Naughty Bits: Too Hot to Print (10 page)

‘And that brings me to exactly what I want to talk about,’ she continued unstoppably.

‘Oh, Vicky baby, I know exactly what you want to talk about,’ Jacob said, hugely entertained. He selected an oyster, carefully squeezed a single drop of lemon juice into the bivalve,
then picked it up, tilting it to his mouth, pursing his full lips as the oyster slid through them. With great relish, he swallowed it slowly and dabbed his mouth with a starched white napkin.

‘I might as well get straight to it then,’ Victoria said, quite unabashed. ‘I want to be the editor of
US Style
.’

‘You will be.’ Jacob picked up another oyster and dispatched it, using the time it took to dress and swallow it to make Victoria wait for his next words. ‘In two years’
time,’ he went on, reaching for the napkin again. ‘Just as we agreed in New York.’

‘But I’m ready
now
,’ Victoria pleaded. ‘I’ve done everything you wanted at
UK Style
, and in half the time you thought it would take. I’ve
cleared out all the dead wood and brought in a really strong team. I have a new editor lined up to replace me, so I could take over in New York tomorrow, and
UK Style
would run perfectly
well along the lines I’ve laid down.’

‘It’s not that simple, Vicky,’ Jacob said, his smile even more charming. ‘We discussed all this in New York, two years ago. You were going to do four years in London,
turning round
Style
for me. Then – and not before – I was going to move you back to the States. I know perfectly well that’s why you agreed to leave
Harper’s
.
You wouldn’t have settled for
UK Style
alone, and I respect that.’

‘I want to be in Manhattan,’ Victoria said intently. ‘It’s the centre of the media world. I should be there. I should be there
now
.’

She steepled her fingers together under her chin, her grey diamond flashing, but her eyes shining even brighter.

‘You know I should,’ she insisted. ‘My whole career’s been leading up to this – it’s the job I was born to have! And this is the right time for me to have
it.’

Jacob was finishing his oysters; he didn’t speak, and Victoria, though inwardly seething with frustration, knew that she had to wait for his response. She’d pushed hard enough.

As he picked up the last fluted shell, she found herself running through the entire trajectory of her career since meeting and impressing Jacob that Fourth of July. She’d spoken no less
than the truth just now: her entire career had been leading up to this moment.

With Jacob’s influence, Victoria had risen quickly up the masthead of
US Style
, propelled by his interest and her own undoubted talent. Jacob was well-known for talent-spotting,
finding protégés and expediting their rise: it was known in the US as ‘Jacob’s ladder’. But Victoria’s meteoric ascent to power was faster, more jet-propelled,
than anyone else’s. By twenty-five she was in charge of a magazine start-up which was a raving success from its first issue; by twenty-eight, she was back at
Style
as executive fashion
editor, a prestigious position which she manoeuvred to give her almost as much authority as the editor herself. An increasingly vicious power struggle between Victoria and Jennifer Lane Davis, the
editor, sent both of them complaining to Jacob, telling him that they were unable to work together. Victoria had wanted Jennifer’s job; Jacob had told her she wasn’t ready. In pique,
Victoria had flounced off to
Harper’s Bazaar
as editor – Hearst had been courting her for years.

Her run at
Harper’s
had been Victoria’s one stint as editor that wasn’t an unqualified success. Hearst and Victoria Glossop weren’t a perfect fit; their ethos was
more classic, more timeless, and Victoria was always impatiently onto the next thing, the most cutting-edge fashion, finding new ways to push the envelope.
Harper’s
had never been her
ultimate goal. She had known it, and so had Jacob.

‘Do you remember what you said when I asked you where you saw yourself in ten years’ time?’ Jacob replied eventually, pushing away the china platter loaded with empty shells,
their interiors gleaming with a pale mother-of-pearl sheen, dappled with drops of juice from the bivalves. ‘When I first got talking to you in Montauk, you said you wanted to be editor of
US Style
.’ He grinned, his teeth perfect and white, showcasing American dentistry. ‘At twenty-two! You see, I even remember how old you were. It was quite something.’

‘I could have done it,’ Victoria told him.

The waiter was hovering, waiting to clear their plates, concerned that Victoria hadn’t touched her soup; she waved him away with a quick, brisk gesture, and took a couple of spoonfuls, her
eyes fixed on Jacob’s face.

‘Nah, I thought I’d let you cut your teeth at
Harper’s
first,’ he said casually.

‘You let me stew there for years!’ Victoria’s spoon clattered back into the bowl; she pushed it away impatiently, signalling that the waiter could take it.

‘Oh, you did good at
Harper’s
,’ Jacob said. ‘Hey, can I get a new napkin?’ He smiled charmingly at the waiter.

Victoria fumed with impatience, but she had to play Jacob’s game now, go at the pace he was setting.

It’s all a big game to him, she thought. He loves to put his hand out and play with us, moving us back and forth like pawns. She remembered the superbly detailed, nineteeth-century
Venetian chess set in Jacob’s New York office, Murano glass, burnt orange versus viridian green, each piece flecked with gold, the board edged richly in 18-carat gold; Jacob amused himself by
working through classic chess problems, his spatulate fingers looking even bigger as he moved the pieces from square to square.

Well, I’m the Queen, she thought with a flash of humour. I can go up and down, from side to side and diagonally too. But I still can’t bloody move unless Jacob lets me . . .

‘Here’s the thing, Vicky,’ Jacob said, and she perked up: finally, they were getting down to business. ‘Jennifer still has two years of her contract to run. You know
that. We talked this over when I came after you at
Harper’s
. You’d do four years here in London – nice little stay back in the motherland for you, and it was a good move
for me. The Brits at
UK Style
weren’t pulling their weight, and tactically it was great for me to send in a Brit to get ’em to shape up. After four years, Jennifer’s
contract would be over and I’d move you back to helm
US Style
instead. You agreed to that, honey. You know I told you Jennifer’s contract is cast-iron – I’d have to
give her a huge payoff if I sack her now.’

Jacob spread his hands wide. ‘You can’t just try to change the rules of the game halfway through,’ he finished. ‘And don’t tell me you’ll take a pay cut to
make up what I have to give Jennifer, because I won’t believe you.’ He grinned. ‘I know how much you love your perks.’

‘I’ll make back every penny of what you have to give her in increased ad revenue alone in the first six months,’ Victoria said sharply. ‘You know I will. Jennifer’s
wasting money over there. She’s playing it too safe, spending tons of money on big names. I can slash her budgets, get actresses who’ll model for free instead of the expensive girls
she’s using, up-and-coming photographers instead of the Top Ten she’s been relying on . . .’

Their main courses arrived, delivered by a waitress who could tell they were deep in conversation; she slid the plates in front of them and disappeared without a word.

‘Plus,’ Victoria added, her voice rising, ‘what kind of stupid name is that – “Jennifer Lane Davis”? I despise women who stick their husband’s name onto
their own when they get married. Either bloody well take his name or don’t! It’s a ridiculous American habit, and it never ends well. The husband never double-barrels her name with his,
and they always get divorced in the end, and then she looks like a total idiot.’

Jacob was laughing now. ‘You’re always entertaining, Vicky,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I love your rants.’

‘Just sack her, Jacob,’ Victoria pressed on. ‘Do it.’ She finished her cocktail, needing Dutch courage for what she was about to say. ‘Because if you don’t
– well, I’ve just had an amazing offer from Bilberry. They’ve been taken over by LVMH – you know, after all the scandal – and they want me to be their creative
director.’

Bilberry was a high-end English leather company, which was now diversifying into stationery and other luxury goods. Its takeover by Moët Hennessy/Louis Vuitton had come after the
sensational arrest of its CEO on an unrelated charge, and provided a huge influx of investment funds which allowed Bilberry to court a fashion editor as high-profile and prestigious as Victoria
Glossop.

‘They say they’ll double my salary,’ Victoria said smugly. ‘And give me an unlimited expense account.’

‘Right,’ Jacob said, taking a frite, dipping it into the ramekin of mayonnaise and eating it with relish. ‘But they won’t let you live in New York, will they? Which is
what you’re dying to do.’

Victoria’s grey eyes narrowed: she started to speak, but Jacob held up a hand, cutting her off.

‘I know you have a whole spiel ready to convince me you’re ready to up sticks and head for Bilberry, Vicky,’ he said gently. ‘And I know it’ll be really convincing.
But I’m not going to believe it.’

Her heart sank. She looked at the mound of glistening dark-pink steak tartare on her plate, surrounded by smaller piles of chopped red onion, capers, anchovies and lemon slices, topped by the
miniature yolk of a quail’s egg, presented in its half-shell. It was her favourite dish, but she had no appetite for it at all.

‘I don’t have to,’ Jacob continued. ‘You’ve made your case.’

It took a few moments for his words to sink in; when they did, Victoria froze, barely able to believe it.

‘Give me a month,’ Jacob said, forking up some sea bass and chewing it with gusto. ‘I’ll go back to New York and set the wheels in motion. I don’t need to tell you
not to breathe a word in the meantime. We’ll bring you over in two months, max. You and Jeremy can have the Columbus Circle penthouse. Happy now?’

He glanced over at her affectionately. ‘Oh come on, Vicky, say something. You got it. You got what you want!’ He raised a hand, and a waiter shot over to answer Jacob’s
summons.

‘Two glasses of the Pol Roger,’ he ordered. ‘We’ve got a celebration on our hands here.’

The champagne arrived almost instantly. Jacob touched his glass to Victoria’s; she had recovered enough by now to lift her own and clink back.

‘To the new editor of
US Style
,’ Jacob toasted.

Victoria barely ever allowed champagne to touch her lips. The first taste was deliciously intoxicating, forbidden fruit, sweet and golden, peaches and almonds in a glass. She set the glass down
before she was tempted to finish it in one go.

‘Was that a test?’ she asked. ‘One of the games you play with yourself, Jacob – like those chess problems you love?’

‘Why, Vicky, whatever could you mean?’ Jacob asked, smiling, one arm thrown along the leather back of the banquette.

‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You and your tests. I think you meant to give me the job all along, as long as I fought hard enough tonight.’

Jacob’s smile deepened, but he didn’t say a word.

‘I learned that from you,’ Victoria said, taking a delicate mouthful of steak tartare; it was delicious. ‘How to test people. I remember every single one of the tests you put
me through.’

‘And you passed every one,’ Jacob said with great satisfaction, taking a handful of frites. ‘From the very start, when you were a little slip of a thing barely out of your
teens.’ He looked at her fondly. ‘You had no hips at all, honey.’

‘Just the way you like them, Jacob,’ Victoria said dryly.

She was overwhelmed with excitement at having achieved her goal, adrenalin flooding through her veins like liquid silver. But she knew she had to act cool; Jacob didn’t like women who
gushed or sobbed or displayed any emotional excesses.

‘Uh-huh,’ Jacob said, quite unfazed. ‘Just the way I like them.’

He reached out and squeezed Victoria’s leg briefly, high up, his large hand sliding under the hem of her mini-skirt, almost wrapping entirely round her narrow upper thigh. It reminded her
of a trainer she knew assessing a new piece of horseflesh, squeezing the horse’s flanks, checking them for strength and alignment. Victoria smiled, proud of how well she’d kept her
figure; she’d been an American size zero ever since she’d moved to the States and promptly slimmed down to what Manhattan considered an ideal weight.

‘You haven’t put on a pound,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Not a single pound. Good girl.’

His hand lingered for a moment, his index finger reaching up just a little further, tracing slow seductive circles under her skirt, an intimate caress completely concealed from any passing
waiter, anyone at the facing tables. The circles widened, deepened, his hand radiating heat, his finger just grazing the lace trim of her silk Myla French knickers; he flicked his fingertip against
the lace, once, twice, a little tease, but also a gesture of control.

I know what underwear you have on
, his gesture said.
I can touch it if I want
.

And Victoria’s body responded. Her thighs relaxed on the banquette, easing apart just fractionally, her groin dipping down, demonstrating to Jacob that his clever, caressing fingers were
having the effect he wanted. It was as if he had stroked a cat just enough to coax it into rich, heavy, satisfied purring before he removed his hand. Giving her leg a pat of approval, he returned
to eating his main course with a complacent expression on his full lips.

How very Jacob, Victoria thought, raising her own fork to stir capers and onions into her finely-minced steak, tilting the quail’s egg yolk into the mixture and placing the empty shell on
the side of her plate. Her hand was perfectly steady, she was pleased to notice.
He’s given me a hugely powerful position, and in return, he’s had his little dominant moment, made
the point that he has the ultimate power.