Killer Heels (35 page)

Coco finished the champagne and stood up, steadying
herself with a hand on the tiled wall. The lighting in the toilets
of L’Arc was appropriately dark and flattering, soft and dim,
glowing pink candles against the black background.
‘That’s a gift,’ Jacob said, turning to face her. ‘A gift you give
me. And I have something to give you in return. Something I
know you want very badly.’
Coco had no idea what it could be. She was very careful not
to express admiration for anything she saw while out with
Jacob; she didn’t want to look, ever, as if she were hinting for
gifts. As well as the clothes and the bags, he had given her the
one-carat diamond earrings that she was wearing, which she
loved, and never took off. But the benefits that came from
dating Jacob, the ones she truly craved, were not financial. His
advice, his mentoring, the way he encouraged her ambition
and her career aims – and yes, fast promotion, that would be
amazing, she admitted – those were what she wanted him to
know that she valued from him.
‘An editorship,’ Jacob said, very amused by the expression
of amazement on her face. ‘Created just for you, my dear. I’ve
been looking at
Teen Vogue
for some time now and thinking
that
Style
should really have its own, younger spin-off.’ He
smiled. ‘I was waiting for the right candidate to come along.
And here you are!’ He stepped forward and took her hand,
looking down at her with great admiration. ‘My little Coco.
Time for you to have your own magazine. When we get back
to New York, your offices will be all ready for you.’
Raising her hand to his mouth, he kissed it.
‘You’re the first-ever editor of
Style Mademoiselle
,’ he informed
her. ‘Like the title? It’s done very well with focus groups, but if
you have strong feelings, we can consider changing it.’
Coco’s jaw had dropped. She stared at Jacob incredulously.
This was her dream job, everything she had hoped to achieve
at her age, the most amazing, exciting development she could
have imagined.
But when she finally managed to speak, the words that
came out weren’t the thanks that she, and surely Jacob, had
expected.
‘I can’t believe you told me this in the loo of a club,’ she said
in a small voice. ‘After I just gave you a blow-job!’
It was Jacob’s turn to look thunderstruck.‘Coco, I—’ he began.
‘It makes me feel like a prostitute!’ she heard herself say.
‘Like it’s just – tricks for treats.’
‘Tricks for treats?’ Jacob repeated, dumbfounded.
‘It’s what my dad says to the dog,’ Coco mumbled, tears
coming to her eyes.
The breath whooshed out of her as Jacob enfolded her in an
embrace.
‘Baby!’ he said, his lips warm against her hair. ‘I’m so sorry.
I never meant you to feel like that! I was going to tell you
when we were sitting outside, in the bar – remember, I started
to say that I’d been talking to Vicky? But then that boy was
staring at you as if he wanted to eat you up, and I couldn’t
resist. It’s a stupid male impulse, you know. When we love a
woman, we get jealous. We want to show the world she’s ours.’
Coco stiffened in his arms. Jacob, completely misunderstanding the reason, took hold of her shoulders, pulling back a
little to look down in her face, his own a mask of concern.
‘God, I’m like a teenager around you,’ he said in despair. ‘I
just had to have you, there and then. I tell you, if I could have,
I would’ve shoved you to your knees under the bar table and
got you to suck me off there. It was totally primitive. You got
my dick so hard—’
‘No!’ Coco finally exclaimed, laughing up at him though
her eyes were wet, barely taking in this stream of words. ‘It’s
not that. You said just now – you said you loved me!’
Jacob took a deep breath. ‘I do love you,’ he said, very serious. ‘I’m madly, crazily in love with you.’
‘Oh, Jacob.’ Coco flung her arms around his neck. ‘I love
you too! I love you so much!’
His mouth closed over hers, his arms wrapped round her
waist, sweeping her off her feet in a long passionate kiss. Coco
returned it with equal passion; only the sound of banging on
the door of the toilet broke up their clinch.
‘Ahh, my back.’ Jacob set her on the ground again, wincing.
‘I’m not as young as I was, I should be more careful.’ But his
eyes were gleaming with pleasure as he opened the bathroom
door to see a huge bouncer standing there.
‘No drugs,’ he said to the bouncer, slipping his hand into his
trouser pocket, pulling out his slim leather Italian clip wallet
and extracting a 50-euro note, which he pressed into the
bouncer’s enormous hand. ‘Just some mutual affection. We’ll
be out in a moment, okay?’
The bouncer nodded and stepped back from the door. Coco
smoothed her hair quickly as best she could in the mirror,
re-fixing its clip. She was glowing, she saw. She had never
looked so beautiful. It was the crazy sequence of events, the
ups and downs of the day and night; incredible shows that day,
her first Dior and Givenchy and Chanel, the fear of Victoria,
the excitement of being at Jacob’s side in this prestigious
company, the encounter with Xavier, the highly-charged game
of sex and dominance that Jacob had played with her—
He loves me! she thought with mile-high exhilaration. He
loves me! I’m the one that Jacob Dupleix loves, and I’m going
to be the editor of my own magazine!
Taking Jacob’s outstretched hand obediently, she trotted
out of the toilet behind him, flashing a brief smile of apology
at the bouncer, who remained stone-faced. They were almost
back at the bar when someone came round the corner, moving
swiftly. Victoria was on them before they knew it.
She took in the two of them wordlessly, her gaze slicing up
and down their bodies; Jacob holding Coco’s hand as they left
the bathroom area, both of them flushed with sex and excitement. It was obvious what they had just been doing, and
Victoria’s glare made that very clear.
She’s been where I am, Coco thought, bridling under the
stare of disapproval. She’s dated Jacob, been promoted as a
result of being with him. She has no right to judge me.
‘Well! Congratulations on your new job, Coco,’ Victoria
eventually said.‘Jacob told me earlier about
Style Mademoiselle
.
I see you’ve wasted no time in starting the celebrations.’
And brushing past them, she dashed into the nearest toilet
cubicle.

hat little bitch! Victoria thought furiously as she struggled to get her support pants down over her bump. She
had reluctantly abandoned the Spanx for this even-more
revolting garment, which was technically a maternity girdle,

but was, effectively, the most enormous pair of control pants
she had ever seen in her life. Victoria, whose underwear, prepregnancy, had consisted of the flimsiest, tiniest Chantelle
thongs, now had an entire drawer in her dressing room stuffed
with ghastly, gigantic white granny knickers.

The worst part was that she now couldn’t live without
them. A couple of months ago, she had been driven to her
ob-gyn by persistent pain around her groin; the doctor had
explained that her body, preparing for birth, was releasing a
hormone called relaxin, which softened and stretched the
joints in her pubis area.

‘It can cause discomfort and pain quite often,’ the ob-gyn
had said sympathetically. ‘And of course, I can’t prescribe you
anything. But a lot of my ladies do very well with maternity
control pants. They seem to hold everything together so you
don’t feel the stretching out quite so badly.’

Victoria had focused most on at the time. The words that she
was already utterly sick of hearing. If I’d known it would be
like this, she thought savagely, finally wrestling off the pants
and plopping down, with huge relief, on the toilet, well – let’s
just say no one ever mentions all the shitty parts of being pregnant. God, now I completely understand why so many film
stars and singers use surrogates or adopt. I can’t wait to get this
baby out of me and go back to normal.

No decent prescription drugs, barely any wine by way of
alternative self-medication, incipient stretch-marks, plus the
fact that she needed to use the loo seemingly constantly. It was
a total and utter nightmare. Jeremy had no idea what she was
going through, none at all.

And perhaps the worst part of all was the sympathetic, tolerant, poor-you glances other women gave her. The men she didn’t
mind so much; either they were oblivious, didn’t even notice
that she was pregnant – it was amazing how imperceptive men
could be – or their eyes slid right over her bump, pretending not
to see it at all. The males in the fashion world were mostly gay,
and they were inevitably the kind of gay man who preferred
women to be as flat-chested and narrow-hipped as possible; to
look, ideally, like pre-pubescent girls or slender teenage boys, on
whom clothes could hang without interruption from any annoying curves or protuberances. Faced with the kind of protuberance
that not only was far beyond their normal range of tolerance,
but also brought with it vivid images of the kind of female mess
and unpleasantness that they did their best never to think about,
they simply ignored the entire situation.

But the women – it was as if their assessing glances and
empathetic comments were intended to drag Victoria down to
their level. She had always, to be brutally honest, thought she
was better than other women; more intelligent, more beautiful, more ambitious, more well-bred. And now this pregnancy
was reminding her that although she might have all those
qualities, she was still subject to the basic laws of biology,
which applied equally to all women, no matter whether they
were a cleaning lady or the editor of
US Style
.

Emptying her bladder, on which the baby had been pressing
insistently, Victoria thought jealously of the actress who was
taking Prednisone to make her face swell up so that no one
would know she wasn’t carrying her own child, the model
who’d had her own sister carry her baby, the singer who’d
bought a baby from the mistress her husband had carelessly
knocked up, avoiding both the scandal and the stretch-marks
in one deft move . . .

Lucky bitches! she thought wistfully, standing up and beginning the process of easing the big knickers over her bump once
again. And it’s not even as if they had the problem of maternity leave. If I have a Caesarian, I’ll have to take more time off,
damnit. Now Jacob’s given Coco her own magazine, I won’t
have to worry about her destabilising me while I’m away, but
they always say it’s better to have your enemies inside the tent
pissing out, rather than outside the tent pissing in, don’t they?

Now she’s outside the tent. Or rather, on the next floor down.
With her own magazine to build up, so she can prove herself as an
editor, set herself up to make a play for my throne . . .

She’s playing her cards perfectly.
Adjusting her velvet Chanel dress, smoothing it over her
swollen stomach, Victoria took a deep breath, set her chin
high in the air, and opened the cubicle door. Sailing back into
the bar, she accepted the respectful smiles and nods of acknowledgement as a tribute to her power and influence. In the corner
of her eye, she was looking out for Lykke, so that she could
steer clear of her.
At least I had the good sense to have a fling with someone
who is so noticeable it’s easy not to bump into her at parties,
Victoria thought with grim humour. After Jacob’s revelation at
the Chanel show, not only that he was head over heels for
Coco, but planning to create a whole magazine for her – why
not just bloody buy her some Barbies to play with? She’s
barely out of the nursery! – Victoria had decided that it was
time for her to bite the bullet and stop avoiding situations
where she might encounter Lykke.
I need to shore up every single contact and point of influence I
have before the baby comes, now that I have a fully-fledged rival
in Jacob’s bed, ready to jump into my shoes as soon as she can . . .
‘Victoria! I did not expect to see you here.’
Mireille glided up to her, holding a glass of champagne. She
was wearing the Chanel suit she had had on earlier, at the
runway show, but she had removed the silk blouse and now
had nothing on under the jacket but a forest-green bra whose
lacy trim was just visible below the lapels. A multi-stranded
glass pearl and strass sea-horse necklace, the characteristic
Chanel overlapping Cs executed wittily as a black Plexiglass is
and enamel pendant hanging from its centre, cleverly filled in
much of her exposed skin and concealed any crepey folds at
her neck. On an American woman in her fifties, the outfit
would have looked irredeemably vulgar, but Mireille’s dancer’s
poise and innate Parisian style made it seem supremely elegant.
Mireille air-kissed Victoria on each cheek, then stepped
back politely. ‘So,’ she said, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. ‘You have seen Jacob and Coco together?’
‘Oh yes,’ Victoria said grimly. ‘Love’s young dream.’
‘There is no fool like an old man with a young woman,’
Mireille sighed.
‘
So
bloody true,’ Victoria said, looking across the room at
where Coco and Jacob were standing, his arm wrapped around
her waist, his other hand gesturing expressively, his face beaming with happiness. ‘He’s setting up a whole new magazine to
give her a toy to play with. Can you believe it? He didn’t do
that for me, damnit!’
‘Nor me,’ Mireille said economically.
Victoria stared at Mireille, at her high dancer’s bun, the
white streak at her temple woven through it as perfectly as
always. For the first time ever, Victoria imagined Mireille as she
must have been when Jacob met her: young, fresh, her face
unlined, her body smooth. Jacob’s age, his first protégée, a
Parisian ballerina whose talent for fashion styling he had spotted and nurtured into full flowering.
‘He did everything he could for me, and then he moved on,’
Mireille said, reading Victoria’s mind with her customary
effortless ease. ‘It is the same for you,
n’est-ce pas
? There is
nothing more that you need from Jacob.
Comme moi
, you have
the job you have always desired. We have achieved our dreams,
we have no more need of him. And Jacob must be needed by
someone. It is of profound importance to him to be needed, to
be able to give gifts. To be the Svengali figure – you know, of
course, the novel by du Maurier –
Trilby
?’
Victoria nodded, even though she didn’t: she had no wish to
show Mireille that she was ignorant of a book that Mireille
spoke of as if everyone should be acquainted with it.
‘You reach your dream,’ Mireille continued, ‘you become
the editor of
Style
in America. And Jacob sees you happy, and
gradually, he begins to look around. Slowly. He does not rush
with his protégées, he does not make a mistake. He chooses
wisely. We must both agree, little Coco makes an excellent
candidate for his attentions.’
Victoria remembered Jacob’s attentions all too vividly. It had
been fun, most of the time; she had been young and wild, happy
to experiment, to play Jacob’s games. The most important thing
to Victoria had been winning, and she had approached all of the
tests he had set her in that light. But there was a crucial difference between her and Coco when it came to Jacob, and, looking
at Coco’s face, upturned to her mentor’s, mesmerised by him,
she knew exactly how to define it.
‘I was never in love with Jacob,’ she said. ‘Coco is.’
‘
Oui
,’ Mireille said, and it was obvious that she was agreeing
to both statements.
Which makes Coco much more dangerous,Victoria thought.
Much more dangerous than I ever was to you, Mireille.
And she could see, from Mireille’s little confirming nod,
that Mireille had once again read her mind and was agreeing
with this statement too.
‘Jacob always made it clear that you were sacrosanct,’
Victoria said slowly. ‘Untouchable.’
Give something to get something. Show Mireille that we need to
bond together against the threat that Coco poses.
‘
Ah oui
?’ Mireille did not, however, seem surprised by this.
‘Jacob is very loyal.’
‘Not,’ Victoria hastened to add, ‘that I ever thought about
– I mean, you do your job superbly. You’re the best creative
director anyone could have. I’m sure publishers are trying to
poach you constantly.’
Mireille’s lips curved up at the corners. ‘
Plutôt souvent
,’ she
admitted. ‘But I am content where I am. It is perfect for me. I
do not like to move, to have change, at my age. I just prefer,’
she met Victoria’s eyes straight on, ‘to not have too much
interference. I have my style, and it works very well. Besides, it
is good to have some variety in the magazine,
non
? To have all
the pictures where girls run and leap and throw themselves, it
is exhausting. Sometimes the reader require images that are
more serene, more posed,
n’est-ce pas
?’
Victoria took a deep breath.
Give something to get something
,
she repeated to herself.
‘Absolutely,’ she agreed. ‘You must do things as you see
best.’
‘
Très bien
,’ Mireille said with great contentment. She patted
Victoria’s arm lightly. ‘And as for
la petite Coco
, she is still very
young. She looks up to you, she sees you as her role model.
You must continue to dominate, as it were. To make her seek
your approval.
C’est tout
.’
She smiled ironically. ‘With that one, the need for approval
is very strong,’ she said. ‘It is her weakness.’
Mireille is absolutely right, Victoria realised. She sees everything; she’s the power behind the throne. Instead of fighting
her, I need to embrace her, make her an ally. If Mireille and I
are a team, we can withstand any attempts Jacob may make to
replace us with Coco. He can’t face down both of us. I know
he can’t.
With ever-increasing respect, Victoria inclined her head
regally towards Mireille.
‘I completely agree with you,’ she said, words that rarely, if
ever, had passed her lips before.
Mireille knew immediately what a concession Victoria had
made. A flash of perfect mutual understanding passed between
the two women, so complete that not a single further word
needed to be said.
‘Mireille, darling!
Love
the necklace!’
André Leon Talley bustled over to talk to her, and Victoria
turned away, surveying the room. Her heart jumped as she
spotted Lykke’s unmistakable white hair, piled on the crown of
her head in an artfully messy pile, giving her another couple of
inches of height; she towered over almost all the other models.
Lykke was moving towards the doors to the terrace of the bar,
but she sensed Victoria’s gaze on her. For a moment, her pale
blue eyes met Victoria’s, just long enough to acknowledge that
she had seen her former lover, but Lykke never stopped in her
tracks; her head turned away and she flowed outside, disappearing from sight.
Victoria watched her go with the same longing that she had
felt ever since she had first seen Lykke. It had never diminished, not by one iota. She was as obsessed with Lykke as she
had always been. Will this ever go? she thought hopelessly. Or
will I always feel this constant, terrible craving for her?
‘Victoria?’ came a voice next to her, and it was with huge
relief that Victoria welcomed the interruption.
Her eyebrows shot up, however, when she realised it was
Coco. She’s come over specifically to talk to me, she thought.
Interesting.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Coco asked, seeing that
Victoria’s hands were empty. ‘Non-alcoholic, of course,’ she
added quickly.
‘No, thanks,’ Victoria said shortly, looking down her long
nose at her former assistant. I’m having to pee all the time as it
is, she thought. I’m not having another drop to drink till I get
back to the suite.
‘Victoria, I just wanted to say . . .’ Coco began awkwardly. ‘I
felt I should come and talk to you, about – you know, officially
leaving
Style
. I didn’t want just to go without talking to you.
You’ve been such an amazing role model for me, I’ve learned
so much from you—’
‘You’re scarcely going very far, though,’ Victoria cut in. ‘Just
down one floor. At the helm of your own magazine.’ Her smile
was icy. ‘A start-up, too. You’re certainly running almost before
you can walk.’
‘I’m terrified,’ Coco said frankly. ‘It’s such a huge deal, to
start up a magazine.’ She looked imploringly at Victoria. ‘I’d
really like to feel that I could use you as a sounding-board
sometimes. You have so much experience. If I could run some
ideas past you, get you to look at a few mock-ups – that would
really help. I know you’ll tell me exactly what you think, and
that’s what I’ll need more than anything.’
She sees you as her role model
. Mireille’s recent words rang in
Victoria’s ears.
You must continue to dominate, as it were
.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said crisply.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Coco gushed. She knew Victoria well
enough to be aware that if her former boss had meant to say
‘No’, she would have done. ‘That means so much to me.’
Much as Victoria wanted to turn on Coco, to rend her from
limb from limb, to call her a disloyal little slut who hadn’t had
the decency to tell Victoria herself that she was fucking the
boss – Victoria’s former lover! – to get her own magazine, she
knew that the momentary satisfaction would not, in any way,
be worth it. To make an enemy of Coco would be a very bad
move, one which Mireille had just warned her against making.
Coco had Jacob’s ear now, could pour all sorts of sweetlyspoken negativity about Victoria into it as they lay in bed at
night –
after he’s untied her, of course
, Victoria thought sardonically.
And made her brush her teeth
.
So much better if Coco was telling Jacob that Victoria was
being hugely helpful and supportive, doing everything she
could to ensure that
Style Mademoiselle
–
ugh, terrible title
– was
a raging success.
‘I don’t like the title,’ Coco was saying. ‘I thought
Mini Style
would be better. We’ll do it in a small format, like
Teen Vogue
.
Teenage girls like minis of everything. They love tiny products.
Charm bracelets, little mini-clutch bags, mini-skirts, minilip-glosses – I want to get a special mini-lip-gloss giveaway for
the first issue. What do you think?’ She had pitched the title
idea confidently, but there was anxiety in her expression as she
looked at Victoria.
‘Chanel Mini,’ Victoria said, nodding at the orange quilted
patent bag hung over Coco’s shoulder.
Coco flushed. ‘That’s where I got the idea,’ she admitted.
‘It’s very good,’ Victoria conceded. ‘I’ll back you up with
Jacob about changing it.
Mini Style
it is. Fuck the focus groups.
I make a point of not listening to a word they say if I don’t
agree with it. Tell Sales and Marketing to piss off if they try to
push their surveys on you.’
‘Thank you!’ Coco looked transported with pleasure.
‘And now I think we ought to be circulating,’ Victoria said,
the standard line with which she moved on from one cocktailparty conversation to the next.
‘I just wanted to say something else. About Lykke,’ Coco
blurted out.
Victoria wasn’t moving as fast as she had done, prepregnancy: she swung back to face Coco again more with a
lumber than an elegant swivel of the high heels she was still
determinedly wearing. Her expression was a mix of fury and
incredulity; she couldn’t believe that Coco had dared to
mention the name that, in Victoria’s hearing, was utterly taboo.
‘I’ve spent some time with her recently,’ Coco said, not
daring to look into Victoria’s eyes, which were grey shards of
steel now.‘Working on that sweater shoot she did with Mireille.
She’s never even mentioned your name.’
‘I don’t know why you would remotely think that information would interest me,’ Victoria heard herself say, her lips as
stiff as if they were carved from wood.
‘Well, I’ve heard some silly rumours going round,’ Coco
continued bravely, ‘and I’m pretty sure you have too. I just
wanted to tell you that I really don’t think Lykke had anything
to do with it. She’s incredibly discreet.’
Victoria stared at Coco, dumbstruck that the elephant in
the room was being named so openly.
‘I actually like her,’ Coco went on, ‘and I can’t believe she’d
say a word about anything she’d been up to. She never joins in
with any of the usual chitchat and gossiping. Honestly, I’m
sure that even if something really
had
happened, she’d never
breathe a word about it.’
She cleared her throat. It was so unlike Victoria to be silent
that delivering this information was unnerving Coco even
more than she’d anticipated.
‘And of course, no one believes anything happened anyway,’
she finished up. ‘It was a total storm in a teacup. I mean, you’re
pregnant, and you’ve never . . . anyway, I just wanted to let you
know that no one’s said anything about it for ages. Everyone
realised how silly it was when they sort of took a breath and
thought about it for a moment.’