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

by Isabelle Laflèche

  Harry calls a few senior partners to join him on stage to announce that they will hand out fifteen lifetime achievement awards. A projector provides pictures of each recipient as their names are called out. It takes me a few minutes to awaken from my lustful stupor to realize that, of the fifteen people recognized this evening, not one is a woman. I feel a profound sadness swell up inside at the thought of all those extremely dedicated and talented women who have contributed so much of their lives to the firm. These are women who made it to the top of a male-dominated firm, who’ve made innumerable personal sacrifices, who haven’t had the benefit of having a “wife” taking care of them at home, and who are obviously invisible to those handing out the awards. What message is the firm sending to the women filling up half the room? Will this motivate them to put on a smile and a suit every morning and to fight one for the old boys? My body stiffens and my head spins. Will things be any different if I accept a job with Harry Traum? The reality is: probably not.

  “Now, I’d like to take this opportunity to let all of you know that we’ve beat a new record on the number of deals we’ve taken on at the firm: a mind-blowing six billion dollars’ worth of transactions. Congratulations to all of you for this incredible achievement.”

  A collective moan that borders on the orgasmic emanates from the crowd. Bonnie’s face lights up as though this message was directed at her. She throws her head back, removes the shawl from her shoulders à la Dita Von Teese, and glances up at Harry with her naughtiest bedroom eyes.

  “Before I begin with my speech, I just want to thank somebody in the room for altering the direction of my opening remarks.” He presses his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. “I had the pleasure to share my flight to California with a woman from our office who was recently transferred from Paris.”

  Ah, non, c’est pas vrai! I feel more than two thousand eyeballs turn toward me and I want to die.

  “Yes, many of you know Catherine Lambert from her outstanding work in corporate law, but what you don’t know is that she hurled her breakfast all over my speech on our way down here and I was forced to rewrite what I was going to say.”

  Loud laughs come from the other side of the room. I recognize my former French boss’s voice. “Bravo, Catherine, Bravo!” Bonnie and Scott glare at me in disbelief. I want to crawl under the table.

  “I have to say that she was a really good sport about the whole thing and, in my book, she gets extra points for that.” A roar of applause fills the awkward silence and Antoine lifts his glass to me. James presses his hand on my shoulder and smiles broadly. “Well done, Catherine. Well done.”

  “Yes, before that little incident, I was going to talk about the firm’s international rankings and so on,” Harry continues sombrely. “But I decided to say a few words about the virtues of loyalty and unyielding dedication.”

  I take a large gulp of wine to numb my embarrassment. It then occurs to me that Harry’s about to give his last Edwards speech and will probably take this opportunity to vent some of his frustrations publicly. This makes me smile.

  After he discusses the values of loyalty and dedication in one’s career, he starts to walk across the stage like an evangelistic preacher. “When I started out at the firm more than thirty years ago, it was a small litigation boutique with no more than a few dozen people. It was very collegial at the time.” He pauses, smiling nostalgically. “Those were truly the golden days of the firm. We fought like hell in court and we were loyal to our clients and they really loved us for it. Then the firm grew and started opening offices left, right, and centre and we sort of lost that intimate feeling. To my chagrin, people started becoming selfish, worried about the size of their take-home profits…” His voice trails off and this generates an exchange of red-faced glances and a few dry coughs at the senior partners’ table. “And then after a while this selfishness turned into flat-out greed.” He looks like Michael Douglas in a scene from Wall Street. Just when I expect him to launch into Gordon Gekko’s greed speech, he stops in his tracks in front of the managing partners’ table and continues his spiel: “But the greed I’m referring to turned out to be a backstabbing, screw-you-up-the-ass kinda greed.” I turn to Bonnie and Scott, whose faces have now dropped into their chocolate cake; Bonnie has even covered up her cleavage with her shawl.

  “This is why tonight I say to you, Au revoir, farewell, you buffoons! I’m leaving you to start my own firm and I’m taking about fifteen of your esteemed colleagues with me…So good luck with everything!” He exits the room dramatically and a sudden hush comes over the audience. Like in an episode of Survivor, everyone looks at their neighbour wondering who the fifteen “traitors” are. I pretend to play with my evening bag, trying to look innocent.

  After ten minutes of dead silence, Bonnie rushes out of the room and Scott follows her. Antoine comes to sit on our side of the table.

  “Wow, I guess that was unexpected!”

  “Hmm, yeah,” I respond. “But there’s been talk about him leaving for a while, so I guess he just made it official.”

  “You can say that again!” James chimes in. We laugh a bit to break the tension.

  “I can’t believe he called the other managing partners a bunch of buffoons!” Antoine shakes his head.

  “Oh, I’ve heard him call them worse things.”

  “Oh?” James retorts.

  “Um, I was just kidding.” Reluctant to violate Harry’s trust after the whole divorce episode, I keep his monkey reference to myself.

  “So, James, I see that you’re in good company.”

  “I definitely am. There is a bright side to this evening after all.”

  “Catherine isn’t only charming, she’s a damn good lawyer too.” Antoine smiles my way.

  I look up at Antoine, shocked. I never thought he’d compliment my legal skills. This whole evening feels surreal.

  “Can I buy you guys a drink? I think we could use one, don’t you think?” Antoine points toward the bar at the back of the room.

  “I’d say so.” James looks at me to confirm that I’m on board.

  “Yes, it sounds like a great plan.”

  As soon as we get to the bar, Antoine starts talking business with James. “I recognize your name from the international file database. I think you’re representing one of my clients.”

  They exchange client stories over dirty martinis while I mull over the job offer I received earlier from the anti–Gordon Gekko. Frankly, after what I’ve witnessed tonight, my inclination is to apply to become a J. Crew customer service representative. At least I’d get first dibs on their new collections and great discounts. I gently excuse myself to catch up with a few colleagues from Paris.

  As I make my way back to my room around midnight, James is waiting for me in the lobby.

  “How about a nightcap?” He raises an eyebrow.

  I hesitate for a moment and look around the room before answering. Seriously, though, what do I have to lose?

  “Okay.”

  He follows me to my room and we fumble through the mini-bar to find something to drink.

  “White wine?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Sorry about talking shop with Antoine tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about it, that’s his favourite topic of conversation.”

  “We didn’t actually talk about work the whole time. He seemed more interested in discussing British bands. He’s extremely knowledgeable about music.”

  “Really? I guess I tuned out at that point. I was thinking about Harry’s dramatic exit.”

  “That was quite a scene, wasn’t it?”

  “Hmm.” He pours wine into my glass and stares at me with puppy-dog eyes and approaches to kiss me tenderly. He looks as delicious as a box of Ladurée macaroons.

  “You’re very pretty, Catherine.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  He then kisses me on the back of my neck. I immediately tense up because it reminds me of the mess I got myself into with Jef
frey.

  “We probably shouldn’t be doing this.” I push him away.

  “I want you so badly, Catherine. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

  I quickly calculate the odds of either working with or seeing him in the near future. What to do?

  The phone rings and I try to ignore it while James continues to kiss me. It rings again.

  “Hello?”

  “I hope it’s not too late to call?”

  “Nathan, is that you?”

  James stares at me with a look of terror.

  “Yes. I’m in deep shit, Catherine. Real deep.”

  “What happened? Where are you?”

  “In the bar downstairs.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “It’s Nathan. He’s at the hotel bar and sounds terrible. I’m sorry, James, how about getting together tomorrow?”

  “Can’t this wait until the morning?”

  “No, I’m sorry. It can’t.”

  A crestfallen James picks up his tie and heads for the door after kissing me on the cheek.

  “Good night, Catherine.”

  “Good night.”

  I stumble into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and make my way downstairs to meet Nathan at the hotel bar. He’s sitting on a stool looking dishevelled and appears to be in the final stage of sobering up.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “What happened?”

  “I drank too much and embarrassed myself in front of Bonnie. She and Scott both gave me an earful. I’m sure I’ll lose my job over this.”

  “I was there, it wasn’t that bad. Besides I’m sure they have other things to worry about. Harry Traum gave an exit speech that left them with major battle scars.”

  “So I heard. I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “It was like being in a movie. I’m not sure what this will mean for the firm going forward.”

  “It means we all need to run for cover. But right now I might not have anywhere to run to. I just want to keep my job.”

  “Nathan, I think you need to get some help.”

  “I know I shouldn’t be drinking like that, but I got carried away. It’s just that I have so much pressure to deal with. I’m totally exhausted. And you don’t know my wife. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If it’s not a co-op apartment, it’s a house on the beach, and this and that and the other thing. She wants me to provide her with this lifestyle I can’t afford. I’m just doing what I can to make sure I’m on partnership track.”

  “Why don’t you tell her that she’s putting too much pressure on you?”

  “Every time I try to talk to her, she rips my head off. And if she’s like that now, I can only imagine what it’ll be like after the baby is born.” He drops his head into his hands.

  “You need to join a support group when you get back, otherwise you’re just going to dig yourself further into a hole.”

  “If I’m still employed after tonight,” he replies, his forehead still leaning against the bar.

  “I’m sure this will be forgotten in the morning. You have the top billables in the office. Scott won’t want to let you go.”

  “Let’s hope so. Thanks, Catherine, you’re making me feel a lot better. I should let you go to bed, you have team-building exercises to attend in the morning.”

  “So do you. See you first thing tomorrow.”

  “Yes, commander.” He jumps off the bar stool and stands with his legs apart, military-style, in attention pose.

  “Good night, soldier. At ease.”

  Chapter 38

  Your passion is waiting for your courage to catch up. I replay Madame Simona’s words of wisdom in my mind on my way to the hotel gym. I figure that running on the treadmill will give me an opportunity to unwind and, more importantly, figure out what that passion is.

  The elevator doors open on the gym floor and my heart stops: a large opalescent grey banner boasts, Welcome Dior Executives. A long, narrow table is setup with tiny silver Dior gift bags meticulously arranged along the wall. I cross the hallway to get to the gym in a Petit Bateau T-shirt and shorts and pass by numerous chic women milling about sipping tea. I wonder if Antoine knows anything about this executive gathering.

  After about ten minutes of painfully trying to run on the treadmill and staring at George Michael’s “Freedom ’90” video on MTV, random thoughts flash through my mind: memories of my childhood, Didn’t know what I wanted to be…; my meeting with Simona, there’s something deep inside of me…; my cousin Françoise’s enviable job at Chanel, there’s someone else I’ve got to be…; my doubts about whether I want to stay at Edwards, take back your singing in the rain…; my reluctance to join Harry’s new firm, sometimes the clothes do not make the man…; and the way my face lit up when Antoine handed me the Dior file, Now I’m gonna get myself happy…

  I’m suddenly hit with a lightning bolt: What if Pierre Le Furet, Dior’s intellectual property director, is here? I could find out if he has a position available in his department! Without thinking it through any further, I jump off the treadmill, throw a towel over my shoulders, and sprint back to the elevators.

  Back in my room, I take the quickest shower ever, throw on my Dior suit, a long rope of pearls, and some heels, quickly apply some makeup and a dash of J’adore for good luck, and head back out the door. I fetch my laptop and print my resumé in the hotel business centre, then slide it into an envelope. I head back to the floor where the Dior meeting is being held and catch a group of women trickling out of the conference room.

  “Excuse me, is Pierre Le Furet here by any chance?” I ask the first woman who crosses my path.

  “No, Pierre isn’t here, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?”

  “I have an important document for him,” I respond, visibly crushed.

  “His boss is here. Sandrine Cordier runs the legal department. You could hand it to her instead.”

  Oh, fantastique! That means I could go straight to the top without worrying about dealing with Antoine’s client, who could blow my cover.

  “Your best bet is to find out her room number. But you better hurry, our meetings are over.”

  I rush to the hotel lobby, bumping into a few lawyers from the firm in the elevators on my way down.

  “Looking very chic there, Catherine. Going anywhere special?”

  “I sure am,” I reply, running out of the elevator.

  I approach the concierge desk and wait impatiently for the man to notice me.

  “Can I please have the room number for Sandrine Cordier?”

  “I’m sorry, miss. We cannot give out this information, but you can call the hotel operator, who will connect you to her room.”

  I pick up the hotel house phone in the lobby under the quizzical gaze of my colleagues.

  “Madame Cordier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bonjour, Madame Cordier, my name is Catherine Lambert. I’m a lawyer staying at this hotel and I noticed that Dior is holding executive meetings here. I was wondering if I could hand you a copy of my resumé? I have relevant experience that could interest you.”

  Woody Allen says that eighty percent of success is just showing up; I say that ninety percent of success is simply being bold and asking for what you want.

  “I’m very tired right now, Catherine,” she replies after a long, awkward silence. “Why don’t you meet me in my room around nine tomorrow morning so that we can talk? I’m in room two zero nine.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  I get back to my room and dive on the bed, thrilled with my feat of tracking down Dior’s general counsel. I have visions of working with the world’s greatest couturiers. After a few moments of daydreaming, my mood swiftly changes and I start having doubts. Am I ready to throw in the towel on private practice at this point in my career? I’ve invested so much energy getting ahead at the firm. And I need
to tread carefully: Dior is an important client and if my plan backfires, I could find myself answering the phones, “This is Catherine, thank you for calling J. Crew.” Despite my earlier inclination, I don’t really relish the thought.

  I try Lisa to get her opinion, but I get her voicemail so I pick up my messages instead. Hearing my colleagues’ voices brings me back to reality.

  “Hi, it’s Nathan. Thanks again for your support yesterday. Just spoke to Scott and I still have a job. See ya later.”

  “Hello, Catherine, it’s Antoine. Are you free for dinner tomorrow night? There’s nothing on the retreat schedule and I have something important to discuss with you.”

  Curious about his message, I return Antoine’s call and accept his dinner invitation. After all, I better remain on his good side in case I need a reference for Dior.

  The next morning, I arrive at Sandrine’s room at 8:56 with my resumé in hand. A pile of Louis Vuitton luggage is stacked by her door. I take a peek inside. The room is deserted.

  “She left,” the porter says while unsuccessfully attempting to fit all the suitcases on a trolley.

  “Where did she go?”

  “The airport.”

  “Did she leave any messages?”

  “Not with me, she didn’t. Maybe you can catch her downstairs. She only left a few minutes ago.”

  I rush down to the lobby in my stilettos and catch a glimpse of a woman in a beige trench coat carrying this season’s black patent Dior bag getting into a Town Car. She signals the driver to move forward while talking on her cell phone.

  I stand on the sidewalk out of breath and crushed. How could she forget our meeting? I sulk back to my room and try not to feel disappointed. Sandrine Cordier is dealing with one persistent lady.

  Later that night, I meet Antoine in the hotel lobby. He’s wearing a crisp white linen shirt with designer jeans and his signature Vetiver cologne. His scent transports me back to our first meeting in New York.

  “Where are we having dinner?”

  “I made reservations at a new Italian restaurant downtown. You like pasta, I hope?”