Naughty Bits: Too Hot to Print (9 page)

Which left Victoria in something of a quandary. Because Coco would clearly soon deserve a promotion. But Victoria had no desire to promote Coco; ideally, she would have kept Coco as her
gatekeeper forever.

‘All right,’ Victoria said curtly, walking out of the office. ‘See that it all goes smoothly.’

From her, this was a huge compliment: not a single negative word. Briefly, Victoria considered throwing in something snippy, to keep Coco on her toes – but Coco was always on her toes,
alert and ready.

Like the best kind of dog, Victoria thought, amused. Always anticipating what you’re going to ask it to do, but not slobbering over you or licking your shoes.

The car was waiting outside the glass doors of the Dupleix building, the driver running to open the door as soon as he saw Victoria exit, resplendent in her mink jacket and impossibly short
white grosgrain Cavalli mini-skirt. Sinking into the leather seat, crossing her endless legs, Victoria debated briefly with herself on how to make sure Coco stayed in her current job for as long as
possible. How could Victoria bear to lose the only assistant she had ever had who never, ever, bothered her boss with a single piece of information about her private life?

God, how I loathe women and their endless compulsion to tell each other everything! Victoria thought crossly. I’ve already looked at enough bloody family photos and pretended to care about
my bosses’ fiancés and weddings and babies to last me the rest of my life. Why don’t people realise that you don’t actually give a shit about their stupid boyfriends?
Anyone who listens to you drivel on is either sucking up, or biding their time till it’s their turn to witter on about their own love life . . .

Years ago, as a feature writer on
Vogue
, Victoria had been sent to interview a female producer at the BBC who had worked on a sitcom parodying the sacred monsters and over-the-top
characters in fashion PR. Written by a woman, with an almost entirely female cast, it had been a template for all the girls-behaving-badly comedies that had followed it, a huge and enduring
success, a flag-planting moment for women who wanted power in the media.

She would never forget what the producer had answered when Victoria had asked her about working with other women. Leaning forward, digging both her hands into the roots of her curly hair,
dragging the skin of her forehead tight, the producer had said bitterly, ‘I never want to have to start another bloody meeting at the BBC sitting down at the table and having to do the round
of: “Ooh, you look good, have you lost weight? I
love
your jacket! No, I love
your
suit! Your hair really suits you like that. How are Jack and the kids? Lily’s just
starting school, isn’t she – how’s she settling in? And is your cat better after it got that infection last year?” God!’

She stared at Victoria, eyes dragged outwards by the fingers in her hairline, face distorted.

‘You know what it’s like,’ she said cynically. ‘You work in magazines, it’s all women there too. Shit, the time I waste on that rubbish! And they get really
offended if you don’t remember the name of their cat or their kid or their husband! You know who doesn’t do this? Men. They don’t give a shit about each other’s families and
they don’t bloody pretend they do. Women are such hypocrites.’

She caught herself.

‘That’s all off the record, of course.’

Victoria’s article hadn’t been much good – she was no writer, and was quickly moved back to the fashion desk ladder by the editor who was mentoring her. But that
producer’s words had echoed in her mind ever since. It was a bare five-minute ride from Brewer Street across Regent Street to Piccadilly, and by the time the car pulled up outside 160
Piccadilly, the stunning Grade II listed building with its three grand arches, decorated with elaborate and delicate wrought-iron struts and curlicues that had housed Wolseley cars in the 1920s and
was now one of the most fashionable restaurants in London, Victoria had determined to keep Coco in her assistant job as long as possible. Coco would kick and scream and plead for a promotion, she
was sure, but Victoria would hold her off. She was simply too valuable where she was right now.

And she wants what I can give her enough to stick it out for at least a year longer, Victoria thought with satisfaction as she strode up the marble steps and into the Wolseley, past the liveried
doorman who was holding open one of the enormously heavy glass-and-iron doors.
I’ve got her over a barrel.

Victoria didn’t give her name to the greeter at the front desk; she expected to be recognised instantly, and she was.

‘Ms Glossop!’ the greeter said quickly. ‘How nice to see you again. Mr Dupleix is at his usual table.’

A waiter led Victoria past the black-lacquered bar, over the black and white zigzag marble floor to the table for four where Jacob was waiting, placed strategically near the entrance, so that
Victoria could see everyone and be seen in her turn. The Wolseley hosted the most famous actors, TV presenters, writers and business tycoons in London, a clientele which was used to instantly
recognisable faces passing their tables every few minutes, and which was far too sophisticated to gawk openly.

But Victoria Glossop’s arrival turned every head. Though as stunning as an actress or a model, Victoria had infinitely more power. She could make careers by declaring a woman a fashion
icon or putting her on the coveted front cover of
Style
. She had the looks of a professional beauty and the authority of a tyrant, a combination rare enough that everyone in the Wolseley had
to sneak a quick look at her, to see her for themselves. Many raised a hand in greeting, and Victoria cast brief smiles in their direction, though without slowing her catwalk stride. Jacob Dupleix
rose from his seat to greet her, arms outstretched, and the sight of him drew even more attention. The actors and presenters and writers were supplicants, famous as they were. Jacob and Victoria
were the fame-makers, the powers behind the scenes who pulled the strings and made the puppets dance. They were the ones who needed to be courted, flattered, fawned to. And they knew it.

‘Darling!’ Jacob said, enfolding Victoria in a warm embrace, then pulling back to look at her, holding her shoulders, before planting a kiss on each cheek. Though Jacob had been born
and brought up in New York, his family’s origins were a complex mixture of European and Middle Eastern wealth and influence, and his manners were elaborate and courtly.

‘You look as beautiful as ever,’ he said fondly. ‘Please.’ He gestured to the leather banquette beside him, waiting until Victoria had smoothed her minuscule skirt
underneath her tiny bottom and sat down before he took his place beside her. This was how Jacob always preferred to be seated when he dined tête-à-tête with an attractive woman,
on a banquette they shared; and he had the status, even at the best restaurants, to reserve a table for four if necessary to ensure his preference.

‘An apéritif, Ms Glossop?’ a waiter enquired, gliding up to the table.

‘VLT,’ Victoria ordered. ‘Plenty of ice.’ Vodka, lime and slimline tonic was the carb-free drink of choice for fashion-istas watching their weight.

‘So,’ Jacob said, as she shrugged her arms out of the mink jacket, draping it over her shoulders. ‘How are you, my darling?’ He smiled happily. ‘I’ve been
taking meetings with my editors all day, but this is the moment I’ve been looking forward to. My fervent congratulations. You’ve done the most amazing job.’

Victoria smiled complacently. She knew she had, but it was pleasant to hear her boss say it, rather than having to make the point herself.

‘
Style
’s brighter,’ Jacob continued. ‘Livelier, hipper, peppier. Younger. And the advertisers love it. The circulation is rising and we’ve just managed to
raise ad rates, even in these terrible economic times.’

Victoria’s smile deepened, but she didn’t say a word. When people were praising you, you let them keep going. Most women would have felt obliged to murmur a self-deprecating comment
at this stage, but the reason Victoria was so successful was that she wasn’t most women. And she certainly didn’t do self-deprecating.

‘Your cocktail, madam,’ the waiter murmured, sliding it in front of Victoria. ‘Are you ready to order your dinner yet?’

‘Tomato soup and steak tartare, no frites,’ Victoria said without even looking at the menu.

‘Half a dozen fines de claire oysters and the sea bass,’ Jacob said cheerfully. ‘Give me her frites on the side, why don’t you? I love the way you guys do them here. Even
better than Balthazar,’ he added, naming the famous SoHo bistro that was the Wolseley’s New York counterpart. ‘And bring me some mayo too, why don’t you.’

The waiter gathered the menus and slipped away. Jacob raised his glass of champagne to Victoria in a toast.

‘To my star editor,’ he said fondly. ‘Jesus, Vicky, how long’s it been?’

‘Oh God.
Decades!
’ Victoria said jokingly, clinking her glass with his.

It had, in fact, been twelve years or so since Victoria, an achingly-ambitious, twenty-two-year-old, very junior editor at
US Style
, had targeted, focused on and succeeded in dating an
influential, much older art dealer simply because he was a good friend of Jacob Dupleix. Twelve years since she’d been taken by the art dealer to Jacob’s mansion in the Hamptons, the
stretch of Long Island where the truly rich New Yorkers maintained beachfront houses that cost in the tens of millions, for Jacob’s renowned Fourth of July party, and, between the firework
displays and private concert by Mariah Carey, had wangled an introduction to the great man himself. Exquisitely turned-out in a white poplin Armani mini-dress and stratospheric heels, looking as
cool as a cucumber, her cut-glass English accent enchanting even the most jaded of Americans, Victoria had been an instant hit with Jacob even before she casually dropped into the conversation that
she was one of his employees.

‘You know what I tell people about you?’ Jacob asked rhetorically, drinking some champagne. ‘I could tell from the moment I met you that you had more ambition in your little
finger than most people have in their whole goddamn bodies. I can smell it on people. It’s my special talent.’ He grinned. ‘Baby, if you could bottle that and sell it, we’d
be billionaires.’

Jacob Dupleix made being in your fifties look like the prime of life. It helped that his complex ethnic origins had given him a smooth, Mediterranean skin colour that looked as if he had a
perpetual tan, and that his lightly-silvered mane of hair was still so thick that it made his balding, hair-plugged contemporaries grind their teeth with jealousy. His dark eyes gleamed with
seductive warmth; everything about his demeanour spoke of worldly wisdom and the kind of sexual experience that made women melt with anticipation. In his time, he had been compared to Jeff
Goldblum, Antonio Banderas, Imran Khan, even King Juan Carlos of Spain.

Although Jacob was definitely not running to seed, decades of five-star living had put a little excess weight on him; he had a personal trainer and nutritionist, but he ignored their
instructions as much as he followed them. His dark Hugo Boss suit was expertly cut to flatter his silhouette, and his big frame could carry the extra pounds that fine dining and finer wines had
packed on.

He’s as charismatic as ever, Victoria thought, sipping her VLT and looking Jacob up and down with open appreciation.

‘I know, I know,’ Jacob said, his dark eyes glinting. ‘I could stand to lose a few pounds, and you look as skinny as always. I should take diet tips from you, Vicky. You look
amazing. Jeremy’s a lucky guy.’

‘He certainly is,’ Victoria said briskly. ‘And he knows it, too.’

Jacob’s grin deepened. ‘Yeah, I bet you remind him morning and evening just how lucky he is,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t, but I will,’ he added over his shoulder
to the waiter extending a wooden tray of freshly-baked rolls. ‘Give me that one, the tomato bread. And don’t even bother showing the lady anything with carbs in it – am I right,
Vicky?’ He ripped open a roll, bringing it to his nose, nostrils flaring with pleasure as he inhaled the delicious, yeasty smell of the bread studded with sundried tomatoes. ‘Mmn, that
smells good.’

Victoria, never one to be distracted from her goal, completely ignored the pleasure Jacob was taking in his roll.

‘Jeremy may be lucky,’ she said, taking another measured sip of her cocktail, ‘but I’m not. Because I work like a Trojan for everything I’ve achieved. I push
everyone around me hard, but I push myself hardest of all. You know that, Jacob.’

‘I do,’ he agreed through a mouthful of fluffy bread.

‘And I’m ready for my next challenge,’ she continued firmly.

‘Now, Vicky—’ he started.

‘I’ve done everything you asked me to do.’ In a characteristic gesture, Victoria raised her slim hand and ticked off the points on her fingers. ‘Raised circulation,
increased advertising, raised ad rates, practically doubled the subscriptions, made the magazine the most fashionable periodical in the UK. It flies off the shelves, and the website’s won a
whole string of awards. You know how shitty that website was before. Practically nonexistent. I sacked everyone on it and brought in my own people. Have you looked at it recently?’

‘I look at everything,’ Jacob assured her, dusting the crumbs off his hands. ‘Believe me, I do.’

‘So you know what a transformation I’ve created!’ She smoothed back her already perfect chignon. ‘It’s just what you wanted, much more vibrant and alive. I
instructed all my editors that everything had to be shot in motion. The girls jump and run and smile much more than they used to.’ Victoria pulled a face. ‘God, the fuss everyone made
at first. “It’s not the British way to smile in fashion shots,” they told me,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Everything was so dour and serious. Well, not any more! And
it’s what women want to see,’ she added passionately. ‘American energy and drive. It’s so much more fun.’

The waiter brought their first courses, but Victoria completely ignored her tomato soup; she was turned away from her place setting, towards Jacob, making her pitch with fervency.