Bonnie.”

  “Again? What happened now?”

  “She told me I was a bad lawyer.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I told a client the truth. She thinks that’s giving bad advice.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “It’s a long story, but a client asked me if it was a possibility that she could be fined or go to jail and, even though it’s extremely unlikely, I told her that yes, it was a remote possibility. Bonnie got really pissed with me.”

  As I recount the heated conversation, I feel even more dejected. I’ve been putting in long hours to earn partners’ respect and what do I get in return? Being told that I don’t know how to practise, in operalike fashion.

  “I don’t understand why everyone just puts up with her abusive behaviour.”

  “Don’t worry about it, she’s a bitch. Why don’t you join us for a long weekend in Ireland to forget about it?” Lisa asks while handing me a glass of Beaujolais.

  Ireland? With these three divas? I’d rather spend the weekend at a camp for troubled teenagers.

  “We’re staying at Philip Treacy’s G hotel, it’s totally fab!” Beverley gushes.

  “But not as great as the newly revamped Hotel du Petit Moulin, the Christian Lacroix hotel in Paris; a real jewel!” Amanda interjects.

  As I sit half-listening to another shallow conversation, my BlackBerry buzzes with an incoming email. Worried about finding a nasty message from Bonnie, my first reaction is to turn it off and get so sloshed that I completely embarrass the three hedonistas. But my professional self gets the better of me and I take a look.

  From: Amy Lee

  To: Catherine Lambert

  CC: Bonnie Clark; Scott Robertson

  Re: Thank You

  Dear Catherine,

  I just wanted to give you an update on our conversation. I followed your advice and contacted the regulators to demonstrate a willingness to cooperate. They were quite receptive to our approach and have confirmed they will keep this in mind should there be any penalties imposed on the firm. Also, I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be going to jail for this—although I don’t think the same can be said for our trader.

  Thank you very much for being forthright with me today and not just telling me what I wanted to hear. I appreciate your honesty. You are a great lawyer, Catherine, and I’m delighted that you’ll be working with us on this matter.

  I’ll call you tomorrow to discuss this further.

  Kind Regards,

  Amy

  I’m on top of the world. The fact that she copied Bonnie and Scott on her note makes me want to burst with happiness. Just as I’m about to start screaming with joy, I receive a text message from Jeffrey that makes my heart flutter and puts me over the moon.

  I miss u. Can’t wait 2 c u. R u free 4 lunch 2moro?

  “Ladies, the next round is on me.”

  Chapter 24

  “You need a break from all that hard work,” Jeffrey says, sitting across from me at Café des Artistes.

  I look around the room to admire the art-covered walls. I feel like I’m in a Woody Allen movie.

  “I know I do, but I’m stuck working on this annoying IPO with a super-demanding client,” I tease.

  “Okay, okay, it’s all my fault.”

  He stares at me hesitatingly before he continues.

  “If I’m the one keeping you in the office, then I should be the one getting you out of it.” He gives me a mischievous look.

  I feel my palms getting sweaty, as I suspect he’s about to propose something that I might not be ready for.

  “I’ve got something to ask you,” he says, staring into his glass of Chardonnay.

  “Sure.”

  “I hope it isn’t too soon to ask, but how about spending the weekend in Bridgehampton? One of my friends owns a house out there and he’s invited me out for the weekend.”

  The weekend? Ooh la la…Am I ready for this? Although my strong physical attraction to Jeffrey is coaxing me to accept on the spot, the professional side of me is riddled with worry. Spending the weekend means that we will inevitably sleep together and this might put me in a hot seat professionally. If I accept, there’ll be no going back.

  He reads the expression on my face. “You don’t have to answer right away.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m just a bit concerned about how this might affect my reputation at the firm. I know this seems like just another job to you, but I’ve been sweating it out at this firm for more than six years. I wa
nt to make partner.”

  “I understand.” His hand softly brushes my cheek. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll make it.” Resolve melting…pull it together, Lambert!

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay, you have until dessert.” He reaches for my hand. “I’m sure you would really enjoy meeting my friends. They can’t wait to meet you.”

  “I’m sure I would—it’s just that I have a lot going on at the office.” I throw a bit of work in there in case I decide against it.

  “I’m the client, remember? Doesn’t the client always come first?”

  “Yes, but you’re not my only client. That’s the problem.”

  “Don’t you know that all problems are opportunities in disguise?” He winks and signals for the waiter to bring the cheque.

  During the days that follow our lunch, Jeffrey sends me emails such as “S’il vous plaît, Catherine! Dites oui!” Like a good lawyer, I sit in my office listing the pros and cons of going away with him for the weekend:

  Pros

  —Salty Atlantic Ocean air is far more appealing than the office building’s ventilation system;

  —Fresh lobster beats cold boardroom food;

  —Bathing in salt water helps to reduce appearance of cellulite;

  —Sharing common interests with Jeffrey will surely make the weekend memorable (My Nina Simone greatest hits CD is already in my bag!);

  —Will spend the night with one very attractive male…(Ouf, Catherine, try to beat that one!)

  Cons

  —BlackBerry reception may be spotty on the beach;

  —Difficulty to maintain confidentiality of getaway;

  —Open to office gossip if spotted out there by a colleague;

  —Might fall behind (slightly) in the Dior file and other matters.

  Somehow by magic, in my opinion, the pros outweigh the cons, so I cave in and accept his invitation. Now I need help with the important stuff. I call Rikash into my office.

  “Jeffrey invited me to go the Hamptons for the weekend.”

  “Lucky you. At least one of us will be getting some.”

  “Stop it! I’m already anxious enough as it is.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll find a way to take away that anxiety.”

  “Enough already! I didn’t call you in here to torture me, I need some wardrobe guidance.”

  “No you don’t. You have more style than anybody I know.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere. I’d really like some insider expertise.”

  “In that case, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “Perfect—I want this to go well—I’m really looking forward to a quiet weekend away from this place.”

  He gives me a puzzled look.

  “Quiet? You really do need some help.”

  “Why?”

  He raises his perfect eyebrows. “The Hamptons has a scene that makes Saint-Tropez look like a sleepy town. You know that, right?”

  I had read about it in a few travel magazines but had no idea as to what awaited me there.

  “Okay, so what do I need to bring?”

  “Anything that shows some skin.”

  “But I’m as pale as Marie Antoinette right now—bare skin won’t be pretty.”

  “Dah-ling, don’t worry about the tan, you can buy that in a bottle. But you definitely need some revealing outfits.” He pauses for a moment. “And some strength training.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You should firm up if you’re going to get naked. Black-Berrying isn’t exactly the most body-enhancing workout.”

  “I only have three days left before I leave.”

  “With enough resistance training, you can change your body in forty-eight hours. Trust me, I do it all the time. You need to see Angel, my personal trainer. He’ll work wonders. Let me call him now to see whether he can take you right away for an emergency consultation.”

  He struts out of my office with the satisfied look he gets from enlightening me about fashion, beauty, or the city. What would I do without him?

  He buzzes me on the intercom.

  “Okay, you’re in for five sharp. He’ll be waiting for you at the Reebok Sports Club.”

  “Rikash, I don’t have any workout clothes with me and I’m swamped. I have a ream of papers to sort through for the Met Bank file. What if Bonnie calls looking for me?”

  “Honey, Bonnie is out getting botoxed and shopping for her Crème de la Mer, so don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got it all covered.”

  Being the jock that I am, I show up at the Reebok Sports Club on the Upper West in four-inch heels, a body-skimming dress, and pearls. I feel as though I’ve just flown in from outer space: the combination of sweat, grunting, muscle flexing, and pheromones flying around makes me dizzy. I take a seat as two men with enormous bulging chest muscles walk by me in the tightest Spandex I’ve ever seen. One of them stares at me lasciviously.

  “New member?”

  “Um, yes kind of.”

  “See ya around then.” He winks.

  What on earth am I doing here? I desperately want to run back to the office and hide under my desk. Maybe I should skip the workout and go for an espresso and a croque monsieur at the club café instead? As I pull out my BlackBerry to check my e-mail, a tall blond man wearing skin-tight black yoga pants and a black V-neck sweater enters the reception area.

  “Catherine?”

  “Angel?”

  “Lovely to meet you, sweetie.” He kisses me twice. “Any friend of Rikash’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Did he tell you, I don’t have any workout clothes?”

  “No problem, sweetness, I have some for you in the women’s locker room. Here’s the key. Meet you back here in five.”

  I quickly change into head-to-toe Lycra and futuristic sneakers and rush back to the waiting area.

  He checks my body out for several minutes. I feel like a prize heifer at the country fair.

  “Okay, I’ve identified the problem areas.”

  Problem areas? Ouch, somehow, I already feel the pain he’s about to inflict on my body. The sauna is looking pretty good to me right now.

  With a look of pity, Angel struts toward me and grabs my arm, nearly asphyxiating me with his Acqua Di Gio cologne.

  “Let’s go, honey, there’s no time to waste. You need a serious workout.”

  We enter a fishbowl of a room with equipment that could be in a James Bond movie. Catherine Deneuve once said that as a woman gets older, she needs to choose between maintaining her face and her fanny. By the looks of what awaits me, I’d rather save my face; facials are a lot less scary.

  “Let’s start with some Pilates.”

  He points to a contraption that looks like something out of a Chinese torture chamber.

  “This is a Reformer. It will strengthen your core muscles and focus on the whole body rather than individual body parts.”

  I nod apprehensively. Looking at this machine, I expect to be leaving the gym in several parts. I climb on and Angel makes me do resistance exercises until my face turns blue. After fifteen minutes, I try to escape by bringing up work.

  “Angel, I need to go to the locker room to check my email. I’m working on an important transaction at the moment and—”

  He shakes his head, not buying it.

  “Not on my time you don’t. Come on, girl, give me twenty more! We need to burn those French food–induced calories.”

  He starts his stopwatch and crosses his arms like a drill sergeant. As soon as I finish torturing myself, he approaches.

  “Before I forget, could I call you about a personal legal matter? My insurance company is giving me a hard time.”

  I’m not even remotely surprised by his request; lawyers are always being asked for free advice. Given that I’m upside down and totally at his mercy, I acquiesce.

  Once we get out of the torture chamber, he makes me jump rope for twenty minutes. I try to alert him to the fact that
I can feel a heart attack coming on, but there isn’t enough air in my lungs to do so.

  “Okay, now the medicine ball exercises.”

  He fetches an enormous red ball and makes me do a squatlike walk while holding the ball over my head.

  “That’s great for your tushy, so keep doing this for at least fifteen minutes.”

  I walk around the room looking like a retarded penguin and feel totally ridiculous. To make matters worse, Mr. Muscles is checking me out through the glass window while sweat is pouring down my face and I can’t stop worrying about all the work that is awaiting me back at the office. After an hour and a half of sweating and inflicting pain on my body, I throw in the towel.

  “Angel, it’s been a real pleasure, but I need to run. Thank you so much for everything. I feel revitalized.”

  “Good luck with the Hamptons.” He pats me on the back. “Rikash told me about your weekend.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll call you next week about my insurance question.”

  “No problem.”

  “See you again soon!”

  That’s as likely to happen as me drinking red wine from a cardboard box.

  Back at the office, Rikash stares at me as I wobble past his cubicle with a traumatized look on my face.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He sees from my pained expression that I’m dead serious. He turns back to his computer and continues typing.

  My entire body feels like Jell-O; I have trouble sitting down and can barely lift my arms to keyboard level, so I try to think about my upcoming weekend with Jeffrey to make myself feel better. I get back to finalizing the memo on U.S. copyright laws for Dior, despite the pain emanating from my inner thighs.

  Chapter 25

  “Let’s go shopping at lunch. We need to get you something that’ll show some cleavage.”

  “Rikash, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any cleavage. And when exactly am I supposed to have time to go shopping? Look at my desk.”