“No. I’ll just wait here.” I stand next to his cubicle with my hands on my hips.
“What’s the matter with you? If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a tad frantic today.”
I sigh. “My mother and her boyfriend are flying into town today.”
“Ah, now that explains it. The parents, huh? Where is Jeffrey going to sleep? Between maman and her petit ami?”
“Très drôle. Just keep typing, will you?”
About ten minutes later, my phone rings.
“Bonjour, Catherine, we’re here. We’re in a cab and on our way.”
My neck stiffens and my palms get sweaty.
“I’m still at the office.”
“That’s no problem. We’ll just meet you there. We know where it is. I have that business card you sent me. See you shortly.” She hangs up before I can object.
“Rikash, my mother is on her way.”
“What? Oooh, I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Never mind. Just finish the damn document.”
The next thing I know, my mother is sauntering down the hall. She throws her arms open wide a good six feet before she gets to me, then hugs me in front of the entire support staff.
“So this is where you slave away all these long hours,” she declares, winking at Rikash. “God, your office is fantastic. I love the views. And so spacious!”
“Thanks.”
I decide not to mention that this is only a temporary space and that I’ll soon be relegated to a windowless cubbyhole. Or that my office is about twice the size of my apartment.
“Mom, Christophe, this is Rikash, my invaluable assistant.”
“We’ve spoken a few times. Bonjour, Maman!” He walks toward my mother and gives her a hug. As he does, Christophe takes a quick step back to avoid his turn.
“I love what you’re wearing,” Rikash adds, staring at my mom. “God, you and Catherine could be sisters.”
She giggles like a child. I remind myself for the thousandth time how good he is.
“Catherine, where are we having dinner?” my mother addresses the office. “I’m dying to try a restaurant I was reading about in Vogue.”
I cut her off—this could go on for hours. “We’re invited to someone’s home for dinner.”
“Really, whose?”
I stare at her with big eyes while shaking my head, hoping some sort of mystical mother-daughter bond gives her the message that she shouldn’t say his name.
“Is it Jeff—”
I cut her off again. Bad manners, but desperate times…
“Mom, why don’t you and Christophe drop your bags at my place and freshen up? I’ll meet you there in an hour. I still have a bit of work to do before I can leave tonight.” I pass her my keys.
“Make sure you leave shortly. It’s Friday night,” she says, as if that meant anything in this crazy place.
“Dah-ling, she’s so sweet,” Rikash comments after my mother has mercifully left the building.
“Don’t be fooled. She can be a tad sour.”
“Oh come on, don’t be too hard on her, she’s your mother.”
“Which means she can stress me out like nobody else. Let’s just finish the memo so I can go home.”
“Are you having dinner at Jeffrey’s tonight?”
I nod, putting my index finger to my lips.
“God, what a catch.”
“Jeffrey, your soufflé is absolutely parfait,” my mother gushes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lambert. It’s a family recipe.”
“And ordering the bread from the Poilâne bakery just for me, mon dieu, I feel so honoured! Catherine, do you still cook on the weekends?”
“It hasn’t exactly been at the top of my list—maybe soon.”
In Paris—back when I had spare time—I used to go shopping on weekends at the neighbourhood marché and pull together mini-feasts. Hearing my mom bring it up gives me a pang for those simpler and less stressful days—total French clichés of slow food, good company, and great wine. I occasionally daydream of that being my life again—cooking like Julia Child, my bosom pressed against the bowl while I mix delicious cakes. My mother quickly snaps me out of my reverie.
“But you have no kitchen; that’s a strange way to live, ma chérie.”
A buzzing sound interrupts our conversation.
“Catherine, it’s your BlackBerry,” Jeffrey points out.
“Excuse me, I’ll go turn that thing off.”
As I make my way down the hallway toward the bedroom, my phone rings again. I bet I know who it is.
“Catherine? It’s Bonnie. I need you on a conference call in ten minutes.”
“I’m in the middle of a dinner party. Can’t we do this later?”
“No. The Met Bank is the target of a hostile takeover and I need you on the call.”
I sit in Jeffrey’s bedroom, stunned. It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night and I’m about to participate in a conference call. What’s wrong with this picture? If my mother finds out, she’ll kill me. I casually make my way to the kitchen and signal to Jeffrey to follow me back down the hall into the bedroom.
“I need to hop on a conference call in ten minutes. Can you cover for me? I don’t want my mother to find out. She’ll rip my head off.”
“No problem. Leave it with me.”
I finish my soufflé and then before the main course is served, I sneak off to dial into the conference call.
“Who just joined?” a voice asks as soon as I click in.
“Catherine Lambert from Edwards and White,” I answer in a hushed voice.
After about ten minutes of listening to senior management’s dissertation on the proposed takeover, I tiptoe back to the dining room to take a few bites of my main course.
“Are you okay, Catherine?” Christophe asks as I take my seat.
“Of course.”
Jeffrey bombards my mother with a million questions to keep her distracted. Five minutes later, I stand up again and make my way back to the bedroom. This time, my mother gives me one of her dirty looks.
“We believe that tendering our shares in this bid would be good for stockholders.”
I want to scream, “Why don’t all of you get a fucking life?” into the phone, but I bite my tongue given that I’m supposed to be an ambassador of the firm and presumably ambassadors don’t yell obscenities in the middle of conference calls.
“Sorry, who’s on the line from Edwards and White?” a voice asks. “We’ll need some help with the due diligence process.”
“We would be delighted to take on that mandate.” I recognize Bonnie’s best brown-nosing voice. “This is Bonnie Clark and I also have Catherine Lambert on the line. She worked on a recent regulatory inquiry with your legal department, so she’ll be helping out. She’s extremely knowledgeable about your industry and your company.”
A compliment from Bonnie, now that’s a first; I feel all warm and fuzzy inside—and a little alarmed. She must really want this piece of business. I then realize what she just said, the part about me helping out. Don’t I have enough on my plate at the moment?
“Great news, we’re thrilled to have you on board, Catherine.”
“I agree that Catherine is quite knowledgeable about your company.”
I freeze as I hear Antoine’s voice. I take a quick look at my watch. It’s about two in the morning in Paris. Why is he involved in this deal?
“Catherine has most of the documentation in New York, but I’ll coordinate some of the documentation review from Paris,” he continues. “You still have the Met Bank files in your office, don’t you, Catherine?”
As I’m about to answer the question, I feel my mother’s Gallic glare eviscerating me from the bedroom doorway.
“What on earth are you doing, bordel de merde?” she barks loudly. I’m mortified at the thought of the entire deal team hearing my mother’s voice—this expression needs no translation. I wave her back to the dining room.
“Yes, um, I
believe they’re still in my office.”
My mother doesn’t move. She remains planted in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“Franchement!” she shouts.
“I hear some noise in the background,” someone on the conference call comments. “It sounds like someone’s watching a foreign film or something. Can whoever it is turn it down? It’s a bit annoying.”
I turn around to stare at the wall and, after a few long minutes during which I can feel her eyes boring holes in my spine, she finally leaves the room.
“As I was saying…”
The conference call ends and my phone rings again.
“Yes?”
“Catherine, it’s Bonnie. Can you conference in Antoine, I’m at Le Bernardin and can’t do it from here. This is important.”
“I’m in the middle of dinner and I don’t have his home number in Paris. Can we do this tomorrow?”
“No. Just call the local directory assistance.”
After spending twenty minutes with the international operator trying to find Antoine’s home number in France, I finally have my two esteemed colleagues together on the line.
“Antoine, just for the record, the takeover target is my client, not yours. It was your lead but you left it behind when you left New York. End. Of. Story,” she says before hanging up, leaving us both speechless. Huh. I guess Met Bank was Antoine’s idea.
“Whatever,” he says before the line goes dead.
Hmm…now that conversation was worth ruining my dinner as well as my relationship with my mother, wasn’t it?
I slink back into the dining room and both my mother and Christophe ignore me. Jeffrey stares at me with raised eyebrows. Okay, I’m in big trouble now. Following a long awkward silence, my mother decides to go on a tirade.
“Catherine, you’re so impolite. It’s unbelievable! I did not raise you like this. Jeffrey cooks a wonderful meal and we come all the way to New York to visit and you hide in the bedroom talking on the phone. What’s wrong with you?”
“Maman, it was an urgent phone call from the office. I had to take it.”
As soon as I finish my sentence, Jeffrey’s cell phone rings and he leaves the room to take the call.
“Not again!” she gasps. “Are all of your dinners interrupted this way?”
The truth is that we don’t really have dinners like this. We usually eat takeout food from plastic containers while sitting in our offices, but I keep that to myself.
“It’s Friday night, Catherine. Can’t you just ignore it, non?”
“No, I can’t.”
Jeffrey comes back to the dining room and takes a seat at the table.
“Mom, we’re both very busy right now. This is how people live in New York.”
“Unfortunately, Catherine is right about that.” Jeffrey tries to come to my rescue.
“Jeffrey, I’m sure that you mean well, but please stay out of this. My daughter is working way too hard and I don’t like it one bit. She’s heading toward a medical condition, just like her father. Look where he is now: six feet under!” she exclaims and dramatically points to the ground with her tanned, jewelled hand, momentarily blinding us with her Panthère de Cartier diamond ring as her finger catches the chandelier’s shimmer.
“Can we change the subject?” I try to redirect the conversation. Both Jeffrey and Christophe look like deer caught in the headlights.
“I think you should change jobs. This is not a life for you,” she declares matter-of-factly. “Your cousin Françoise just loves her new job at Chanel. She works hard, but she’s home by six o’clock to take care of her children. Now that’s an appropriate schedule.”
Here we go again with the old “your perfect cousin found a dream job” spiel. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m jealous of her new Chanel gig. I again try to change the subject, but my mother just trammels right over me.
“Françoise apparently visited a famous psychic in Paris and she told her that she should leave her stressful job because she would find something amazing. A few weeks later, she accepted an offer from Chanel. I think you should try it.”
“Try what? Seeing a psychic? I don’t believe in that nonsense.”
“Everything she predicted happened. All of it.”
“Come on, Maman, please.”
“Catherine, I think you should go. I noticed they have them all over the city. You never know, ma chérie, she may divulge something about your career that you wished you had known.”
I’m not sure I want to know any more than I already do: I fought the law and guess who won.
“I noticed an advertisement in the taxi today for a Madame Simona. Why don’t you call her?” She hands me a piece of paper with a scribbled phone number.
I’m suddenly reminded of a joke I heard on the radio about the Psychic Network: If they’re psychics, why do they need a phone? But looking at my mother’s face, this is clearly no laughing matter. I can’t read minds but I understand that this is non-negotiable.
Chapter 30
“Madame Simona?” “This is she.”
“Hello, my name is Catherine. I heard about you through a close friend. She says you have great psychic powers and that I should definitely meet you.”
Great, I just lied to a psychic.
“Yes, my child. When would you like to come?”
“When are you available?”
“Can you come tomorrow at seven?”
“How about seven thirty? It will be very difficult to leave the office before seven o’clock.”
“That will be fine. Ah, and bring along a picture of your husband or boyfriend if you wish to discuss such matters.”
“I’m not sure I have a picture of him.”
“Okay then just bring something that belongs to him, anything, his socks. See you tomorrow, my child.”
I arrive Monday evening at Simona’s Lower East Side walkup at seven thirty sharp. Feeling both excited and apprehensive, I press her buzzer and wait a few minutes before she answers me.
“Hello?”
“Madame Simona, it’s Catherine.” Should I really need to tell her?
“Ah yes, come up, my child.”
I walk up four flights of stairs in the excruciating heat and stand in front of her apartment for a brief moment before knocking. Banging noises emanate from the other side of the door. I knock and wait patiently until she unlocks the bolt.
“So sorry to keep you waiting. Pleeeze come in.”
Simona is in her late fifties. She’s wearing a long skirt and wool sweater in the middle of the New York summer, bulky wooden jewellery and large glasses that exaggerate her already wide-set eyes. She has a pale complexion, thick bangs, and frizzy grey hair and looks like a cross between Sonia Rykiel and Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire. She stares at me inquisitively for a few seconds before she directs me to follow her. We only take a few steps in her long hallway before she signals for me to take a seat in one of the two chairs set up around a metal folding table. A lamp hanging above our heads is covered with a purple piece of cloth, presumably to give her hallway an air of mystery. The usual occult paraphernalia is carefully displayed on the small table: a crystal ball, multiple stacks of tarot cards, and unidentified vials of powder and crystals.
As soon as she sits down, she reaches for my arm.
“Give me your hand.”
Taken aback, I decide to forego any resistance and hand her my palm.
“Ah yes, I see that you enjoy shopping.”
I nod. Not exactly shockingly insightful; most women in the city are into the sport.
“You work in an office, don’t you? You’re a business woman. I see work, lots and lots of work.”
Okay, I’m not too impressed so far. If my two-piece Dior suit wasn’t enough to give this away, I think I told her that on the phone.
“Yes, that’s for sure.”
“I see difficult people, lots of paper and computers. And I see books, lots of books.”
Startled,
she opens her eyes. “Oh my god, are you a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, I forgot to have you sign my release form!” she exclaims. “I don’t want any trouble.”
She jumps from her chair, walks to the back of her apartment, and returns with a crumpled piece of paper. “Okay, sign here,” she orders.
I take a look at her coffee-stained document; it’s one of those standard disclaimer forms that can be found on the Internet. As soon as I release her from any and all liability, she grabs my hand again.
“I see people making fun of you behind your back, my child, nasty women.”
Hmm, now this is a little more interesting. “Yes, I already know about them.”
We’re suddenly interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. Visibly vexed, she opens her eyes and looks as though she’s about to put me under some horrible spell.
“I’m sorry. Can you please excuse me for one second? It’s my office calling.”
She crosses her arms and shakes her head.
“Catherine Lambert.”
“You’re not in your office. Where are you?”
“Hi, Bonnie, I’m at a meeting at the printers’ downtown,” I lie.
“I’d like you to drop by Cravath’s to pick up some documents on your way uptown.”
“Of course, no problem.”
“When will you be back at the office?”
“In about an hour.”
“Can you also stop by Nobu for some takeout sushi?”
“I won’t have the time to go to Nobu and go to Cravath’s. I’m on the East side.”
Annoyed, I turn off the phone.
“I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. That was one of the nasty women,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but she’s not amused. Simona grabs my hand again and closes her eyes.
“I see lots of fighting, slammed doors, and gossiping at your office.”
Okay, now she’s starting to impress me. The rumours of partners leaving the firm as well as the backstabbing have reached new levels lately.
“Yes, you see correctly. There are lots of dirty office politics going on at work.”
“It looks like you might get caught in the middle of it. Be careful, my child.”
J'adore New York: A Novel of Haute Couture and the Corner Office Page 20
