J'adore New York (5 page)

“I
’m glad you like it. But don’t assume that it’s yours just yet.” Brian, my eager real estate agent, tells me as we leave a bright, well-maintained prewar one-bedroom apartment on the corner of 68th and First. Brian and I have just spent six hours looking at more than two dozen apartments, most of which require a major overhaul and cleaning job. Exhausted, I’m in no mood to look at any more places unless I can figure out a way to bill this time back to a client. I’ll do whatever it takes to get this place.

Barely large enough to contain the antique dresser and bed inherited from my grandmother and shipped over from Paris, my new home, located on a relatively quiet street within walking distance of the office, has windows overlooking a small courtyard that reminds me of my old apartment in Saint Germain. This tiny jewel is exactly what I want.

“You need to get approved by
Elad
,” he says with a menacing look and one eyebrow dramatically arched, like a character out of a vintage horror flick. “And he’s
very
difficult.”

“Who’s Elad?”

“He manages the building. He has final say on
everything.
You need to come with me to his office to meet him in person and fill out an application.”

Brian escorts me to a dark, ghoulish waiting area in a dreary office building and shakes my hand. “Someone will be with you shortly. Good luck.”

I imagine him laughing like Vincent Price in the “Thriller” video as he walks out of the building.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice blurts out from a mysterious intercom system as I walk through a dingy waiting room to the other side of the office. Completely buried beneath a towering mountain of paper, Elad sits in a low swivel chair. It’s impossible to see anything about him other than the top of his balding head. Which isn’t pretty.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Um…I’m Catherine, I’m applying for the apartment on 68th Street.”

“Which one? I have hundreds of places on 68th. Who’s the broad in my office?” he shouts into his phone.

“The French lawyer,” the mystery voice responds.

He mumbles something undecipherable under his breath.

“Okay, sit.”

As I approach, his dark eyes look right through me.

“First, let’s talk money: I want three months’ rent in
advance and a security deposit. Any damage to the place, you’ll never see that money again, got it?” he says with a rapid-fire New York accent.

“Elad, the woman from Washington is here to sign the lease for her daughter,” the mystery lady interjects through the intercom.

“Tell her that she’s too late. Once I’m through with the lawyer, I’m going home…Tell her to come back next week.”

“But, Elad, she flew in all the way from—”

“Not my fucking problem,” he shouts back into the phone.

“With her daughter—”

“L
IKE
. I. S
AID
: N
OT MY FUCKING PROBLEM
.”

Today’s horoscope predicted great luck in real estate matters; it was silent about the hellish landlord.

“Now where were we? Ah yes, the broker fee. You pay a broker fee, which is fifteen percent of your first year’s rent, and we also charge a three-hundred-dollar paper processing fee.”

I nervously sit up in my chair and try to calculate how much all this is going to cost me. I’ve been spoiled by France’s pro-tenant laws and hadn’t expected to pay more than two months’ rent in advance. I guess the laws are different in New York. For a split second, I consider raising the subject but think better of it. Looking into his eyes, I see homelessness.

“Okay.”

“Do you have any credit history in this country?”

“No, not yet.”

“You’ll need to find yourself a guarantor with a New York City address who makes a few hundred grand and who will guarantee the lease.”

Merde.
Now I’m really screwed. Who do I know in New York who will guarantee my lease? A few of my father’s relatives lived in New York, but I hadn’t spoken to them in about fifteen years. I couldn’t just call up and ask them to guarantee my exorbitant rent, could I? There was my friend Lisa, whom I had met at law school and who was now living in New York, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her either. Maybe the firm would sign? After all, I’m not the first foreigner to transfer to the city.

“No problem,” I reply, keeping my sangfroid.

“Now let me tell you something,” he says, pointing his index finger while lowering his voice for emphasis: “There are two types of tenants I don’t care to have in my buildings: models and lawyers. Models don’t pay their rent and usually skip town on me, and lawyers are real shit disturbers. They’re always quoting me some fucking section of this act or that code to avoid paying their rent. I don’t want any problems, you hear me? I have no qualms about evicting anybody.” He snaps his fingers dramatically.

I nod back, gritting my teeth, amused to hear that for once in my life I fall into the same category as a model. I’m also happy I kept my big mouth shut rather than blabbering on about irrelevant French laws. If I had even broached the topic of French
locataire
rights, this guy would’ve had me out on the street faster than a dead cockroach.

“And there’s another thing.”

Okay, now I’m really scared. What
else
is this guy going to come up with?

“The superintendent in your building is walking a very tight rope with me at the moment.” He joins his thumb and index finger together in mid-air, mimicking a tight rope. “So I expect you to report back to me anything he does that ain’t kosher, got it?” he tells me, his index finger still pointing. “So when are you moving in?”

“Next weekend?”

He dials a number on his phone. “There’s a French chick in my office. She’s signing a lease for apartment 7A. She’ll be coming over to pick up the keys and she’s moving in next weekend. No fucking screw-ups this time!”

It takes me a second, but I figure out that he’s having a oneway conversation with the superintendent in my building, for whom I suddenly feel a tremendous amount of sympathy.

After signing about fifty forms and handing over a ridiculous amount of money, I stand up to leave his office,
très fatiguée
by the whole experience.

“Miss, send me the signed guarantee by the end of the week or I’m giving the apartment to someone else,
capice?
” He smiles proudly as if he had just pronounced a word in French.

“I want the postcoital flush.”

“That’s my girl.” Rikash pats me on the back.

“I can’t believe I just said that to a Sephora salesclerk.”

After an exhausting first week in New York and a traumatic rendezvous with my new landlord, I treat myself to a relaxing Sunday afternoon in Soho in the company of my confidant/ personal shopper/beauty consultant.

“I love the NARS Super Orgasm collection,” Rikash coos while dabbing a bit of colour on his cheeks. “This blush will make you look like you’ve been getting some action.”

“At least it’ll give me some colour. I look half dead.”

“You look better than most lawyers in the office. They look like they passed decades ago.”

I apply the blush to my cheeks and the pink tone with specks of gold gives my dreary complexion an immediate boost.

“I think you should get the matching eye shadow and lipstick,” Rikash comments after the salesclerk hands me a box of pleasure-simulating face powder. “The ad in your magazine does say, why only have one when you can have four orgasms?”

I had picked up a copy of French
Vogue
on our way to brunch in the West Village this morning, and we had gushed over the new trends and giggled at the provocative ads.

“Good idea. I’ve never actually faked one, but now I’m going all the way. You’re a bad influence, Rikash.”

“I know, and I love it!” He wrinkles his nose.

Afterward, he takes me to see a friend’s art exhibit at a gallery on West Broadway, where we discuss contemporary art before we stop in at the Moss store to pick up a stunning pair of Plexiglas lamps for my new apartment. We then head to Balthazar to grab some coffee and French pastries.

“I still can’t believe you’re moving to the Upper East Side. It’s way more fun downtown. You could shop here every day.”

“I’m staying clear of all possible distractions and temptations. I’m here to work.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Don’t forget to smell the camellias, my friend. That firm will suck your soul dry if you let it. I’ve seen so many enthusiastic young associates come in all eager and what-not, and leave a few years later running on empty.”

I look away for a moment, trying to dismiss the doom and gloom of his statement.

“And don’t think it actually gets better once you’ve made partner. It’s like a giant–apple pie eating contest where all you win is more crust.”

“I could handle a
pain au chocolat
eating contest.” I point to our bag of goodies jokingly.

“Ah yes!” he sighs, his mouth covered with confectionary sugar from his almond croissant. “Me too.”

“Don’t worry about me, Rikash, I’m pretty tough. I’m not going to let myself get beaten down by the workload, not now.”

“It’s not the workload I’m referring to but the slave-driving cads running the show. They can drive you mad.”

“I’ve managed to maintain my sanity so far.”

“That’s what you think!”

“Ha! Very droll!”

“Let the galley slaves row together!” he shouts into the streets while mimicking a rowing gesture. “Row! Row! For
fourteen, sixteen hours a day until you keel over and they throw your overexerted body to the sharks!”

“Shhh. Not so loud!”

“Are you embarrassed by my behaviour? You better get used to it, sweetie, ’cause you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“
Mon dieu,
I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“Oh puh-leaze, don’t be such a bore.”

“I should probably get home soon. I need my beauty sleep. There’s only so much Mr. Nars can do to boost my skin tone.”

“Let’s get you a cab then, dah-ling. You definitely need to get some rest before you start your second week in la-la land.”

“I
need this
yesterday
,” Antoine announces while marching toward my desk.

It always makes me a little crazy when someone says they need something “yesterday” or “two weeks ago.” Why not go completely retro and say you need it back in 1895? (Refer back to character trait #2 of a type-A personality.)

“What is it?” I feel my shoulders stiffening. Whatever it is, I need to make up for last week’s major faux pas.

“Have you heard of the plain-English disclosure rules?”

“Of course. They’re the rules the SEC adopted several years ago to make financial disclosure more understandable to investors.”

His face softens. Contrary to Bindergate last week, I’m not a total idiot.

“I need you to convert some of the language from an old prospectus into plain English so that it complies.”

“Will do.”

“Do you have a second to talk?”

“Of course.”

He shuts the door before walking closer to my desk, and I feel momentarily intoxicated by his cologne. It catches me off guard. Could I be attracted to a man who treated me like a piece of papier mâché just a few days ago? No, it’s probably just that my hormones and pheromones are a bit out of whack from the stress—I’m reacting to any testosterone that comes within a five-foot radius of my body.

He looks out my window before taking a seat in one of the chairs.

“You really lucked out. The view is amazing.”

“Not for long. Everyone around here is making a point of reminding me that it’s only temporary.”

“They’re just jealous.” He runs a finger along one of the petals of the pink lilies I picked up to soften the masculine surroundings. “Catherine, I’m sorry I was abrupt with you the other day. I’m under a lot of pressure.” His eyes remain focused on the flowers.

Surprised by his apology, my body relaxes.

“It’s okay, I understand. Besides, you were right. I should have reviewed those documents more carefully.”

“I agree, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“Apology accepted.”

He pauses, then shoots me a shy grin.

“I heard Bonnie made you draft a memo on dry cleaners.”

“How did you find out?”

“Rikash sent it to the entire support staff, and my secretary sent me a copy. Bonnie can be a bit demanding.”

A bit demanding? How about a lot of a dictator? I keep that one to myself.

“What do you think she’s trying to prove with that nonsense?”

“That she’s the boss. She’s worked really hard to get where she is, and I suppose she wants to share the pain.”

“She’s doing a fine job of it.”

“She was like that with me at first. But she eventually warms up,” he says unconvincingly.

“I bet she warms up to me like a polar bear does to a sea lion.”

He chuckles as he loosens his tie. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile.

“Catherine, I’d like to continue working with you on the Dior matter even after I’ve moved to Paris.”

“Of course,” I respond, trying to keep a straight face.

“It will be a good way for me to stay up to date with what’s going on in the New York office. I feel like I’m going to get disconnected from base camp.”

Sensing that he’s about to open up, I wait for him to continue.

“I’m worried that moving to Paris will mean taking a step back in my career.”

“Not necessarily, there’s lot of great work in that office, and the partners are exceptionally smart.”

“How was it for you? Did you have a good rapport with them?”

“I’d say yes. I had occasional run-ins with some of my colleagues, but they’re a talented bunch, and I completely respect them.”

He continues to stare at the floor as a moment of not-uncomfortable silence passes between us. The look on his face makes me wonder if his move was his decision.

“And I’m sure you could come back to New York if you wanted to.”

“Not once I’m out of the loop. I just hope this won’t ruin my chances of making partner. I’m up for it this year.”

“I’m sure it won’t. It seems like you’re one of the best they’ve got.”

He smiles tenderly before standing.

“Thanks, Catherine, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. My pleasure.”

“I really mean it, thank you.” He turns around to look my way before crossing to the doorway. “Oh, and I meant to tell you that I really like what you’re wearing today. That dress looks brilliant on you.”

Surprised by his compliment, it takes a moment before it actually registers. I want to reply that he doesn’t look too shabby in his impeccably tailored pinstripe suit either.

“Thanks.”

He walks out into the hallway, both hands in his trouser pockets, looking sad, and my heart drops at the thought of no longer seeing him on a daily basis.

Now that Antoine and I have connected on a personal level, it’s time to knock his socks off legally. I turn to my new plain-English project, which is actually much more interesting than it sounds. I’m all for getting rid of as much legal gobbledygook as possible, and I love the challenge of rewording legalese into plain English. I begin with a disclaimer located on the inside of the cover page:

NO PERSON HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED TO GIVE ANY INFORMATION OR MAKE ANY REPRESENTATION OTHER THAN THOSE CONTAINED OR INCORPORATED BY REFERENCE IN THIS PROSPECTUS, AND, IF GIVEN OR MADE, SUCH INFORMATION MUST NOT BE RELIED UPON AS HAVING BEEN AUTHORIZED
.

Hmm, this is what I’d like to write:

Don’t read anything other than this document. If you do, you obviously have way too much time on your hands.

But my professional self jots this down instead:

PLEASE RELY EXCLUSIVELY ON THE CONTENTS OF THIS PROSPECTUS. NO OTHER DOCUMENT HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED BY THE COMPANY
.

I then turn to the “Use of Proceeds” section, which highlights what the company will do with the money it raises in the proposed offering.

WE INTEND TO USE THE NET PROCEEDS FROM THIS OFFERING FOR GENERAL CORPORATE PURPOSES, INCLUDING DEVELOPING OUR INFRASTRUCTURE, PRODUCTS, AND SERVICES, ALL OF WHICH WE HAVE YET TO IDENTIFY.

My own plain-English version:

We do not yet offer any products or services of any value nor have we decided what to do with your hard-earned money. Basically, if you invest in our company, you’re the living pro of that there’s a sucker born every minute.

Legally correct plain-English version:

WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF IDENTIFYING AND DETERMINING WITH CERTAINTY THE INTENDED USE OF THE MONEY RAISED THROUGH THIS OFFERING.

I move on to the “Risk Factors,” a list advising prospective buyers about the potential risks associated with purchasing this company’s stock. This one catches my attention:

WE MAY NOT EFFECTIVELY MANAGE OUR LONG-TERM OBJECTIVES; OUR MANAGEMENT TEAM HAS BEEN HERETOFORE INEXPERIENCED IN THE MANAGEMENT OF A LARGE PUBLICLY TRADED COMPANY.

My plain-English version:

We have absolutely no freaking clue what we’re doing. Do you?

Correct plain-English translation:

MANAGEMENT MAY REQUIRE ASSISTANCE IN MANAGING THE CORPORATION.

I make my way cautiously but quickly through the entire fifty page prospectus. Satisfied with my work, I hit send and then move on to my favourite file: the battle against counterfeit goods.

As requested by Antoine, I go through the memo prepared by Dior’s intellectual property director, M. Le Furet, which outlines the adverse impact counterfeiting has had on its U.S. business and then start drafting a detailed summary of the PRO-IP Act. Finally, I go to
Harper’s Bazaar
fakesareneverinfashion.com website and am reading helpful tips for how to spot a fake bag when Rikash buzzes through on the intercom.

“Sorry to interrupt the shopping, but I have Mel on the line.”

“I’m not shopping. I’m actually doing research. Put him through.”

“Good morning. How’s my sweetie doing?”

“Great, thanks.” I mentally prepare for his advances.

“I have an urgent question about our Paris office.”

“Yes?”

“We’re in the process of hiring a managing director over there and need some assistance with his registration application with the European securities regulator.”

“No problem. I’ve completed hundreds of those forms.”

“Perfect, I knew my favourite little lawyer would take care of this.”

I bite my tongue after he uses the adjective
little.
Could he be more condescending?

“I’m emailing you a questionnaire right now. Can you ask the director to complete it and send it to me for review?”

He pauses, something I realize I’ve never heard him do. “What kind of questions do they ask?”

“The usual questions about integrity; whether they’ve committed fraud or have been convicted of any financial crime.”

There’s a long second silence.

“Well…our candidate has been reprimanded for something pretty minor: money laundering. We were hoping you could ask the securities regulator to overlook it,
madame.
You smell what I’m cookin’?”

Seriously? Is this guy for real? I stare out the window for a brief moment and regain my composure. If I asked this question to any of the regulatory staff at the securities commission, they would laugh me off the phone. How can someone like Mel be managing hundreds of millions of dollars of people’s money?

“No, Mel. There’s absolutely nothing I can do.”

“Oh come on, counselaaar, we’re not going to let something minor like that get in the way of hiring a good candidate, are we?”

“Mel, we’re talking about a serious financial crime here. The regulator will never go for it. The answer is no.” I repeat firmly, hoping to resolve the matter definitively.

After I stick to my guns, Mel agrees to find a new candidate and I go back to defending Dior’s interests.