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Authors: Isabelle Lafleche
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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! Forfourteen, 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.”
Chapter 7
“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
“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! Forfourteen, 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.”
Chapter 7
“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
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