J'adore New York (19 page)

“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.

“M
adame 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.”

Wonderful, something else to worry about; I knew I should’ve ignored my mother’s suggestion that I see a psychic.

“I also see dissatisfaction with your job.” She shakes her head while still firmly gripping my hand.

Her statement throws me off balance. I’ve had my share of difficult moments and encountered some difficult people at the firm, but am I truly dissatisfied?

“You don’t seem very happy.”

“Hmm. Really?”

“Not what you wanted to do as a child, right?”

“Yes it was. I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer.”

“But before that, you wanted to be an actress, a movie star, maybe a singer. I can see that very clearly.”

“Maybe when I was ten years old, but I’ve changed aspirations since then.”

“Really, but why? It’s your destiny, my child; you can’t change that. It will only bring you more heartache if you do.”

“Really? You see that?” I ask. This is a little ridiculous—every little girl wants to be a movie star.

“I see more, I see more…Ah yes, you have great fashion flair, don’t you? Why aren’t you working in this area?” she asks in a loud, intimidating voice. “And you have contacts that could help you!”

“I think you may be wrong here,” I reply delicately to avoid offending her. “I love fashion but not as a career. You’re probably referring to my cousin Françoise. She studied fashion design in London and works at Chanel.”

“
Do it! Do it!
You must do it before it’s too late!” she shouts.

“Look, Simona, I have a good job and I’ve worked extremely hard to get where I am now, I’m not going to throw it all away. I want to become a partner of Edwards and White. And I can’t even draw a straight line, so a career in fashion isn’t going to pan out.”

“Stop worrying about such petty matters, my child. Your passion is waiting for your courage to catch up! Once you do what you really love, money will come pouring in, I guarantee it!” she exclaims, still holding my hand tightly. “When are you most happy at work?”

These days, when my office door is locked and no one can enter, I want to reply but try to find a better answer.

“When I’m helping someone solve a problem or when I explain complex legal issues in simple terms. It’s like magic.”

She gives me a blank stare, looking unconvinced.

“Not true, my child. You are happiest when handling artistic- or fashion-related matters!”

I think back to the different files I’ve worked on at Edwards & White. It’s true that I was over the moon when Antoine first handed me the Dior file, but it’s now been taken away. So much for dealing with fashion.

“That’s true, but such matters are incidental to my job. I specialize in banking and securities law.”

She sighs loudly and shakes her head. “What is stopping you? Fear?”

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off before I can make a sound.

“Fear of what? You’re so young, I don’t understand. Perhaps a terrible curse was placed upon you.”

A curse? I imagine Bonnie sitting at her desk with a voodoo doll version of me, taking great pleasure in poking pins into my arms and legs before throwing it out her office window.

“I see troubles with your family in your youth, your mother crying herself to sleep at night.”

“Hmm.” I stay silent as she triggers vivid memories of my mother curled up in her bedroom sobbing.

“A young widow stranded alone.”

How on earth would she know that? I feel a shiver run down my spine.

“I see depression, severe depression. Was anyone in your family depressed?”

“My mother went through a depression after my father died.”

“She’s very beautiful, your mother.”

“Yes, she is.”

“This event seems to have scarred you, my child. You yearn for security. But you must let go! This is bringing you down! If you don’t let go, you will suffer from a great depression yourself.”

“You think so?”

Memories of my mother’s depression still haunt me to this day. I don’t want even to think about the possibility of going down the same road she has.

“What do you mean, do you think so? I do not think, I see! I can see it!” she shouts. “We must do something to get rid of all the negativity.”

A bit leery, I try to change the subject to my love life. At least that’s pleasant.

“Do you see anything about a man?” I ask nervously.

“Did you bring something that belongs to him?”

“Yes, a tie.” I rummage through my bag and pull out one of Jeffrey’s ties.

“Perfect.”

She grabs the tie, holds it with both hands, and closes her eyes.

“Oh, he’s very good-looking, a bit stubborn, and used to getting his own way.”

“Yes. Anything else?”

“I see money, lots and lots of money coming to him shortly.”

“Hmm. Anything else?”

“I see a wedding.”

“A wedding?”

“Yes, in a foreign country.”

Wow, now that’s unexpected. Although things are going
smoothly with Jeffrey, marriage isn’t something that I’m ready to consider.

“And there’s another man who goes out a lot, to nightclubs, and who very much cares about you.”

“That’s my assistant. I’m not getting married to him. He’s gay.”

“I see…Oooh! Trouble for this man!” she shouts.

“Trouble? For Rikash?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, worried. “You must be mistaken, he has no troubles. He’s as carefree as they come.”

“Hmm,” she adds pensively. “Oooh, I see the wedding again. It will be by the water.”

“On the beach?”

“Maybe. And it will be beautiful.”

“One last question: Will I pass the bar exam?”

“Ah, the bar exam, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I can only help you so much, my child—I can’t guarantee miracles. You need to work for that one.”

“Right.”

“Okay, that will be two hundred and fifty dollars,” she finishes suddenly.

“It’s over?”

“Yes, I told you everything that I could see,” she answers abruptly. “I have other clients waiting, you know. I’m very busy. I don’t have all night!” She stands up from her chair.

This brings me back to reality and reminds me that I need to pick up Bonnie’s documents on my way back to the office.

“Now before I forget, I want you to take warm baths in rose petals and vinegar.”

“What for?”

“The roses attract happiness and the vinegar wards off evil spirits. Please do as I say, it’s very important.”

The next day, a bit shaken by Madame Simona’s visions, I come back to the office with a few dozen roses and a bottle of balsamic I picked up at the corner deli during my lunch break. I can’t believe I’m going to follow her instructions, but I’m feeling just off kilter enough to think,
better safe than sorry.

“Oooh. More roses from loverboy?” Rikash sighs.

“No, these are from me to me, for my apartment. Rikash, have you ever, um, talked to a psychic before?”

“A psychic? I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo.”

“You don’t? I thought you would be into it. There are some people out there with incredible powers, you know. Aren’t you a bit curious?”

“Not at all. You see, dah-ling, I really don’t care to find out about my future ahead of time. I try to live in the moment. Besides, I don’t believe in paying someone to tell me what I already know: that my life is a total mess.”

“I went to see a psychic last night, Madame Simona. It was a little unnerving.”

“Really? What did she tell you?” he asks, suddenly very interested.

“It was really thought-provoking.” I hesitate—I don’t want him to think I’m an idiot—but I could use some reassurance. “She told me that any dissatisfaction with my career probably stems from traumatic events in my childhood. She also saw that I was meant to work in fashion.”

“Sweetie, every young woman living in Manhattan is dissatisfied with her job and aspires to work in fashion. Not impressed. Okay, what else?”

“She saw some pretty personal things about my family,” I answer, trying to counter his doubtfulness. “And she saw that I’m getting married by the water in a foreign country. Isn’t that romantic?”

“I expect an invitation. Maybe I could be one of your bridesmaids?”

“I can’t picture you in a pink dress.”

“Don’t be so sure. I look fabulous in fuchsia taffeta. Did she see anything about me?”

“No, um, she didn’t mention anything,” I lie, not wanting to tell him about the trouble she mentioned.

“Too bad. I hope you didn’t pay her more than fifty dollars.”

“Hmm.”

“How much? A hundred?”

“Higher.”

“A hundred and fifty?”

I don’t answer.

“More?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Are you nuts? She really took you for a ride, silly girl.”

“I know, but it was worth it. I finally got my mother off my back.”

“Whatever,” he answers, shaking his head.

He doesn’t need to know that I actually paid $250 for my visit. After all, it did make mother happy. And bathing in rose petals might do wonders for my tired complexion, while the vinegar might help keep the evil spirits at the office out of my way.