J'adore Paris Page 3

  The offices are abuzz with pretty young things running about purposefully. Most of them are wearing tasteful knee-length black dresses and barely a trace of makeup. I see a lot of hair slicked back in neat ponytails or chignons. There isn’t any bling on display. This rarefied space exemplifies class, elegance, and luxury. I peer down at my outfit and sigh with relief: the navy blue Dior suit I picked up at an employee sale in New York and the new Repetto pumps I found last week at Les Galeries Lafayette—replicas of the ones Brigitte Bardot wore in And God Created Woman—are perfect.

  Rikash nudges me in the shoulder as we walk past a giant framed advertisement for Lady Dior handbags. I can’t help giving him a huge grin. He knows how much this job means to me.

  After a few nervous minutes on our part, Sandrine arrives. She makes quite a grand entrance, descending the imposing staircase from the upstairs offices while skimming a jewelled hand along its wrought-iron railing. She’s so elegant in a mauve silk blouse with a large bow tie collar, a charcoal grey A-line skirt, and a pair of charcoal grey booties adorned with straps and buckles. A chunky metal-coloured bracelet from Dior’s most recent jewellery collection—I recognize it from magazines—completes her look. This is such a far cry from the conservative work attire I’ve been used to (at the law firm, wearing an open-toe shoe was the equivalent of showing up for work in your bra), and so much more in line with what I’ve been dreaming about, that I need to hold myself back from jumping into her arms.

  “Bonjour, les amis.” Her voice is like music and she’s the picture of refinement when she stops before a glass case holding a New Look–inspired two-piece ensemble of pink taffeta.

  She greets us with a warm embrace instead of a handshake, and I’m taken aback. In the world of corporate law, keeping your distance is the norm. No one wants to seem too touchy-feely; it’s taken as a sign of weakness.

  “Catherine, I’m thrilled you’re finally here. I have so much work for you.” She lifts one of her cuffed hands in the air to indicate the piles of paperwork waiting for me. “And you must be Monsieur Rikash. I’ve heard so many great things about you!” She points a ringed finger at his lapel.

  A deep fuchsia rises in his cheeks. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him blush. Amazing.

  “Don’t pay any attention to what you’ve heard about me, especially the parts that are true.”

  She responds with a large smile. “D’accord. Shall we go upstairs?”

  We follow her up the staircase and into a brightly lit office, where piles of manila folders are placed on her desk beside an elegant vintage lamp. A vase filled with red roses sits on top of an antique secretary, and photographs of Sandrine with a handsome man are scattered throughout the space. A large painting of an elegant older woman is hung on the wall facing the desk. Sandrine catches me staring at it.

  “That’s my grandmother. She was an acquaintance and client of Mr. Dior.”

  Rikash is practically drooling in front of the tableau. I imagine him hitting the floor and launching into a sun salutation in veneration of Sandrine’s grandmother.

  “Please have a seat.” She crosses her legs and I see a hint of black lace stocking. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’ve been swamped since your predecessor, Mr. Le Furet, left us.”

  “He seemed to manage a heavy workload. I could tell by the number of matters he sent to our firm.”

  “Yes, he did. But he decided to retire in the south of France,” she adds, staring out the window with a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Lucky him. It’s a beautiful region. That’s where I grew up. My mother still lives there.”

  “Ah bon?” She looks distracted. “Yes, it’s lovely, indeed.” She turns back to us alertly. “I was impressed with the memo you prepared for us on American anti-counterfeiting laws in New York. It was well written and thoroughly researched.”

  “Thank you.” It’s the first compliment I’ve received in a while about my work, and my heart swells with delight. In New York, receiving a bon mot about your efforts was about as common as spotting a polar bear in the Sahara Desert. Rikash reads my mind and winks conspiratorially. “It’ll be interesting to see whether the proposed U.S. legislation meant to protect the copyright of fashion designs will be enacted. France is ahead of the game in that regard.” I’ve done my research.

  Historically, unlike in the United States, fashion designs have received copyright protection under French law. Case in point: in 1994 a French court found that the American designer Jack Lawrence had copied the style of an Yves Le Grand dress too closely, and awarded a substantial sum to the French designer. This may change in the U.S., however; similar legislation is being proposed.

  Sandrine smiles widely. “Your experience will help you manage the matters we have waiting for you. We’re about to commence a lawsuit against the website eShop concerning the sale of fake merchandise on their site. This issue has become of critical importance to Dior, and we have decided to become more aggressive. Your timing is perfect.”

  “How long has counterfeiting been a problem for Dior?” Rikash asks, captivated.

  “I’m afraid it’s been an issue for as long as the company has been in existence. There’s a record in the company archives of an incident in 1948 where a woman who had ordered a custom-made Dior ensemble came across another woman wearing the same outfit in a nightclub. There was an investigation by the French police that lasted over six years. The result was the arrest of a group who had bribed company seamstresses for patterns to copy.”

  “Has it gotten worse over the years?” I know that counterfeiting has long been a problem for luxury companies, but if huge sums of money are spent fighting it, why hasn’t it tapered off?

  “Exponentially. Although we’ve seen a slight drop in our brand’s fakes on the market, counterfeiting has steadily increased in all areas of retail. We certainly can’t ease up on our efforts against it, because as soon as we do, the fakes come flooding back.”

  I think about how the market for luxury goods has skyrocketed in recent decades. Today, women of all ages and income levels long to own designer accessories to demonstrate their individuality and, paradoxically, a sense of belonging and awareness of the latest status symbols. For many women, being caught carrying a no-name bag is inconceivable. But how many of us can afford the bags toted by Hollywood starlets? I wonder whether women who buy fakes would even be interested in the real thing if the copy weren’t available. But I decide to keep that to myself.

  “I read in Le Monde yesterday that Dior won a ruling against a big Internet browser promoting ads for fake goods,” I say.

  Sandrine seems delighted that I’ve kept up to date and gives me a warm smile. “Yes. I’m glad you mentioned it. You’ll be involved in that lawsuit.”

  “You can count on us to keep up the fight.” Rikash grins.

  “I love your attitude, Rikash,” she says warmly. “I’ll have my assistant, Coralie, take you to your new office so you can settle in. Before you get started on work, though, you must have a tour of the archives and the atelier. It’s important that you immerse yourselves in the Dior culture—and it might be fun, too.”

  “That sounds perfect.” I’m weak in the knees at the thought of visiting the Dior atelier and seeing les petites mains at work. The “tiny hands” are the expert seamstresses who add the fine embroidery to ball gowns and create the delicate lace that makes a couture cocktail dress a red-carpet classic. I’ve read many articles about these genius craftswomen, who, unlike the star designers, work in anonymity, but I never imagined I would actually meet them.

  Coralie, a petite blonde whose locks are swept up in a soigné chignon, leads us down the hall to an office with an adjoining alcove. Two modern glass desks are lined up side by side facing rue François 1er. Delicate framed vintage illustrations by René Gruau line the walls, and a bouquet of red tulips is perched on a bookcase. Grey leather in-trays and Montblanc pens are sitting on both desks.

  “Little welcome gifts from our
perfume collection.” Coralie points to two Dior gift bags overflowing with light pink tissue paper. “Oh, and please don’t make any plans for lunch. Sandrine is taking you both to Ladurée.” It’s an iconic French tea salon, renowned for its gorgeous baroque decor, exquisite pastries and world-famous macarons. Ironically, an outpost had opened on Madison Avenue just as I was leaving New York.

  “This is totally dreamy!” Rikash exclaims as soon as Coralie is out of earshot. He grabs my arm and kisses me on the side of the head. “This is so exciting! I feel like Gene Kelly in An American in Paris.” He does a little twirl and sprays some of his new Fahrenheit cologne all over our office.

  “We’ll have lots of hard work to do, don’t forget.” But I can’t contain my excitement either. “And wait, this is just the beginning.”

  I want to pinch myself. For the first time in a long while, reality has become better than my wildest dreams.

  “I know, dah-ling. We will totally paint this town rouge.”

  Chapter 5

  “Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever,” Rikash chants as we exit the tea room on les Champs-Élysées. “That Saint-Honoré was totally sinful. I bet I put on five pounds in one sitting.”

  “Why can’t you just enjoy it? You’re in a different place now, so stop counting calories. Besides, you’ll walk it off.”

  As I say this, it hits me that we’re in a nation of contradictions. Despite our passionate love of food, the French are obsessed with maintaining their figures; all you need to do is walk into a local pharmacy to see the evidence. There are aisles of slimming gels, diuretic pills, and water with supposedly “eliminating” virtues. But I have yet to meet anyone capable of resisting a bite of a Saint-Honoré cake made with puff pastry, caramel, and whipped cream or a religieuse pastry filled with thick custard and topped with delicate, pretty icing (truly a religious experience).

  “That was kind of Sandrine to take us for a lovely lunch, non?” I ask.

  “Yes, it was. I’m just not used to finishing a meal with a ton of cream puffs. And I haven’t seen many Reebok Sports Clubs around here.”

  Rikash’s observation is spot-on. New Yorkers set their alarms for the middle of the night to sneak in a gruelling workout before work, but the French don’t punish their bodies that way. People here just eat more moderately and burn off calories doing pleasurable things like walking to and from the metro, shopping, and love-making.

  What’s more shocking to me is spending two hours in a restaurant at midday. I’ve become accustomed to the American way of doing lunch: gobbling up a sandwich in front of my computer. I need to reacquaint myself with the idea of taking my time—no easy task.

  Sandrine rushed off to a meeting after lunch, so Rikash and I decided to stroll back to the office.

  “The Saint-Honoré cake is a part of French culture. It’s been baked on special occasions for over a century. It’s named for the saint, of course, but also because the shop that first made it was on rue Saint-Honoré.”

  “All right, it scores extra points for that—it’s my favourite street in Paris.” He winks. “I thought our lunch was very educational. Can you believe that counterfeit perfumes contain antifreeze and urine?”

  “Crazy, right? That information almost killed my appetite.” I grimace.

  “It gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘eau de toilette,’ doesn’t it?” he adds as we meander along the majestic Champs. “I guess it’s not half as bad as Lady Gaga’s perfume. I heard a rumour that it smells like blood and semen.” He puts two fingers in his mouth in a gagging gesture.

  “It makes our work even more important. This isn’t just about lost profits; we’re dealing with people’s health. Some of this fake stuff is toxic.”

  “No kidding. I’d freak if antifreeze were dabbed onto my delicate temple.”

  We take in the beautiful store windows lining the boulevard, and Rikash shakes his head. “So I hear that sales only happen twice a year in Paris. Who decided that?”

  I chuckle. Rikash won’t have quite as many opportunities to hunt down bargains at sample sales here. “The government regulates Les Soldes. The sales happen twice a year to encourage tourism during the slower months. But that’s not the worst of it: most shops outside the tourist areas are closed on Sundays. Good luck with that.”

  “No!” He stops dead in his tracks. “Are you kidding me? What do people do on Sundays?”

  “Go to museums, spend time with family.”

  “Hmm. That’s an interesting concept.” I can see him trying to wrap his mind around what I’ve just said.

  “Actually finding a drugstore open on Sunday when you’re feeling under the weather can be a challenge. You’d better stock up on necessities.”

  “No kidding. Thanks for the heads-up.” He looks like I’ve just informed him that the country is at war. It hits me that I’ll miss the convenience of having a Walgreens on every street corner, open at all hours of the day and night.

  We’re about to cross toward avenue Montaigne when Rikash guides me wordlessly into a shopping arcade. I raise my eyebrows inquisitively, and he responds with a tilt of the head. “Follow me. I have something to show you.” He’s sporting a childlike grin that makes me very worried.

  Past some touristy children’s boutiques and a few shoe shops, we make a sharp left and enter a place I never dreamed existed: Luxe WC, a luxury emporium dedicated exclusively to accessories for the bathroom. Chrome toilet paper holders shaped like tree branches sit next to scented candles and expensive air fresheners. You can even use the shop’s own facilities if you’re willing to pay a steep fee.

  “Only Parisians could come up with something like this,” I marvel. “How did you find this place?”

  “I accidentally came across it last weekend. You need to see this.” He takes me to the back of the shop, where he pulls aside a silk curtain to reveal la crème de la crème in accessories: a replica of Marie Antoinette’s cabinet at Versailles, on sale for 8,000 euros; shower curtains encrusted with Swarovski crystals; and a black padded toilet seat that looks suspiciously like the quilted motif of an authentic Lady Dior handbag. “It looks like we may have found our first anti-counterfeiting mission,” he jokes.

  One of the first things we learn during our tour of the company archives is that none of Christian Dior’s collections failed, either critically or commercially, during his lifetime (he died of a heart attack in 1957). Style had been at a standstill internationally during the Second World War, and Paris had lost its title as the world’s fashion capital. When Dior emerged with the New Look in 1947, he re-established the city as a centre of sophistication and possibility.

  Completely enthralled, we spend several hours in the archives’ rich historical space, getting lost in time and vintage photographs. There are countless albums showcasing the collections Yves Saint Laurent, Gianfranco Ferré, and Marc Bohan created for the couture house after Dior’s death; a Cecil Beaton portrait of Dior in his mansion at boulevard Jules Sandeau; shoe design sketches by Roger Vivier; black-and-white photographs of the first Dior shows; and splashy pictures of more recent runway events, including those by John Galliano.

  Dior had always worked with celebrities and the entertainment world. Marlene Dietrich reportedly told Alfred Hitchcock, before accepting a role in the movie Stage Fright, “No Dior, no Dietrich!”

  The records note that, in his autobiography, Christian Dior thanked psychics who predicted his success with women. This makes me smile; a psychic I visited during my time in the Big Apple recommended I abandon the practice of law to pursue a more fulfilling career in fashion. A coincidence? I don’t think so.

  Before we leave the historical treasure trove, Rikash points to some recent advertisements for diamond-encrusted cellphones bearing the company’s signature cross-hatching. He whispers that these devices go for a whopping 25,000 euros apiece. I make a face. They’re clearly not made for forgetful types like me, and I find them a little too flashy. I feel t
hese gadgets symbolize wasteful excess, something that contradicts the very idea of refined elegance, but I realize that for some—in fact, for many—inaccessibility is synonymous with luxury.

  I leave the room, wondering what ring tone I would choose for the blingy gadget: Marilyn Monroe’s “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” or the Beatles’ “Can’t Buy Me Love”?

  We make our way toward the haute couture atelier to meet the real stars: les petites mains. The house contains two different ateliers: le flou, where flowing dresses and delicate blouses are created, and le tailleur, for the more structured, tailored pieces. Each atelier has its première, the first seamstress, who is traditionally dressed in black and manages the group, and two secondes, who direct a group of about twenty seamstresses and a handful of apprentices. I look on as one of the supremely talented ladies joins two pieces of fabric using point de chausson, a method inspired by embroidery. She’s surrounded by candy-coloured Cinderella dresses made with yards of gorgeous silk and princess-like tulle. I’m mesmerized: it’s inspiring to watch a skilled artisan work at her craft with such precision and patience, especially in a world where immediate gratification rules the day. Clearly, these artisans elevate a piece of clothing to a work of art.

  “The house of Dior has always celebrated women,” Antoinette, a seconde in the flou atelier and our tour guide, advises us.

  My eyes well up a bit: being here is like living a childhood dream.

  Later, as we’re settling into our office, a high-pitched female voice blasts along the hallway. Rikash and I scurry to the door to take a peek. An imposing flame-haired woman is rushing down the hall with a harried-looking young man right behind. He’s wearing a close-fitting grey suit and oversized black-rimmed glasses, and is taking long strides down the hallway in an effort to keep up with her.