J'adore Paris Page 2

  “I hope not.” I feel my stomach turning just thinking about her.

  He sees my sour expression and changes the subject. “I’m so glad we have a weekend to ourselves before you start. I wish we could’ve gone away somewhere for a bit of sun and surf, but I’m way too swamped with work right now.”

  I smile, reminded of Antoine’s fun-loving personality, which I only got to know after we got close. I discovered he likes surfing, snowboarding, and listening to live rock ‘n’ roll—just the right amount of cool pour moi.

  “But I do have something that will make up for it.” He pulls two pieces of paper out of his back pocket and places them on the table. They’re tickets to see Roy Hargrove, one of my favourite jazz musicians, play at the New Morning, a renowned club in the 10th arrondissement.

  “Oh mon dieu! Antoine! You’re the best!” I stand up to hug him.

  The restaurant owner drops by to see what all the fuss is about.

  “Antoine just surprised me with tickets to an amazing jazz concert.” I hold them up. “I’m so excited!”

  “Ah, you know how to treat a lady, don’t you, mon cher. You two make such a great couple.” He looks around the small room. “Didier, bring these two tourtereaux a dessert once they’ve finished their meal. It will be sur la maison.” He winks.

  Antoine smiles at me from across the table, and I’m convinced that moving back to Paris was the best thing I’ve ever done. It’s now with a sense of relief that I can say that I willingly gave it all up: the chance to make partner at Edwards & White, a fat share of the firm’s profits, and an eventual corner office. I’m ready for a personal renaissance. After all, life should be made up of unexpected twists of fate, n’est-ce pas?

  After our meal, we take a stroll so that Antoine can show me a few of his favourite neighbourhood landmarks. He puts his striped cashmere scarf around my bare shoulders as we walk past an English pub called The Frog & Princess.

  “This is a great place for having a beer after work. I come here sometimes with friends and colleagues. And I love its name—it reminds me of us.”

  I give him a peck on the cheek. “It looks like some of those sports bars in Manhattan. I guess it must attract English-speaking expats.”

  “Yes, exactly. Lots of Americans and Brits come here.”

  “I’m going to stay away from this place for a while. I’m looking for a change of scenery.”

  After heading north toward the boulevard Saint-Germain, we turn onto the tiny passage de la Petite Boucherie, which leads us directly to one of the most charming and tranquil squares in Paris.

  “Oh! Place de Furstenberg!” I gush, darting into the elegant square, with its tall trees and wrought-iron lampposts. It’s like a scene from a classic film. The simple oasis is surrounded by chic design boutiques and antique shops.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Antoine takes my hand and leads me toward the centre, pointing toward an elegant building skirting the square. “That’s the Eugène Delacroix Museum. Delacroix lived and painted there until his death.”

  I look on admiringly. Antoine’s mother owned an art gallery and passed on her love of art and her expertise to her son.

  “In his old apartment and studio, you can find a few of his watercolours and a self-portrait of him dressed as Hamlet,” Antoine adds.

  “I’d love to come back here with you and visit.”

  “Of course, ma chérie. Now that you live here, we’ll have plenty of time for that. But for tonight I wanted to show you one of the most romantic places in the city. I’m so happy to be here with you.”

  He grabs me by the waist, lifts me up, and kisses me tenderly while I slide back to the ground. Except that my feet are nowhere near the ground and my head remains floating in the clouds.

  Chapter 2

  “So, dah-ling, what will you be doing with so much free time on your hands?” Rikash gives me a mischievous smile and takes a sip of his cocktail. We’re relaxing at Le Dali restaurant in Le Meurice hotel the afternoon before our first day at Dior. The crowd is a mix of fashionistas and suits. “A thirty-five-hour work week and forty days of vacation per year will be quite a change of pace from your days in New York. Aren’t you worried about getting bored?” He crosses his legs elegantly, revealing his purple-striped Paul Smith socks and shiny new Italian shoes.

  “Are you kidding? I’m so happy to be back to a more relaxed schedule. I might cook for myself once in a while, rather than eating out of a cardboard box every night.”

  “You can say that again. My stomach is still recovering from years of indigestible takeout food. You see I’ve ordered the Meurice Tonic, a one hundred percent green cocktail made to detoxify and energize the body. You should order one for yourself, pussycat. I bet it also does wonders for tired complexions.” His emerald green eyes sparkle against his delicate bronzed features.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick to my glass of Burgundy.” I twirl my glass and take in the sublime surroundings: there’s an incredible fresco of nymphs floating across the sky covering the entire ceiling, numerous vintage Louis XV chairs upholstered in cowhide, and gorgeous crystal chandeliers. In the adjacent room, there’s a wood-panelled bar where a grand piano holds court, surrounded by a flock of old stools. I imagine someone playing Cole Porter’s “I Love Paris,” a fitting piece to underscore my return to France.

  “Speaking of complexions, the hotel spa offers a glacier regenerating treatment, and I think we should try it.” He wrinkles his tiny nose. “You’re now back in the land of esthétique, so I shouldn’t need to remind you how seriously French women take beauty rituals.”

  “Glacier regenerating? It sounds like the cover story for the latest issue of National Geographic.” I laugh, my head tilted toward the gorgeous ceiling. Rikash often coaxes me into trying crazy treatments to improve the texture of my skin or the tone of my buttocks. Often, they amount to nothing more than expensive pain and suffering.

  “Pumpkin, nature gives you the face you have at sixteen, but it’s up to you to deserve the face you have at fifty.”

  “Yes, but I’m only in my thirties.”

  “My point exactly. This type of treatment is meant to keep you in that decade forever.”

  “Okay, let me know when you’ve booked it.” I’m aware of the satisfaction it gives him to advise me on such matters. Rikash, a long-time New Yorker, takes his wrinkle-reversing treatments very seriously.

  He leans forward to touch my scarf with his long, delicate fingers. It’s silk.

  “What’s that pattern?” he asks, his eyes narrowed into two tiny slits.

  “It’s Fifi Lapin; you know, the fashionista rabbit. You must know the blog.”

  “Fifi Lapin?” He stares at me with a look of horror. “Don’t tell me you have a French rabbit around your neck. That’s so un-Dior. Please don’t wear that at work. Or in my presence.” He waves his right hand in mid-air.

  “Really? I happen to like this scarf; the pastel colours suit my complexion. And Fifi is adorable, non?”

  “Dah-ling, the best thing for your complexion is a lot of loving, not some silly rabbit.”

  I decide to change the subject. I won’t win this argument. “I haven’t been here in ages. It’s stunning.” I take a sip from my crystal goblet and look around.

  Rikash is living at the luxurious Meurice while he searches for the perfect Paris apartment.

  “Did you know that Orson Welles and Franco Zeffirelli stayed here?” Rikash studied cinema and makes documentaries in his spare time. In addition to his other extracurricular activities.

  I know that one of the hotel’s most famous guests was Salvador Dali, who at one time spent one month every year on these sumptuous grounds. In fact, there are a few Daliesque touches in the restaurant: a chair decorated with women’s feet and a lobster on a telephone.

  “So, how’s lover boy?” Rikash says slyly. “He must be ecstatic that you’ve finally moved here—he can go back to his billable hours now that you’re by his side.”
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br />   “Antoine’s great, and he’s been so sweet. He picked up tickets for a jazz concert last weekend. Other than that, we’ve hardly left the apartment. It’s been pure bliss.”

  “I’m sure it has.” He raises his eyebrows lasciviously. “I’m really happy for you. Mae West said it: A hard man is good to find.”

  “Rikash, we do engage in other activities.”

  “I really don’t understand why,” he says, adjusting his new Dior cufflinks.

  “Come on, there’s more to a relationship than just the physical.”

  “Like what?”

  “We stay up late cooking, drinking wine, and watching old Godard films. It’s so romantic.”

  “Oh dear.” He covers his mouth as he fakes a yawn. “If I were you, I’d be giving a whole new meaning to the term ‘amuse-bouche.’”

  I shake my head. “You’re a riot. I’m sure you’ll have your share of fun here. There are lots of great nightclubs and cafés where you can watch the beautiful people.”

  “Of course, dah-ling—this is Gay Paree. I’ve already checked out a few places, and I don’t mean the cafés.” Rikash was always months ahead of me when it came to knowing what was new and hip in New York. Why would things be different here?

  “It sounds like your French classes have already paid off.”

  “Yes, dah-ling, but as you know, my best communication skills are non-verbal.”

  “Right. I’m not sure why I even bothered mentioning it. Maybe Antoine and I could join you at a club some time.”

  “Sweetie, going to a nightclub with your boyfriend is like going to a boulangerie with a baguette under your arm: it’s totally pointless.” He waves his hand in the air dismissively. “But you’re both welcome to join me at the gallery opening I’m going to tonight in the Marais. I hear le tout Paris will be there.”

  He waves to a dashing gentleman walking by in a sharp tailored suit and horn-rimmed glasses. Seeing Rikash hold court in the lobby of one of Paris’s most luxurious hotels confirms that he’s a work of art all his own.

  “No, thanks. I want to turn in early; we have a big day tomorrow. Speaking of, shall we go over some of our new responsibilities at Dior? It’s important that we start off on the right foot. We’re meeting with Sandrine first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Sandrine Cordier is Dior’s general counsel and my new boss. We first crossed paths in California while I was attending an Edwards & White conference. From what I’ve observed so far, she’s well respected, intelligent, and incredibly chic.

  “Good idea.” He’s immediately all business. In a professional setting, Rikash’s ethic is second to none; called to duty, he’s all about getting the job done. In addition to being a tastemaker extraordinaire and a good friend, he’s a pro at organizing my schedule and keeping my computer humming and my correspondence up to date. I hope to be able to hand him some more challenging responsibilities at Dior.

  “We’ll be handling a few high-profile matters, including the anti-counterfeiting project we started in New York, but on a more international scale. Also, Dior has started launching lawsuits to fight the sale of fake products online. We’ll probably be involved, so we should get up to speed.”

  “It sounds exciting. But how will we manage without the resources we had at our disposal at the law firm?”

  “Sandrine said we can count on other lawyers to help out, and can bring in outside counsel when we really need to.”

  I raise my hand to signal to the waiter that I’d like another glass of wine. After looking me straight in the eye, he turns and walks away. It’s a bit of a shock; despite its abrasive edge, America is still the land of “We aim to please.” I wonder how Paris manages to attract so many visitors when they’re often treated with such disdain. I belt out, “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît,” to remind him who’s footing the bill for this expensive aperitif, then turn back to Rikash.

  “Does that mean Antoine, and Edwards, will continue to receive work from Dior?”

  I take a deep breath. Antoine and I have not yet discussed this. Despite the fact that he and my former employer have handled Dior cases in the recent past, I feel uncomfortable sending new legal work to my boyfriend. I don’t want to be accused of nepotism my first week on the job. But more importantly, I’ve vowed to keep my professional and personal lives separate. My involvement with a firm client in New York ended in disaster. I’d been working on an initial public offering for Browser Inc., a technology company, when the CFO—whom I was dating—asked me to participate in a securities fraud. I turned him in. The case is under investigation by the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission, and I still feel emotionally bruised by the fallout.

  I need to address this with Antoine soon, but I’ve been brushing the issue under the carpet.

  “Well, umm … maybe … umm … sort of.”

  “I guess that means no.”

  Rikash knows me so well. My eyes water a little, and I give him a smile. “I still haven’t really recovered from what happened in New York with Jeff—”

  He cuts me off by raising the palm of his hand in the air like a traffic cop. “No need to explain, I completely understand. How are you planning to break the news to him?”

  “After a satisfying Ménage à Trois.” I raise my glass and wink.

  He nods approvingly. “Ooh, that’s my girl.”

  “Don’t kid yourself—it’s the name of our favourite red wine from California.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Ah yes, of course.”

  Chapter 3

  “We’re going to be late!” Trying to hail a taxi in four-inch heels at the height of Paris’s morning rush hour is not easy. After meeting at Le Meurice again for a quick espresso, we’re heading off to our first day at Dior’s headquarters on avenue Montaigne in the 8th arrondissement.

  “Don’t worry, sweetness. Punctuality is the virtue of the bored. Besides, we won’t be late; this is Paris, remember. Sandrine is probably stuck in traffic, in a public transit strike or in some sort of demonstration.”

  “I hate being late. We should’ve ordered a taxi in advance for this morning.” I’m anxious.

  “Believe me, I tried, but apparently you can’t reserve a taxi between 8 and 10 a.m. in Paris. It’s some new rule they enacted to add to the inefficiency of the transportation system.”

  “We could rent some Vélib’ bikes.” I point to the public bike service that has drop-off stations at the city’s most popular intersections. “Antoine uses one almost every day to get to work.”

  He looks at me like I’ve just suggested we crawl to our destination. “You must be joking. I’m trying to make it to my first day on the job, not six feet under. Besides, I’m not in the mood to wrinkle my suit. It’s Dior Homme, and it’s new!”

  “Okay, okay.” In New York, you can roll out of bed and into a cab, but here, taxis are more difficult to come by at this time of day.

  As I do my best to flag one down, a car drives by us with its windows open. The driver is screaming at the top of his lungs while hitting the gas: “Bordel de merde, que faites-vous dans le milieu de la rue? Tassez-vous bande de naz!”

  Massively cleaned-up translation: “Get out of the way, you idiots!”

  A sustained honk follows.

  Rikash runs into the middle of the street, waving his Hermès attaché case over his head and shouting, “Fuck off, you freak!” He finishes up by giving the driver the supreme insulting gesture, le bras d’honneur, meaning “up yours” or something a lot less elegant.

  This is where the Old World meets the New, the two cultures colliding with grand fanfare thanks to the internationally shared stress of getting to work on time.

  “What a jerk,” he says, gliding his delicate hands over his pleated trousers to remove any creases.

  We finally manage to get a ride. On our way to avenue Montaigne, I feel a frisson of excitement. High-profile intellectual property work, a famous couture house, and hobnobbing with the biggest names in fashion: the idea makes me
giddy. This is the first morning in a long while that I’m actually looking forward to going to the office.

  My daydreams are interrupted by Rikash tapping me on the shoulder. “This is absolute madness!” His nose is pressed against the window. He is mesmerized by our progress around the Arc de Triomphe at rush hour. The French follow the rule that cars must give way to traffic coming onto the roundabout, but since there are twelve entrances, the only way it actually works is by constant hoots of the horn.

  “A total recipe for disaster.” Rikash shakes his head. “You need to have four pairs of eyes to navigate out of this place.” He puts one hand on the door handle and one around the passenger’s headrest, as if holding on for dear life.

  The next moment, his gaze zeroes in on a handsome young man in a tailored suit swooshing by us at top speed on a scooter. His tie is flapping in the wind, and his dirty blond curls are sneaking out from under his helmet. He successfully avoids colliding with three cars by engaging in a dangerous slalom manoeuvre, then disappears into the morning traffic.

  “Wow, who was that helmeted man? He was hot.”

  “And a bit suicidal.” I take a quick peek at my watch to make sure we’re still on time.

  “This means something. It must be a metaphor for how French society operates.” He peers out the window as if looking for the right words to describe what he’s just seen. “It’s complete disarray in Jean Paul Gaultier.”

  Chapter 4

  “Bonjour, madame. Bonjour, monsieur. Welcome to Dior.” A lithe brunette in a slim black skirt, simple turtleneck, and towering heels welcomes us into the foyer. “Madame Cordier will be here in a few minutes. You may take a seat in the salon.”

  The offices are decorated with neo–Louis XVI furniture and are dominated by grey, Mr. Dior’s favoured colour when he opened the famous couture house on avenue Montaigne back in 1947. The design is even more stunning than I remembered: both chic and understated, with lots of open space—the apex of luxury. The silk curtains dressing the windows fall to the floor like ball gowns, delicate silver vases holding pink roses have been artfully placed throughout the room, and grey and white settees and oval-backed chairs provide artful seating areas.