Trial by Fire

Chapter 4

Dahlia’s flight landed in New York on schedule. She went through customs and immigration with no problem, using her American passport. She never used it, except on trips to the States. The rest of the time, in Europe and Asia, she used her French one.

“Welcome back to the United States,” the customs officer said by rote without looking at her, handing her dark blue passport back to her. It always reminded her of her father when she used it. She collected her luggage, found a porter, and left the terminal to find the car and driver Agnes had booked for her. Dahlia preferred a discreet SUV when she traveled for business. It was hot outside the terminal. The summer had already gotten started. It was late June, and considerably warmer than Paris. She had traveled in black slacks, a white T-shirt, and a light tan jacket. The driver was holding a small discreet card with her name on it. She identified herself to him, and he got her bags from the porter, whom she tipped. Minutes later they sped away from the airport toward the city.

There was always a feeling of excitement arriving in New York. There was an undeniable electric energy everywhere, even driving through the suburbs. With the time difference in her favor, it was only ten a.m. in New York, but traffic was already heavy on the highway. She had slept briefly on the plane, and wasn’t tired, despite the obscenely early hour she had to get up in order to be at the airport at six to check in for the eight a.m. flight. She had left her house in Paris at five-thirty, when it was still dark. She’d be at the hotel at eleven a.m. New York time, which gave her all the time she needed to change and be at their uptown store at noon. She was going to confirm her arrival to their rep when she got to the hotel. Everything had gone like clockwork so far. She was going to visit the downtown store on Monday, and she had appointments after that with their American PR firm, and the head of their local business office to analyze some numbers with him.

She called Delphine from the car. It was only four p.m. in Paris, so Dahlia knew she’d still be at the office. She called her on her cellphone in case she was away from her desk, as she often was, checking on things all over the building, from production to marketing, to the design office about the packaging they were working on for their new cosmetic line. Dahlia had just approved the testing for a costly antiaging line Delphine had convinced her to launch, in order to stay current against their competitors. It would cost them a fortune to develop, and Dahlia was always skeptical about those products. She didn’t believe in them herself, or use them, but people loved them, men and women, and they swore by the best ones out there. Lambert had cautiously entered the market with one or two products, but now they were going to go after that market segment full bore, and were making rapid strides in becoming competitive with the others.

Delphine answered on the second ring as soon as she saw her mother’s number come up. She was out of breath. “Hi, Mom, sorry. I was running up the stairs from the basement.”

“What were you doing there?” Delphine always surprised her, and impressed her.

“There was some crazy computer bug in shipping today. I went down to make sure they were dealing with it. It turns out that it’s at the warehouse.”

“Don’t you have assistants to do that?” Delphine amazed her.

“Yes, but I wanted to make sure they were dealing with it properly, and the tech guys were down there for a meeting. You’d have done the same thing,” Delphine reminded her, and Dahlia laughed.

“You’re right. I probably would have.” Dahlia liked laying eyes and hands on situations herself. Delphine had learned it from her. Charles was more of a delegator, which Dahlia thought was a more male point of view. Delphine felt there was nothing too low or too inconsequential to deal with, which was Dahlia’s philosophy too. “What did I miss today?” Dahlia asked her.

“Nothing.” Delphine sounded more relaxed. She had gotten back to her office and slid into her desk chair. “It was pretty quiet today. I had marketing meetings this morning, nothing you don’t already know. Are you at the hotel yet?”

“I’m on the highway. We’ll be there soon. I’m seeing Madison Avenue today. I’ll spend Monday in Soho.”

“What are you doing this weekend?” Dahlia was thinking of contacting an old school friend she hadn’t spoken to in two years. Her college friends had been from all over the country and dispersed after she graduated, and she hadn’t seen any of them in a long time. She got Christmas letters with photographs of people she didn’t recognize and whose names she barely remembered. It was hard to live in another country, have a busy life, and stay in touch.

“I’ll walk around, shop a little. I brought a mountain of reading with me. I have a lot to read to get up to speed on the stores in the five cities I’m visiting. I keep a close eye on New York and L.A., but I have to read up on the others.” Chicago, San Francisco, and Dallas. “I thought I’d drop by the Soho store and see how they treat me as an unknown customer. That’s always good to know. What are you doing this weekend?”

“I’m taking the girls to visit Francois’s parents. They haven’t been to see them in ages, and I promised them a ride on the carousel. We’re having dinner with clients of Francois tonight.” She had a fully rounded life between her job, her husband and kids, and their family life. It was no different from what Dahlia had done at Delphine’s age, except her world had only had one parent a few years later. Delphine’s children had two.

They ended the call a few minutes later, as Dahlia’s driver crossed the bridge into the city, sped down the FDR Drive, and then cut across the East Side to get to the Four Seasons Hotel at Fifty-seventh Street, between Park and Madison. The doorman and a porter rushed forward to take the bags, and Dahlia told the driver she wouldn’t need him for the rest of the day. She was going to walk to the store five blocks up Madison, and she was planning to have dinner in her room that night. It would be late on Paris time by then.

Agnes had pre-checked her in, and all Dahlia had to do was sign at the desk. They took her to her usual suite on the fiftieth floor. It had a bedroom and a living room, a dining room she could use as a conference room if she needed it, and a small kitchen that was well stocked with snacks and amenities. The minibar was equally so, and the view was spectacular. The décor was spare and somewhat cold, but it was her favorite hotel in New York, impeccably run, and less than five blocks from the store, in the same block as Hermès. She could cast an eye inside Hermès on her way back to the hotel. She liked checking to see what they had in New York that they didn’t have in Paris, and Madison Avenue was a perfect location for the Lambert store, since they had a similar client base to Hermès’s, and both were prominently located on Madison Avenue. Lambert had a two-level luxury store that looked like a work of art. They had spent a fortune on it, which their sales figures justified. Dahlia thought it was one of their most beautiful stores after the one on the Faubourg, which she had kept as close to the original as she could, while bringing it up-to-date subtly over the years. Their customers expected their stores to have a certain opulent, elegant look.

She opened her bags once the manager and porter left the suite and helped herself to a bottle of sparkling water at the minibar, while she admired the view. There was an enormous bouquet of white roses in the room from the manager. Her phone rang as she was about to undress to take a shower and put on a chic black linen suit she had taken out of her bag and dropped on the bed. She was surprised when she saw the number. It was Philippe.

“You have been gone a day and I already miss you,” he said when she answered, and she laughed. “You’ve ruined me. How was the trip?”

“Uneventful. Two movies, a salad and some very good Brie, and a nap.”

“How’s New York?” He loved just hearing the sound of her voice. Memories of the night before flooded into his mind, and he wished that she was still in Paris so he could spend the night with her, before going to his country home for the weekend. She had been there with him before, when the servants were off, and Jacqueline was out of town for a horse show or a hunt. But Dahlia was ill at ease about going to one of his homes, even if he was alone, and preferred to see him at hers. She thought it disrespectful to his wife to go to his.

“It seems as lively as ever. I just got here. I haven’t been to the store yet,” she said of New York.

“I miss you.” That was a big admission for him, and it touched her. He always seemed fine whenever she was away.

“I miss you too,” she said, although she really hadn’t had time to yet. She would miss him when she got back to Paris and he had left, but she’d be busy then too, with Alex’s wedding two weeks after she got home, and afterward, moving to the house in the south of France. And two weeks after that, Philippe would come to visit her there. She had a busy two months ahead of her. His vacation was starting a month before hers, so he’d have time on his hands.

“We should go to New York together again one of these days, maybe in the fall,” Philippe commented. They always had fun when they did, seeing people they knew, going out to dinner in fabulous restaurants. She liked traveling with him, which they did once or twice a year, and always for a short time. It was hard to get away from their jobs. “I like L.A. too,” he continued, “but it’s so damn far. You can go to New York for a weekend, but not the West Coast. Between the nine-hour time difference and an eleven- or twelve-hour flight, it’s too much.”

“That’s why I’m here for three weeks. Everything after New York is a big trip.”

“Well, don’t have too much fun,” he said, and almost sounded jealous. He never was, and it made her happy that he’d called her. Sometimes she didn’t hear from him for a week or two while she was away, or he was. But once he was in the south of France, she knew he’d get busy seeing friends and probably wouldn’t call her again. After six years she knew him well, and his habits and his quirks.

They talked for a few more minutes and then got off. She took a shower, ordered coffee from room service, and had a cup while she put on the black linen suit. She didn’t want to fall asleep during her meetings. At some point the long day and the time difference would catch up with her. She was used to it. The rep had told her they would order food for lunch at the store. She wanted to get some work done first.

Her first impression of the store would be important, about how the sales staff looked, how respectfully they wore the uniform—a neat black jacket and black slacks or a skirt, stockings, and high heels, hair impeccably cut or pulled back. No facial jewelry or pierces, no visible tattoos. The uniforms had been designed by Dior. Dahlia was a stickler for how her employees looked. She wanted nothing about their person to distract from the beauty of the store, and the exquisite bottles they had lined up on display. Dahlia wanted everything to be perfect, and she had asked the rep not to tell the sales staff she was coming. She wanted to see how they looked for real, not how they dressed up to impress her.

Twenty minutes after she spoke to Philippe, Dahlia was wearing her black linen suit with high heels, diamond studs in her ears, and carrying a black leather Hermès Kelly bag as she walked up Madison Avenue, glancing in the shop windows she passed, admiring their wares. Hermès had an enormous black leather horse in the window, with a saddle made of red and black silk scarves, just for display purposes. As always, their windows were incredible. And there was an enormous red alligator Kelly bag next to the horse, and a crop and feed bag next to it. She stopped for a minute to admire the display. It was hard to resist.

Half a block later, she was standing in front of her own store, under the handsome sign that said Louis Lambert , with exquisitely done decorative creations in the windows. They couldn’t compete with the life-size black leather horse in the window at Hermès, but their bottles were beautifully designed, and there were two giant ones they had had made for display purposes. The entire store was done in gray silk faille, with a navy blue ceiling sparkling with tiny stars embedded in it, upholstered gray walls in the faille, and gray and white marble cabinetry and a gray marble floor. It was the epitome of chic, with samples of all their bottles on display. The bottles alone were works of art. There were two long counters of testers, which the sales staff was supposed to know everything about, both the history and the contents. Every perfume came in eau de toilette, eau de parfum, and perfume, with derivative creams, soaps, and other products. And there was a small room in the back, in black marble, for all the men’s products and scents as well, with a young man in a white shirt and black suit to demonstrate them. Their men’s products had become increasingly successful since her grandfather’s day and represented forty percent of their sales now.

Marie-Helene Roberts, the head rep, was waiting outside, per instructions. Dahlia greeted her warmly and shook hands with her. She was a woman in her fifties who had worked in the perfume industry for her entire career, previously at Chanel, and Dahlia had met her before. They walked into the store.

There were five women and a man working when they walked in. Dahlia looked them all over quickly. She noticed immediately that one of the women was wearing a black sweater instead of her uniform jacket, and the youngest-looking one had on pink running shoes and not plain black high heels. They glanced at Dahlia without recognizing her. At a nod from Dahlia, Marie-Helene introduced her, and for an instant all six of the sales staff froze, then greeted her politely and shook hands with her. Marie-Helene was French but had lived in New York since Chanel transferred her there twenty years before. Dahlia could hear that two of the saleswomen were French as well. It was a decidedly French brand, and she liked having French people on their staff. It somehow gave them more credibility as a venerable French company.

The sales staff clustered around, and Dahlia opened cupboards to look at the stock, and asked them questions about their customers and their bestselling products. They were well versed, and Marie-Helene could see Dahlia’s look of approval as she nodded, but she knew there would also be hell to pay for the sweater and the running shoes. She didn’t want a hair out of place or the slightest deviation from the uniform, and they had to look immaculate. At least none of them had tattoos, or not where anyone could see them. Dahlia was intransigent about that, and it was nonnegotiable. Their customers could have as many tattoos as they wanted, but not the sales staff. That was not the image Dahlia wanted for Louis Lambert around the world. And there had to be a certain uniformity of the kind of people who sold their products. She didn’t care about race, but they had to be impeccable, well-spoken, polite, and perfectly groomed. The image they cultivated was that a Lambert perfume would make you feel like royalty when you wore it, and as far as Dahlia was concerned, royalty didn’t have nose piercings and tattoos. The company paid for manicures twice a week for the in-store sales staff, for the men as well, and she expected them to take full advantage of the benefit. She didn’t want them demonstrating the perfumes with broken dirty nails or chipped nail polish. She noticed that they all had immaculate hands as she chatted with them. No detail escaped her notice, and after an hour in the store, as customers came and went, Marie-Helene and Dahlia went upstairs to a private room with the store manager. Dahlia took a pad out of her bag the moment they sat down and made rapid notes as Marie-Helene and Aimee the store manager chatted.

“I’m sorry about the running shoes and the sweater,” Aimee said sheepishly to Dahlia before she could hand her the list. “They know better. I said something to both of them this morning when they came to work. Margaret said that her jacket got lost at the dry cleaner, and Josette said she had warts removed yesterday. I promise you, we maintain a high standard most of the time, but things happen.”

“I’m sure you’ll find her a new jacket quickly. Marie-Helene can help you with it, and maybe Josette can find some suitable black ballerina flats until her foot heals.”

“I’ll see to it,” Aimee promised.

“I was very impressed by their knowledge of the products,” Dahlia praised them with a smile, “and Steve gave me some very useful feedback about the men’s products that’s good for us to know,” she said, handing the store manager the list. There were nine items about their setup of the displays that she wanted corrected, and when Aimee read the list she didn’t disagree with her. Dahlia had an incredible eye for detail.

“I’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. I didn’t notice any of these things myself. They’re easy to correct once you see them.”

“Don’t feel bad.” Dahlia smiled at her. “I straighten the paintings in people’s houses when they’re not looking when they invite me to dinner. It may sound silly, but the details matter, and have an impact on how people react to the store and the products we’re selling. And personal appearance is a big factor too.”

“I’ll take care of it immediately,” Aimee promised. They had set up one of the major displays backward, and she hadn’t even noticed. It was a new perfume they were introducing, and someone had followed the diagram backward for the installation.

Marie-Helene suggested a restaurant two blocks up the street then, instead of ordering in. “You must be exhausted.” It was almost three o’clock, nine p.m. in Paris.

“No, I’m fine, it’s normal dinner time for me.”

They left the store a few minutes later, went to the restaurant the rep had suggested, where they had authentic French bistro food, and by the time they came back an hour and a half later, Aimee had implemented all of Dahlia’s corrections, which she saw immediately when they walked back into the store.

“Perfect,” Dahlia said, smiling broadly. And Josette had been sent to Bloomingdale’s to buy a pair of black ballet flats with rubber soles. Everything was in order, and Dahlia shook hands with all of them and thanked them. There were three customers in the store then, and Dahlia was pleased to see that they were doing a brisk business with the clever, discreet guidance of the sales staff. It was one of their most important stores, she wanted it to be perfect, and now it was.

Dahlia and Marie-Helene parted company on the sidewalk at five o’clock, and Dahlia was pleased by everything she’d seen, and the minor corrections they’d implemented.

“You have a good staff there,” she praised her.

“They’re very responsive, and Aimee does a good job with them. I’m sorry for the slipups, and your comments about the displays were very helpful.”

They were meeting again on Monday at the store in Soho, which was liable to be less precise than the Madison Avenue store. It was going to be another visit without warning, which was one of Dahlia’s hallmarks, so she could get a real impression of what the customers saw. “See you on Monday then,” Marie-Helene said to her in French, and Dahlia left her to walk back to the hotel. She was tired by then, but she wanted to get on local time, so she didn’t want to go to bed early. She wandered into a couple of shops on the way back and enjoyed seeing the merchandise. Madison Avenue was one of her favorite shopping streets in the world, though not as much so as the Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. That was still Mecca for shoppers of the finest luxury brands, but Madison Avenue was a close second, and always reminded her of shopping with her mother when she was in college. Constance had exquisite taste and had taught Dahlia a great deal about fashion. She was one of the most elegant women Dahlia had ever known, and she used to love to watch her dress. Her own daughters had their own style too, but people didn’t dress the way they used to in Constance’s day, with the same quality, elegance, and attention to detail. The world had changed. Dahlia loved dressing well too, but she had her own moments of wearing jeans and running shoes on the weekends, especially when she went on long walks with Philippe on a Sunday when he was in town. She had brought two pairs of jeans with her, to wear on the weekends she would be in California.

She went shopping the next day at her favorite New York stores. It was Saturday, and after she shopped in midtown, she had the driver take her down to the Soho store, to get an advance impression. The store was crowded and the staff were selling well, but they looked noticeably less polished than the Madison Avenue staff. It was all minor details, and she was pleased at how she heard them converse with the customers and the information they shared with them. There was nothing glaringly wrong, and she made a list in the cab on the way uptown, of things to mention to them on Monday.

Dahlia had dinner in her room again that night. Philippe didn’t call her, nor did any of her children. They were busy. She watched a movie and fell asleep. She would have liked to go to a restaurant if she had someone to have dinner with, but she didn’t. She woke up early the next day, on Sunday, and wanted some exercise. She had slept well, and she put on a pair of the jeans she had brought, and her running shoes, and walked to Central Park. There were couples out with their children. It was a hot, sunny day, and she sat on a bench and watched them for a while, soaking up the sun. She had worn a starched white shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Even in simple clothes, she had a crisp, chic look, with a heavy gold bracelet on one arm and a denim Kelly bag that had been her mother’s that was no longer made. It was a collectors’ treasure now and she loved it.

She walked around the reservoir, and just being there reminded her of her youth and growing up in New York. It was so blissfully familiar to her, and a memory of a happy time in her life with her parents, when she went to the Lycée in New York, and then Columbia. New York was an echo of the distant past for her, it wasn’t home anymore, but she enjoyed being there and savoring it. At lunchtime she bought a hot dog and a Coke from a food truck and felt like a New Yorker for a minute. But she wasn’t a New Yorker. She was a Parisian, and she looked it, even in jeans and running shoes. It was something about her, the way she did her hair, just an attitude that French women had. She didn’t look like an American, she was too carefully put together, with her sneakers and her mother’s Hermès bag.

After she ate her hot dog, she sat on a bench in the park for a while, watching couples strolling, holding hands, families sitting on blankets or playing ball. A steel band was playing and added to the festive atmosphere. It was like a carnival in front of her, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. She stayed in the park all afternoon, then walked back to the hotel. It was too late to call her children by then and Philippe hadn’t called her all weekend, which didn’t surprise her. She was comfortable being there. She hadn’t walked by her parents’ old home in the East Seventies, because it would make her sad. New York was always nostalgic for her when she wasn’t busy working. But she had a feeling of warmth and well-being after the day in the park. She had a glass of wine when she got back to the hotel and ordered a salad for a light dinner. She watched another movie and it felt like a brief vacation. From the next morning on, she knew she would be working. She had the store visit lined up in Soho the next day, a meeting uptown that afternoon. A day of meetings with the advertising and PR agency. On Wednesday she was leaving for Chicago, and had two days of meetings there, and a press event to attend to launch their new perfume. On Friday, she was flying to San Francisco. She’d have a day off on Saturday, another on Sunday, and then hit the ground running, with store visits and meetings in San Francisco before heading to L.A. It was a full schedule from now on, which was why she was there.

—

The visit to the Soho store went smoothly the next day. She noted the corrections she wanted, made a few changes, and reminded them of the uniform requirements and how important they were for their image, whether downtown or uptown. They had many high-end customers from Tribeca, Soho, and lower Fifth Avenue who expected to see the same high standards as they did at all of Lambert’s stores worldwide. The manager of the store, a young man originally from Hong Kong, took it well, and was quick to react to the improvements Dahlia wanted. She liked him a lot, and was pleased with the visit, much to Marie-Helene’s relief, and her meeting afterward went well.

Her day with their ad agency was a big success, and by the time she left for Chicago on Wednesday, Dahlia was very happy with her stay in New York. It had been productive, and all of her New York–based employees had been responsive, and she thought Marie-Helene was doing a great job. The night before she left for Chicago, she reported to Delphine, who was delighted to hear her mother sounding so pleased. All was well in Paris, and Dahlia realized when they hung up that she hadn’t heard from Philippe in a week. It was typical of him. He was sad when she left, but busy with his own life now. She knew he was going to his house in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat that week with his son and wife.

—

In Chicago she checked into the Peninsula hotel. She had stayed there before, but not in a long time. Her suite felt like a yacht, and had every high-tech luxury feature currently available to add to the comforts of the elegant rooms. She was always fascinated by the architecture in Chicago. It was designed for the brutal weather they had in winter, with snow and blizzards and ice-cold winds, when people would do anything to avoid going out. Numerous buildings were used for multiple purposes—twenty floors for a hotel, another twenty for apartments, or offices, a movie theater, a supermarket, a department store. Fifty and sixty stories, which made it possible not to leave the building for weeks. Dahlia found it fascinating, and had been intrigued by it when she’d gone there before.

In the warm weather, the lake was beautiful, and there were sailboats on it, and people enjoying water sports. It was entirely different from New York. Chicago was a small, sophisticated city, with an elegant feel to it. It didn’t have the frantic electric energy of New York, but it wasn’t a sleepy city either. It felt just right, and was a completely different experience from New York City. She enjoyed being there.

Her meetings went well. The Lambert store in Chicago was beautiful, and the staff was extremely pleasant and looked impeccable when she met them.

She had meetings there for three days and was sorry to leave as she boarded the plane on the last night of June, heading for San Francisco. She had a day off the next day, Saturday, and she wanted to enjoy the city before her meetings started on Monday. So far, her American tour had gone well, and she was happy when she boarded the plane at O’Hare Airport for the four-and-a-half-hour flight to San Francisco on Friday night. The time difference was in her favor again for the two-hour time difference. She fell asleep before they took off and didn’t wake up until they landed. She woke up feeling refreshed, and ready to enjoy another city on her trip. Tuesday was the Fourth of July. She hadn’t spent a Fourth of July in the States since she was a child. It was going to be fun! She was smiling as she disembarked from the plane and headed for baggage claim to collect her bags.