Authors: Isabelle Lafleche
I
t’s been said that the two favourite pastimes of the French are eating and adultery. Since Rikash and I have no plans to engage in the latter, we’re at Bistro Chez Georges to enjoy the former. Located behind the elegant Place des Victoires and its many chic boutiques, Chez Georges serves typical French comfort food: traditional delights such as duck breast with cèpe mushrooms, grilled steak with béarnaise sauce, cassoulet, chicken liver terrine, and endive salad with poached egg.
“I finally found an apartment,” Rikash tells me as he takes a seat. “It’s perfect—a tiny jewel just like
moi
.” He places his serviette on his lap. “My real estate agent found it while I was away in Asia.”
“That’s great. Where is it?”
“Le Marais, of course. There are a few little changes I want to make, but overall I’m so pleased with it.”
“I’m glad you managed to find a place that lives up to your
high standards.” When it comes to living spaces, Rikash expects nothing less than
Elle Decor
. In New York, his compact, rent-controlled apartment had nothing restrained about it. Vibrant paint colours, contemporary art, 1950s furniture, and artefacts from India made it look like the set of a Bollywood film.
“I like living in a space that reflects my personality.” He winks.
“Let me guess: extravagant, bold, and beautiful.” I scan the menus as the waiter approaches our table. “I’ll have the pepper steak with fries,” I say. “What are you having?”
“I’m in the mood for something traditionally French after all that Asian food. I’ll have the andouillette AAAAA.” He lowers his voice to ask me, “What does the ‘AAAAA’ stand for?” He shimmies on his chair to the popular Jamie Foxx tune “Blame It on the Alcohol.”
“No, that’s not it.” I smile. “The acronym roughly translates as the ‘Amicable Association of Lovers of Authentic Andouillette.’” Knowing how finicky Rikash can be about food, I can barely suppress a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I’m just surprised you ordered
that
. I thought you were more of a fish and steamed vegetables kind of eater.”
“I like experimenting; you know that.” He raises his eyebrows to make sure I catch his double entendre.
“I know you do, but I’m not sure you understand what you’ve just ordered.”
“I’m assuming it’s some sort of sausage, right?”
“Yes. But not just any sausage. It’s made with pork intestines
and it can … well, you know … sometimes smell funny. That’s why French chefs serve it with so much mustard sauce. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“Are you kidding me? First you tell me that it’s good luck to step in the stuff, and now you’re telling me that my food might smell of it! What’s wrong with this country?” He waves his fingers in front of his face delicately as if dispelling a foul odour. “I’ll tell you what that ‘AAAAA’ stands for: it means ‘absolutely abominable and atrocious animal aberration.’” He makes a mock gagging gesture. “I’m changing my order
tout de suite
.” He chases the waiter through the narrow aisles to make sure he isn’t eating tripe for lunch. When he returns, he looks relieved. “Thank you for saving my virgin palate from something so ghastly.”
“It’s been part of French cuisine for centuries.”
“Whatever. I miss my green juices.” He takes a big gulp of water, presumably to purify his body before chowing down on our rich lunch.
“How was the rest of your trip? Did you track down any other fake goods?”
“I was too busy taking orders from Laetitia. When she found out you had left the country, she claimed me for herself. I had to get an ice sculpture in the form of a J’Adore perfume bottle to a restaurant halfway across the city for an event, and by the time I got there, part of the bottle’s cap had begun to melt. I had to drag it into a freezer and wait for it to freeze again. Honey, it was like watching paint dry.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I did manage to sneak out for drinks with Edouard.”
“And Xavier?”
He shakes his head. “That boy is so not for me. All he did was talk about politics and his views on religion. He is, shall we say, a tad B-O-R-I-N-G. We’re just going to be friends, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you weren’t able to get anywhere with him.” I wink.
“What do you mean, dah-ling? We had sex and it was pretty hot. All that talking came afterward, and boy did it give me a migraine.” He lounges back in his chair.
“Right.” I take a sip of Perrier. “I’m glad to hear that you two are back where you started.”
“How did the meeting on the website suit go?” he asks.
“Short and not so sweet. It’s going to get nasty, I can feel it. The mudslinging has already begun. But that’s not why I asked you to lunch. I have something more important to discuss, Rikash.” I lower my voice to a whisper and take a quick look around the room. “I think I’m being followed.”
He sits up straight. “Noooo, are you serious? Since when?”
“It started with an anonymous call yesterday afternoon. Then, when Antoine and I were on our way home after dinner, I saw two people sitting in the back of a car wearing dark sunglasses. As soon as we crossed the street, a man got out of the car and followed us. I was totally spooked.”
“Oh dear. So what did the caller want?” Rikash asks from the edge of his seat.
“He told me that people were upset by my actions—he didn’t say who—and to watch myself. It was definitely a threat, Rikash.”
“Do you have any idea who it could be?”
“No, but I have a feeling that it might be linked to the vendors we came across on our first raid with Chris. Do you remember how angry they looked? Obviously, they’re the ones who sent our pictures to Shanghai.”
“Did the caller have an accent or give you any other clues?” Rikash’s eyes are now as wide as saucers. He’s clearly excited about this: it’s an Agatha Christie mystery in the making.
“Not that I could tell, no. It was more American than European, I guess. I just can’t figure it out.”
“Don’t forget that the networks cross continents. I guess accents aren’t relevant. Have you told Sandrine or Frédéric about this?”
“Not yet. But they know about the pictures of us in the Chinese markets. Frédéric wants us to wear bulletproof vests from now on.”
“Excuse me?” He nearly falls off his chair. “There’s no way.” He place his hands on his tiny waist.
“We need to take this seriously. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you,” I plead.
After a long pause, he capitulates. “All right. I’ll wear that appalling garment, but on one condition: I’m in charge of monitoring all future correspondence with the stalker.” He raises one eyebrow for effect, like Sean Connery in
Dr. No
. “You know how talented I am with recording equipment.”
“Mmm-hmm.” In New York, Rikash spent his free time making documentaries. His last work, about a famous Indian transsexual, was nominated for several prestigious awards.
“I want you to let me track all your incoming calls and emails. We’ll nail this creepy dude.”
I take a sip of water and gather my thoughts. The idea of having Rikash monitor my correspondence has me worried. “I’m not sure. You know I have complete confidence in your abilities, but this isn’t a documentary we’re making, and I don’t want either of us to lose our job.”
Unfazed, he moves in closer, a determined look on his face. “You think we can trust any of our colleagues to get to the bottom of this? We’ve been down this road before, Catherine, and it’s just you and me looking out for each other, remember?”
He knows he’s hit my weak spot. I’ve been stabbed in the back by colleagues in the past. Now I need to protect myself from being stabbed, period.
“I need to find out whether any of this is against company policy,” I say, but I feel myself giving in.
He gives me an exasperated look. “We’re not violating any policy. Your life is being threatened, so you need to protect yourself. And I want to be in charge of that.” His tone is so commanding, I don’t dare refuse.
“Okay, but I don’t want any funny stuff, understand?” I wag my finger, trying to show some semblance of authority. Deep down, I know it’s completely futile.
After lunch, we stop by one of the few English-language bookstores in Paris, Librairie Galignani. It’s on rue de Rivoli and
houses an incredible selection of biographies, literature, and international magazines. I’m looking for a book on counterfeiting I read about in
The New York Times
, and Rikash is trying to hunt down
Wired, Wallpaper
, and
Gay Night Out
. We split up at the entrance.
The bookstore’s dark wooden shelves hold a collection of nearly fifty thousand titles, and classical music plays softly in the background. The store is known for its fine arts section; even experts come here to shop. I make my way through to the fashion section and take in gorgeous books published by Assouline, Taschen, and Rizzoli, beautifully displayed on round antique tables.
A store clerk points me toward the right shelf, and I climb on a stepping stool to reach for my book. As I’m about to grab it, my cellphone rings. Thinking it’s Rikash, I pick up, holding the phone between my ear and my right shoulder. “I just found it. I’ll meet you at the cash in a few minutes.”
A man’s voice—not Rikash’s—says, “Nice orange jacket, Miss Lambert. Makes it easy to spot you in a crowd.” I freeze on top of the stool, and my hands begin to shake. I look at the screen: a blocked number. My first instinct is to scream out Rikash’s name at the top of my lungs. Instead, I climb down and hunch behind a rack of greeting cards. I remind myself that I’m in a public space and need to remain calm.
“Who is this? What do you want?” I say, fingering a postcard of the Eiffel Tower.
“We’ve spoken before, Miss Lambert. It appears as though you are ignoring my warnings.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask coolly.
“Your overzealous colleague is getting involved in matters that do not concern him, and we don’t like it.”
A thousand thoughts flash through my mind. Was this man in the restaurant? Did he overhear my conversation with Rikash? Is he in the bookstore now? I look around, hunting for anyone talking on a cellphone, but no one fits the bill. Annoyed with myself for being scared, I decide to play tough. “I don’t really care what you think. You better stop threatening me or I’ll have you arrested.”
I hear a chuckle. “Good luck with that, Miss Lambert. You have no clue who you’re up against. It would be better for both of you to stay out of our way. You have been warned.” The line goes dead.
I stand there, shell-shocked, unable to move for a moment. Then I frantically search for Rikash, finding him near the entrance, flipping through a biography of Elizabeth Taylor.
“It’s so sad that she’s left us.” He shakes his head. “She was beyond fabulous. And look at these jewels.” He points to the famous Burton diamond. “Sixty-nine carats, can you believe it?”
I signal for him to drop the book.
“What is it, dah-ling? You’re as pale as a ghost.”
“I just got another call.” I show him my call display.
“From?” He doesn’t get it.
“My stalker,” I whisper.
“What?” he says, looking around. “Do you think he’s here?”
“He might be. He knew I was wearing an orange jacket—he told me so. That totally freaked me out.”
“Damn. I wish I had installed the tracking device on your phone right away.” He leans in closer. “And I’m convinced I saw someone staring at me from behind that bookshelf.” He gestures toward the back of the room.
My stomach is in knots, but I try to calm down. Rikash might be dreaming this up to make it seem like he’s landed a starring role in a suspense flick. “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Positive.”
He sees that I’m panicked and tries to take control. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to leave through the front entrance. You go back to where you were standing when the call came. I’ll keep an eye out through the window. We’ll see if I can spot him.” He puts on his Ray-Bans and turns to walk out of the store.
I clutch my handbag, my eyes on the floor, and scurry back to the fashion section. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rikash peering through the store window. I pick up a copy of
American Dior
, feigning interest in the introduction.
I spend five minutes turning pages and looking at pictures before I’m tapped on the shoulder. I let out a shriek so loud everyone in the store turns my way, and spin around to come face to face with a drop-dead-gorgeous stranger who could be Jean Dujardin’s twin brother.
“I’m so sorry, mademoiselle. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for the historical fiction section and thought you might know where to find it. My apologies.” His face is a deep shade of red.
My mind races. This man is French, and the anonymous caller has more of an American accent. Besides, he looks
nothing like the man who followed me outside the restaurant the other night. As a matter of fact, he looks like no man I’ve ever laid my eyes on before. He’s sizzling. I’m so embarrassed I want to crawl behind a bookshelf.
“
Je suis vraiment désolée
. I don’t know what got into me. I’m a bit jumpy today,” I hurry to say. This is clearly not my day: not only am I being threatened by unsavoury characters, but I just made a fool of myself in front of one of the most handsome men in Paris. I put the book back on the display table and try to make up for my faux pas by extending my hand. “Catherine Lambert, lovely to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine. François D’Avignon.” He smiles, revealing a friendly set of pearly whites. “I didn’t realize I had such an effect on women.”
I remember that Rikash is watching me. When I turn his way, I see that he’s glued to the window, hands at the sides of his face to block out the sunlight. If I wasn’t so far away, I swear I’d see drool at the corners of his mouth. Within moments, he’s rushed to my side. So much for apprehending my stalker—now he’s become one himself.
“This is my assistant, Rikash. We were on our way back to the office,” I ramble on nervously.
“Lucky you to work with such a pretty woman.” François shakes Rikash’s hand. “Please watch out for her, though—she’s a bit anxious.” He winks, and I feel my cheeks redden. “Where do you work?” he asks.