Killer Heels (13 page)

‘So modern, that cuff,’ Mireille said, giving it the ultimate
fashion insider’s stamp of approval: to describe something as
‘not modern’ was to consign it, instantly, to oblivion. ‘That
would be perfect with your Chanel tweed jacket,’ Mireille
added thoughtfully. ‘The grey one with the piping. Karl told
me he was customising it for you.’

Victoria’s head snapped back. Mireille had just landed a
series of body blows. Victoria had only picked out that jacket
a couple of weeks ago, on a lightning-fast Eurostar trip to Paris
to select her New York wardrobe from the advance collections:
Mireille was not only making the point that she had discussed
Victoria with Karl Lagerfeld, but that she could style Victoria
with pinpoint accuracy.

Damn her, she’s right, Victoria thought furiously. She had
made only the tiniest of movements towards the Galliano
wristlet. Mireille’s eyes must be sharp as needles. Two-nil to
the Frenchwoman.

‘Jacob’s very excited at the idea of us working together,’
Mireille said, smiling.‘Oh please – do sit down.’ She gestured
with the grace of the ballerina she had once been to the chair
in front of her desk. ‘Adorable of you to wait to be asked,
ma
chère
, but quite unnecessary,’ she added with a sweet smile.

Three-nil.
Fuck! If I sit down, I’m doing what she’s told me to
– but if I don’t, I look sulky . . .
Thinking quickly, Victoria chose instead to stroll over to the
rack of clothes the other editor had brought in, pretending a
sudden interest in the flimsy bikinis and cut-out one-pieces
that were suspended by padded clips from metal hangers.
‘Ugh, I loathe these,’ she said, flicking them with a finger
tipped in gunmetal YSL varnish.‘So gaudy.’
‘
Oui, c’est vrai
,’ Mireille replied with the utmost sincerity.
‘She has completely misunderstood me. I specified Missoni in
the Caribbean, and she brings me the Rio Carnival. The beading in particular is absurd.’
She pushed back her chair and stood up in a fluid movement that belied her age. Joining Victoria at the rack, she lifted
out a heavily-embroidered bikini top that no one would ever
dream of taking near the water.
‘But this,’ she said, draping it over her other hand to display
it better, its bright rainbow hues even more attractive when
viewed in isolation, ‘I thought, perhaps, under the Nina Ricci
mohair cardigan that Lucy just called in. Have you seen it yet?
It’s a particular shade of limoncello that would be perfect to set
off the lime greens in this. I thought perhaps we’d unbutton the
cardigan just enough to let this chartreuse flash through . . .’
She was absolutely right. Victoria knew exactly the cardigan
she meant; it was stunning, and the bikini would look perfect
underneath it. Besides, they needed to feature at least two
Nina Ricci pieces in the next issue. One aspect of being the
editor of
Style
which Jennifer Lane Davis had neglected was
the crucial issue of relationships with the advertisers. Victoria’s
first task, after restructuring the staffing at the magazine, would
be to schedule a whole series of lunches and dinners with the
cream of New York’s ad sales executives, making clear that
their designers and products would be featured extensively
from now on in their fashion spreads and beauty articles.
‘Perhaps,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll have to see the photos before
I decide.’
‘
Mais bien sûr
.’ Mireille smiled even more sweetly, returning the bikini top to the rack. ‘You are the editor – of course
the ultimate decisions are yours.’
‘Well. Yes. I’m glad that’s clear,’ Victoria said gruffly, feeling
completely wrong-footed by this statement. It should have
been a point for her, but it didn’t feel like it; in fact, it felt like
four-nil to Mireille. How was this
happening?
‘I’m very busy,’ she continued, ‘but I’m pleased to see that
you’re pushing ahead here. We have a lot to get accomplished.
I’ve brought some people over from London, and Clemence is
joining us from
Harper’s
. Plus Dietrich from
Vogue
. They’ll all
need to settle in.’
‘How delightful.’ Mireille looked utterly enchanted at the
news that two of the biggest and most spoiled egos in fashion
magazines were about to arrive at
Style
. ‘I cannot wait. What a
wonderful team you are assembling,
ma chère
.’
‘Yes. Well.’ Victoria cleared her throat. ‘It will be. Definitely.
And now I must be going. I’m having lunch with Jacob. He’s
due to pop down and pick me up at any moment.’
‘“Pop down and pick me up”.’ Mireille echoed, clapping her
hands once, gently. ‘How charming! I adore your little English
expressions.
Alors
, I will keep you no longer, in that case.
À
bientôt
, Victoria.’
She returned to her chair, swinging it back to face her bookcluttered desk, which had the effect of turning her shoulder to
her new boss. It was, Victoria recognised with mounting fury, the
same technique she herself used, and what was even more galling
was that she realised she must have unconsciously copied it from
Mireille, back when she had been working for
Style
. Victoria’s
brush-off was much brusquer, more Anglo-Saxon, whereas
Mireille did it in a breezy, casual French style, which somehow
made it even more effective. The hairs stood up on the nape of
Victoria’s neck with anger as she stalked towards the door.
Five-nil.
‘Do give Jacob my best love,’ Mireille called lightly after her.
‘I will be much too
occupée
to see him today, but I’m sure you
will have a delightful lunch
à deux
.’
Six-nil: victory to Mireille. Whatever game they were playing, she was definitely the winner.
Victoria fumed as she stormed through the outer office.
How dare she tell me she’s sure I’ll have a delightful lunch with
Jacob – she’s so patronising!

Mireille’s assistant was cowering behind her desk, not lifting
her head to meet Victoria’s eyes. She’s no fool,Victoria thought
furiously. I’d have bitten her head off if she dared to even look
at me, let alone say a word.

Victoria would have been even more annoyed if she had
known that a mere five minutes after she left Mireille’s office,
Mireille had summoned the junior fashion editor and told her
with great regret that the bikini shoot would have to be
scrapped.

‘It is a great pity,’ she sighed. ‘You have assembled a beautiful selection here, absolutely exquisite. But what can you do?
Victoria’s taste is very banal, very limited. All that beautiful
beading, she completely dismissed it.’ She shrugged philosophically. ‘We will at least be able to use that superb Etro
bikini, so we can salvage something.
Tant mieux
. And do not
worry.’ She smiled at the still-petrified fashion editor. ‘You
have done an excellent job, and I will protect you.’

‘Thank you, Mireille,’ the editor breathed, some colour
returning to her cheeks.
‘
De rien, ma petite
,’ Mireille said fondly. ‘We must all stick
together, mustn’t we? Victoria is a little rough around the
edges, but we will polish her up and make her shine. Show her
how things are done here.’
Mireille turned to the mirror, automatically surveying
herself, pleased to observe that she was as immaculate as ever,
even after that crucial scene with Victoria Glossop. Her face
was thoughtful, myriad ideas and schemes running through
her mind. Mireille was extremely visual; she thought in images,
and it was as if a photo display were scrolling at lightningspeed through her mind, spinning past, until one image clicked
into place and hung there, filling the screen.
The crow’s feet around her eyes fanned deeper as she smiled
like a cat with a whole saucerful of cream. Mireille operated
on instinct, trusting that her first, swift intuition would always
be guided by the steely scaffolding framework she had
constructed during the many years she had spent in the cutthroat business of magazine publishing.
‘
Peut-être
,’ she said slowly. ‘
Oui, peut-être
. . .’ Her smile
widened even further. ‘I may well have an idea that will deal
very satisfactorily with Victoria. Very satisfactorily indeed.’

h God, Victoria’s going to loathe working with Mireille,
Coco thought unhappily as she selected three candidates for the assistant’s job and stacked their
_CV
s in a small pile
next to the much larger one of rejects.
And I’ll bear the brunt of
it. I just hope to God I pick a decent assistant to help me out
.

After the first cull of girls who didn’t have enough fashion
experience to cope with the high level of knowledge the job
required, Coco had selected the three who looked as if they
were used to hard work. Girls who’d got to college on scholarships, who’d put themselves through by working part-time,
and had still managed to not only join, but run, a whole series
of impressive-sounding clubs and party-planning committees.
Girls who had interned at fashion magazines or local papers
every summer.

Girls who were hopefully tough enough not to burst into
tears the first time Victoria swore at them.
‘I see you’ve found the canteen already,’ said a male voice.
Coco had been so absorbed in her search, had so much invested
in the need to replace herself at this desk as quickly as possible,
that she hadn’t even noticed his approach. She looked up, and
knew instantly who was standing in front of her.
The man with his name on the doors of the office, on the
masthead, the letterhead, so many of the things she saw here a
hundred times a day. It was like having William Randolph
Hearst or Condé Nast himself walk into her office; and, to her,
he was more impressive than any photographer or supermodel.
With Mario Testino, Gilles Bensimon, Naomi Campbell, Kate
Moss, she could have coped perfectly fine, had already done so
at
Style
in London. But the big boss, the man who pulled everyone’s strings, who could directly influence her career . . . that
was very different. Coco was dumbstruck.
He was more impressive in person. That didn’t help at all.
He wasn’t that tall, but he was so imposing that it didn’t
remotely matter. There was an air of confidence about him, an
effortless charisma, that she had never known an Englishman
to possess; they tended to be more self-deprecating, less
comfortable in their own skin. No wonder – their skin was
never this glorious shade of golden-tan, their teeth never
flashed so white and perfect when they smiled. Jacob Dupleix,
in his perfectly-tailored navy Valentino suit, his Savile Row
shirt and handmade Italian shoes, looked like . . . like the name
Tom Wolfe gave the bankers in that 1980s novel, Coco thought;
she was reading every book set in New York she could find.
Masters of the Universe
.
No wonder I can’t get a word out, with a Master of the Universe
standing in front of me.
‘So – how’s the coffee?’ asked Jacob Dupleix, nodding at
the paper carry-out cup on her desk. ‘Be honest with me, okay?
If you don’t like it, I’ll go right downstairs and bawl out the
canteen manager.’
Coco knew, of course, that he was teasing her. She had a
split-second to decide how to handle this, how to make an
impression on the man who was her ultimate boss. Normally
she wouldn’t have found it hard at all: it called on one of her
best skill sets, one at which most British girls excelled – witty
banter. Even in her brief time in the US, barely a fortnight, she
had realised it was a real asset here, being able to banter. Most
Americans couldn’t do it, not even the New Yorkers, which
was a surprise. You’d think, with all their witty sitcoms set in
Manhattan, where no one was ever at a loss for a wisecrack,
people here would be even funnier and faster than back home
in the UK.
But no. The combination of British quick-thinking repartee,
plus an English accent, made everyone here fall over backwards with admiration and then rush forward again to help
with anything she needed. Coco was embarrassed to admit it,
but she had already started to posh up her accent over here.
The plummier she sounded – the more like Victoria – the
more tough, stony-faced New Yorkers melted into goofy
friendliness and asked if she lived in a castle back home and
knew the Queen.
I’m going to have to be really careful I don’t go home talking like a stuck-up cow and have everyone take the piss
mercilessly, she knew. But right now, with the head of the
publishing company smiling down at her, she took a deep
breath and drawled, as best she could; ‘Actually, it’s pretty
frightful swill. Any chance you could pop out to Starbucks
for me?’
Jacob’s eyes widened, just fractionally. His full, sensual lips
drew together, and every muscle in Coco’s body tensed, terrified that she had seriously miscalculated how to handle the
situation. Jacob’s hands had been in the trouser pockets of his
suit as he strolled into the office: now he withdrew them, lifted
the back flap of his jacket, so it wouldn’t get wrinkled, and
propped his bottom on the edge of Coco’s desk, sitting right
on the small pile of
CV
s she had just selected. It brought him
closer to her, but more importantly, it invaded her territory,
putting him in a position of domination. His wool-clad thigh
looked huge; he loomed over her. Even his scent – a mix of
cigars, leather and a dark, seductive cologne – imposed itself
forcefully on her senses.
‘So,’ he said, looking down at her, his lips now curving into
a smile. ‘Pretty
and
funny! Victoria sure knows how to pick
’em. What’s your name, honey?’
‘Coco,’ she said, moving a little back in her chair, needing to
put a fraction more distance between them. It was like being too
close to a fire. She was instinctively afraid of getting scorched.
‘Cute,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Like the drink, or Chanel?’
Coco realised she was smiling back at him. ‘Chanel,’ she
said. ‘It was Victoria’s idea, to be honest. I was called something else before.’
His grin deepened. ‘You like it?’ he asked.
Coco’s smile became demure; she looked down, then up at
him under her eyelashes.‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
she asked back. ‘I thought I said it was Victoria’s idea.’
Jacob Dupleix threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re a
pistol, honey,’ he chuckled.
‘Is that a good thing, Mr Dupleix? I haven’t quite got used
to all your American expressions yet.’ Coco was still looking
up from under her eyelashes; she felt sure that she was overdoing it, but her body was completely out of her control. It
wanted to flirt with him, and it wasn’t listening to her brain
when she told it to stop, that it was acting really cheesily.
‘Oh,’ he said, gazing at her intensely, his eyes dark as coals.
‘It’s a
very
good thing. And please.’ He leaned towards her, and
she found herself leaning in too, hanging on his every word. He
lowered his voice a little, deep and confidential, as if he were
telling her a secret, and it made her breath catch in her throat.
‘Call me Jacob, won’t you?’
Coco couldn’t say a word.
‘Aw, please,’ he coaxed, and he reached out with one finger
and tipped her chin up, fractionally, so she was looking him
straight in his dark, knowing eyes. ‘Let’s hear you say it. Come
on. Say my name.’
His finger was wide and warm, still pressed against the soft
underside of her jaw, and he stroked it back and forth
caressingly as he waited for her answer. He was halfway across
her desk, his body almost sprawled over it now, a big lazy cat.
Power and money rolled off him in effortless waves.
Coco’s lips opened, and it took every atom of resolve she
had for her to whisper: ‘Jacob.’
He gave a tiny nod, looking down at her intently, his hand
not leaving her chin. His approval affected her so strongly that
her lower body began to melt into her chair, her thighs
loosening . . .
‘Jacob!’ Victoria’s sharp accent sliced like a knife through
the sexual tension that was flooding between Coco and Jacob.
His finger slipped from Coco’s chin, his body lifted away from
Coco’s desk as he turned towards his new editor, who came
sweeping into the office like a particularly vicious tsunami.
Coco felt utterly bereft as his attention left her. She stared at
the back of his head, the tight dark curls liberally streaked with
silver, the narrow sliver of warm golden-brown skin that
showed above the collar of his jacket. Coco shivered just
remembering his leg on her desk, so close she could have
reached out and touched it.
But it was him who touched me
. She raised a hand to her
jawline, where Jacob had placed his finger, feeling colour rise
to her cheeks. Victoria was speaking, a stream of spiked
words, but Coco couldn’t make out a single one of them.
Victoria went into her office, emerged with her Versace
eelskin bag caught in the crook of her elbow, and rejoined
Jacob, sliding a hand familiarly over his arm, linking them as
she tossed over at Coco: ‘So! You’ll have that all done by the
time I’m back from lunch.’
‘Of course, Victoria,’ Coco said swiftly, though she had
absolutely no idea what she had agreed to do.
‘Nice to meet you, Coco,’ Jacob said as Victoria towed him
to the door, a small impatient tug-boat pulling a majestic ocean
liner. He turned his head and caught Coco’s eye. Bastard, he’s
so sure of himself, she thought, blushing more deeply.
Jacob was smiling at something Victoria was saying. But as
he glanced at Coco, his eyelid dropped momentarily in an
unmistakable wink of complicity.
Electricity shot through Coco. She realised, with huge
embarrassment, that her hand was still on her chin where
Jacob had touched it, and she whipped it away, much too late,
because he must have seen that already, must have realised the
effect he had had on her . . .
And then she realised something else. Her knickers were
damp. Soaked through. When had it happened? When he
touched her, when he winked at her?
No
, she thought.
When he made me say his name
. The
memory alone made her even more excited. Her upper thighs
clamped together instinctively, her pelvis tilting down on the
chair, hard, provoking a mini-surge of release; her eyes closed
for a second as it snapped through her.
And then she imagined Jacob watching her, perched on her
desk, smiling his lazy smile as he saw the effect he had had on
her, and again, the breath caught in her throat and the soft
cotton of her knickers, twisting at her crotch, grew even
damper with arousal.
She wasn’t supposed to leave her desk, not for a moment,
not unless she organised a replacement to answer the phones.
But she couldn’t resist, couldn’t even take the time to buzz
Emily to come in for her. Heart pounding like a tom-tom in
her chest, she stood up and dashed into Victoria’s office, into
the private bathroom which Coco kept stocked with Victoria’s
favourite Acqua di Parma toiletries and Frette checkerboardmotif hand towels, but which she was never supposed to use
herself. Locking the door behind her, she pulled down her
knickers, catching a nail on the lace trim in her haste, and
shoved her hand roughly between her legs. Her eyes closed:
she saw Jacob Dupleix’s face in front of her, his dark eyes
focused on her intently, his wide lips parting, instructing her to
call him by his name, and, imagining that it was his hand
working on her, his warm wide fingers sliding inside her, she
came immediately, her hips juddering back against the rim of
the marble sink.
‘Jacob,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Jacob, Jacob, Jacob . . .’
She came again and again, working feverishly on herself.
She’d been so busy at her job day and night that she had had
no time for her own needs at all; she’d been dieting hard,
tearing round the city running errands for Victoria, exhausting her body and mind so much that every night she’d
collapsed into bed too tired to do anything but sleep. She
didn’t even know how long it had been since she’d last given
herself an orgasm.
I needed this so badly, she thought with huge relief. She was
sweating with effort and excitement, her back damp, her hand
coated lubriciously in her own moisture. It was as if Jacob
Dupleix had turned on a tap, let loose all her pent-up physical
frustration, and now all she needed to do, hopelessly, deliciously, was to close her eyes, picture his face and say his name
and she would come.
As if he were a magician, granting wishes. Knowing what I
need, even when I don’t myself. Giving it to me – oh God
. . .
The thought of Jacob Dupleix actually having sex with
her pushed her right over the edge; if the sink hadn’t been
behind her she might have tumbled to the floor. After that
shattering orgasm she dragged in her breath and forced her
hand away from her crotch, snatching some tissues to wipe
herself down. She turned to look at herself in the mirror
above the sink: her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, her
skin dewy.
If he could see me like this, she thought, would he want me?
Would he—
She had to get back to work.
Had to
. She could hear the
phone at her desk ringing insistently.
I have to stop thinking
about him, or I’ll never get anything done, and I have so much
to do
.
But how can I, when his name’s on everything I look at in this
entire building?
She had to laugh.
It’s like he’s haunting me
.