Killer Heels (16 page)

And when Victoria had come back after the summer holidays, Eleanor was no longer there. She had been sent to another
school – a mixed one this time. They had kept in contact, but
not for long. Victoria didn’t even remember being that upset.
She hadn’t understood why the teacher had even bothered to
mention their silly, childish games; if anything, she’d been a
little embarrassed by the idea that they’d been seen acting out
romantic stories. That the teacher might have been concerned
that she and Eleanor would have ended up hiding in a broom
cupboard, fucking as madly as wild animals on heat, had never
even occurred to her.
But now – now that she was jamming her pussy frantically
against the pussy of a six-foot, half-albino, Finnish model
whom she had barely met ten minutes ago, coming harder
than she ever had in her entire life – now Victoria was remembering Eleanor, for the first time in so many years, and
wondering if that teacher might have had a point, after all . . .
‘
Fuck!
’ she screamed, as Lykke, with a last, powerful thrust
of her hips, collapsed on top of her, dragging in long, agonised
breaths. Victoria’s body jerked under Lykke’s, her buttocks
beating a slower and slower tattoo against the trestle table,
until she finally came to rest.
‘Not on top of me,’ she muttered, and Lykke rolled sideways, removing her weight from Victoria’s.
‘You remind me of someone,’ Victoria said, turning to look
at her, amazed at the words that were coming out of her own
mouth. It was as if her brain wasn’t filtering her thoughts, her
actions, any longer.
‘Oh yes?’ Lykke smiled.‘Some other girl you fucked before?’
There was a pink flush down her neck, to the opening of her
catsuit. The flush would stretch beyond, down perhaps to her
breasts. Victoria wanted to drag down the zipper, expose her
chest, see the colour of her nipples – pink, she thought. Pale,
pale pink. The idea made her sit up, pull her own skirt down,
frightened that she would do that, would bare Lykke’s tiny
breasts. And that would make it all start once more. They
would fuck again and again, stay in this studio for hours, not
leave until night had fallen and they were too sore to move . . .
‘No,’ Victoria said, looking away from Lykke to regain
control. She reached behind her, gathering her hair back into
its chignon. ‘I never fucked another girl before.’
Lykke’s eyes widened, the ring around the pale blue iris
seeming even more vivid with her surprise.
‘Oh,’ she said softly.
Picking hairpins off the table, securing her chignon back
into smooth elegance, Victoria waited to hear if Lykke would
say anything more, but she remained silent as she pushed
herself up off the table, drawing her gilet over her chest again,
concealing the still-hard thrust of nipples against the thin
white jersey covering. Victoria stood back up too, grateful
again for the demanding exercise programme that gave her the
ability to balance on her high heels, her core contracting to
keep her upright even though her legs wanted to wobble and
her pussy was still throbbing. Not just her pussy; Lykke’s
narrow, prominent hipbones had driven into her inner thighs
again and again. She’d have bruises tomorrow morning.
The memory was overwhelming. Victoria glanced down
swiftly at the table, and then headed for the door.
‘You’re Elite?’ she said, though it wasn’t a question: the
name of Lykke’s modelling agency was clearly marked on the
portfolio. ‘Good. You can see yourself out. I’ll be—’
She had been going to say ‘in touch’, but she couldn’t get
those words out.
‘We’ll—’ she started again.
No, ‘we’ was all wrong too. Victoria was at the door by now;
they hadn’t even locked it.
My God. What the hell had come
over her? What the fuck just happened?
She wrestled it open,
and couldn’t resist a last look back over her shoulder. Lykke
was collecting her portfolio, her hobo bag, pulling her flood of
white curls back into its elastic again. The pink was still in her
cheeks, over the narrow rise of her collarbones, down to the V
of her chest where the tag of the zipper was resting, the zipper
that Victoria could so easily pull down . . .
Victoria shot out, rushing down the corridor to stab the Up
button of the lift, in a tearing hurry even though she knew that
Lykke would wait. Lykke wouldn’t follow until she was sure
that Victoria had gone back to her office. Lykke would do what
Victoria wanted her to do. Just as Lykke had done, this afternoon, exactly what Victoria had wanted – even though Victoria
hadn’t even known that she wanted her to do it.
Eleanor and I used to hide behind those big oak trees in
the school grounds, Victoria remembered suddenly. The bark
of the trees dug into my back, through my uniform shirt,
when it was my turn to be the girl and Eleanor was kissing
me. Were they oaks? The bark was terribly rough, but I never
minded. In fact, I only noticed afterwards that my back was
all scratched up.
Victoria had never been more grateful to hear a sound than
she was at the overhead pinging that announced the arrival of
the lift which would carry her back to normality. To her office,
her magazine, her office at the centre of it all.
To being in control once again.

lmost finished. Coco had been working her way through
the various sections of the fashion cupboard, which was
really a whole suite of open rooms, a seemingly-endless
Aladdin’s cave of bright glittering jewellery and accessories,

soft silky fabrics, feather and furs and shearlings, all now
perfectly arranged and organised, each rack labelled, the drycleaning hung up and classified.

Just some shoeboxes to sort through, and then she could go
home; it was already past nine o’clock. She opened up a Gucci
box and drew out a pair of suede heels, palest pink and so soft
she couldn’t resist drawing the back of one against her cheek;
until you started handling luxury goods on a regular basis, you
simply couldn’t believe the quality of materials that were
available to the rich. The suedes and leathers, the silks and
velvets that the really high-end designers used were so exquisite to the touch that they made anything Coco had owned
before coming to
Style
look like pleather and polyester by
comparison. These heels, which she placed on a narrow shoe
shelf, careful that her hands weren’t leaving any faint traces of
sweat or moisturiser on the delicate suede, were a perfect
example of how cocooned in comfort rich people really were.

Us plebs think we’re wearing cashmere – we buy it from
Uniqlo or M&S and feel glamorous, she thought. But then you
pick up a Loro Piana cashmere sweater, and you realise that
you might as well be wearing some cheapo acrylic blend,
compared to the really good stuff.

And the sizes were so much smaller in designer clothes!
That had been another shock to Coco. A high-street medium
was much more generous than a designer one. Although Coco
was now an American size 4 in a chain like Zara or Club
Monaco, she could barely squeeze into a designer size 6. It
meant that she’d missed out, to a large extent, on one of the
huge perks of running the fashion cupboard – borrowing
clothes. The size 4-and-under girls ran in and out, pulling
outfits for themselves on a regular basis, according to how
much status they had at the magazine and how nice they were
to Coco. She’d watched them trying on dresses and trousers
and fitted tops with sheer jealousy: those were items that you
couldn’t cheat on, that looked awful if they were too tight.
She’d had to limit herself to knits, which had a forgiving
amount of stretch, or jackets. The trick about jackets, she’d
worked out, was that you didn’t have to do them up. You could
just wear them open, and if it got chilly, you pulled out a featherlight vicuna-silk blend wrap and draped it cleverly in the gap.

God, who’d have thought it back in London? Coco
wondered ironically as she opened more boxes and stacked
their superb contents on the shoe shelves. I’m the thinnest I’ve
ever been in my life – I’d be a size 8 back in London – and here
I am, too fat for the fashion cupboard at
Style
. She was doing
regular cardio at the gym – in addition to the Dupleix one,
she’d joined a local branch of Crunch – 500-calorie workouts,
which took her at least forty-five minutes a time. Plus classes
at Core Pilates, down on University Place, below Union Square;
it was on the way home, just a couple of stops on the Q train
to the flat she shared with Emily in Brooklyn. Everyone at
Style
raved about the studio, and it was true, it was amazing.
The teachers were all brilliant, every single class was different,
and they had a range of equipment that was frankly daunting.
Yesterday Coco had, along with two other women, been lying
on her side on something they called a chair but she’d secretly
nicknamed the ‘torture stool’, trying to stay completely
balanced while pumping its weighted pedal up and down with
one arm and then the other. Her obliques and biceps were
agonising today; she winced a little every time she picked up a
shoebox. That was the thing about studios which varied their
classes – they got you in a different muscle group every time.
Some part of her body always hurt from Pilates.

It’s so hard! she thought gloomily, rolling back her shoulders
in an attempt to bring some relief to her aching muscles. The
amount I’m working out, I’d really think I’d be a designer size
4 by now . . .

That still wouldn’t make her a model size, of course. Models
were an 0-2 nowadays. Skinny bitches, Coco thought enviously, they can slip in and out of anything. Plus, they have no
boobs. She was beginning to resent hers, now smaller, but still
frustratingly present, along with her curvy hips – you can take
the girl out of Luton, but you can’t completely take Luton out
of the girl. Her mum, her sister, were both big, curvaceous
women, and no matter how Coco dieted and worked out, she
couldn’t change her basic bone structure, or the DNA that
gave her padding in those precise areas where most clothing
designers loathed women to have them. The Russian and
Eastern European girls who were so popular at the moment
were ridiculously long and thin, with hips as straight as a boy’s,
concave stomachs and almost-flat chests. Of course, it helped
if you got the models at fifteen, ideally before they’d even
started their periods.

Contemplating the shoes she’d lined up, Coco thought
snarkily, Oh well, they may be tall and thin, but they’ve all got
feet like boats. Five-foot-ten or eleven models wore American
size nines or tens, UK sevens or eights; even with the steep
heels – which disguised large feet to some extent, making
them look a little shorter – it was undeniable that the shoes
would look prettier if they were a couple of sizes smaller. A
casting for a Miu Miu runway show last year, determined to
showcase its latest shoes in a size 8, had famously had models
sobbing as they fought, Ugly Sister-like, to cram their feet into
shoes a whole size too small for them and then do their best
walk as if they weren’t in screaming agony.

Complacently, Coco looked down at her size 5 feet with
their perfect pedicure. Manhattan might be stressful, its inhabitants tightly packed onto a small island like grumpy sardines,
but it did offer wonderful perks. Round the corner from Coco
and Emily’s apartment was a choice of nail salons where a
mani-pedi cost $35, with whirlpool massage chairs and
UV-drying lights to harden the polish as fast as possible. The
girls had quickly learned the New York trick of walking to the
salon in flip-flops, so that, after your foot soak and massage,
you could put your flip-flops on again and have your polish
done while you wore them; that way, you walked back home
again without smudging your polish by slipping shoes over it.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ came a deep male voice, almost
a purr, and Coco jumped.
It was late; most of the
Style
staffers had left for the day, but
Coco had stayed on to get the fashion cupboard in mint condition before she started her junior fashion editor job the next
day. It wasn’t just that Coco was a perfectionist; she was learning from Mireille the strategy of mentoring people who were
junior to her at work. Nadege, who was taking over the running
of the cupboard, would eagerly turn to Coco for advice, be
hugely grateful she didn’t have to sort out any messes Coco
had left behind, would keep an eye out for items that Coco
might want to borrow and let her know when they came in.
Alyssa, Victoria’s new assistant, was the first of Coco’s growing
network of junior girls indebted to her, and Nadege would add
to that count.
Coco was watching both Victoria and Mireille acutely,
copying their strategies for success. As a career-boosting tactic,
it seemed to be working very well.
And now, looking at the man who had just walked into the
cupboard, she went bright red. Thinking of what both Mireille
and Victoria had reputedly done with him, and which certainly
hadn’t done their careers any harm . . .
‘Hi, again.’ Jacob Dupleix smiled, his teeth flashing white.
‘It’s your last day here, isn’t it? And then you move on and up.’
Coco hadn’t touched up her make-up for hours, or run a
brush through her hair. And the lighting in here was cruel,
white and clear, simulating daylight so editors could ensure
they were seeing the colours of the clothes they picked out as
they really were. She was sure she looked horribly scruffy,
every imperfection emphasised by the merciless lighting.
Whereas Jacob Dupleix – his dark suit as smooth as if he had
just slipped it on, his eyes sparkling, his skin buffed and
scrubbed and moisturised, carrying a spicy bergamot and
amber scent – was as intimidatingly, perfectly groomed as ever.
‘How did you know?’ Coco asked, feeling stupid even as the
words left her lips.
Victoria, of course. Victoria told him.
‘Victoria says you’ve done a really kick-ass job here,’ Jacob
commented, looking round him. ‘I’ve gotta say, it looks in
really good shape.’
‘Thanks,’ Coco managed, her brain racing with speculation.
What did he want? Why had he made a special visit to the
cupboard to see her?
‘I wanted to swing by and congratulate you,’ he said, propping his shoulders against the shelves, leaning back, looking at
her with frank approval. ‘You’re shooting up the ladder, Miss
Coco. From Vicky’s assistant to fashion cupboard to junior
editor in just a few months. Pretty meteoric rise so far. I look
forward to seeing some of your layouts.’
Coco flushed even deeper.
‘Oh, I’ve got so many ideas,’ she said eagerly.‘I love Victoria’s
aesthetic. You know, she likes things to be really dynamic, lots
of movement and fun. But,’ she added quickly, to show Jacob
that she could be flexible, ‘Mireille’s got the most incredible
eye. She’s so artistic. I want to learn a lot from her as well.’
Jacob’s smile deepened. ‘Smart girl,’ he said. ‘Learn from
the best, and learn it fast.’
‘Oh, I will,’ she assured him fervently.
‘I always like to take an interest in my rising stars,’ Jacob
said, the last two words making Coco’s heart pound against
her ribcage. ‘I hand-picked both Mireille and Vicky, did you
know that? Mireille was a dancer, but that’s a tough life, and a
damn short one. I saw what a great eye she had, encouraged
her to take up fashion styling. And Vicky was a pistol from the
word go. Like you, I think. I called you a pistol the first time
we met, didn’t I?’
Coco nodded.
And then you stroked my chin, and told me
to call you by your first name . . .
The memory was paralysing.
She’d been cockier before, more able to banter and be funny;
once he’d touched her, activated something deep within her,
that part took over. Now she was remembering, all too
clearly, what it had been like to be touched by Jacob’s wide
index finger—
He pushed off the shelving wall and strolled towards her, his
footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. Coco tightened every
newly-worked muscle she had in the effort not to back away;
she had to tip her head up to look at him, even shorter without
her heels. Despite Jacob’s colouring being so dark, and his hair
so thick, his jaw was perfectly smooth, not a trace of stubble or
five o’clock shadow. His skin glowed with vitality.
Like all the rich people, she thought, having some experience with them now. It’s not just the clothes they wear, the
cashmeres and suedes and silk suits. It’s their skin, too. They
can afford the best nutrition, the best dermatologists, the best
moisturisers and procedures . . .
‘Remember what I told you to call me, when we met
before?’ Jacob said gently, so close now she could feel his warm
breath on her face.
‘Jacob,’ she managed, in a very small voice.
‘Good girl,’ he murmured, and she found herself leaning in
to catch every word. He’s like a snake charmer, she thought,
hypnotised.
She knew her eyes were wide, that she was staring up at
him like a pathetic schoolgirl with a crush on the teacher.
Desperately she told herself to say something funny, snappy, to
remind him of why he’d liked her in the first place, to show
some personality and not just act like a stupid sixteen year old.
And then he lifted his hands, turning their palms upwards,
and cupped them on each side of her head, under the ends of
her hair, bouncing the long bob up and down. He wasn’t
touching her skin at all, but every nerve-ending in her body
fizzed, rose, wanting to push herself against his hands, feel his
skin on hers.
‘Will you take a little advice from a man old enough to be
your father?’ Jacob said, his lips quirking in amusement.
Coco nodded again, her own lips parting.
‘Your hair doesn’t suit you like this,’ he said, considering her
carefully. ‘It’s too long. It should only skim your shoulders, to
show off your neck better. Then you can push it back,’ he
suited the action to the word, ‘perhaps even fasten it back
here . . .’ His big hands took her hair to the nape of her neck,
holding it there. ‘Mmn,’ he said. ‘Much better. I like this. Will
you do that for me? Cut it and pull it back like that?’
‘Yes, Jacob,’ Coco managed to say.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment in satisfaction. One
hand clasped the back of her neck, so warm that she arched
into it, pushing against him like a cat wanting to be stroked.
She felt his fingers, splayed across her nape, closing around it
just enough to encircle it before he released her; it was all she
could do not to gasp aloud in frustration as his touch left her.
‘Girls on the way up should look their absolute best,’ Jacob
said seriously, his tone abstract, almost impersonal, the boss
giving an employee. ‘If I may . . .’
He slid his hands down, touching her hips with one finger
on each side of her body, through her heavy cotton pencil skirt.
Coco jumped, and Jacob huffed out a little laugh of
amusement.
‘There’s still a little too much here, isn’t there?’ he said,
tracing little circles on her hips with the tips of his fingers,
melting her insides like wax. ‘I can see that you’ve been dieting, but you need to keep going, I think. Don’t you?’
Coco was so panicked that he would bring his fingers up, feel
the slight roll of fat below her waist that not even the Spanx
could completely suppress – or, even worse, feel the Spanx
itself! – that she couldn’t think straight. It seemed the most
important thing in the world that Jacob not touch her there,
not sense that gross imperfection. And yet, simultaneously, she
wanted him to touch her everywhere, to feel his hands all over
her body, to pull him down to the carpet and have his entire
weight on top of her, letting him do whatever he wanted, as
long as he would keep casting this spell on her . . .
Almost at random, she nodded, so distracted by his caresses
that she couldn’t think straight. He was so close to her pelvis,
so close. If he’d just slide his hands along, between her legs,
touch her where she wanted him so badly . . .
Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
‘Good,’ Jacob said, smiling in contentment, allowing her a
brief squeeze to either hip before he let go. ‘Keep on with the
diet. Watch what Victoria does. She’s wonderful about maintaining her weight. And she’s your role model, isn’t she? You
want to be where she is one day?’
This was what restored Coco’s voice. Ambition, her most
powerful driver and motivator, cut through the sensual
enchantment that Jacob, like a sorcerer in a fairy-tale, had
wound around her.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice so clear and resolute she even
surprised herself. ‘Yes, I do.’
He nodded. ‘Excellent. I knew it from the moment I saw
you. That light in your eyes. It can’t be faked – you either have
it or you don’t. And very, very few people do.’
Jacob leaned down, bringing his face closer to Coco’s than
it had been so far. She trembled, her whole body shaking, as he
said softly, ‘Be good, Coco. I’ll see you soon.’
And then he pulled back. Shooting his shirt cuffs, so they
once more hung perfectly just below the hems of his jacket
sleeves, his heavy Cartier watch flashing a bright gleam of gold,
Jacob Dupleix turned away and left the fashion cupboard
without another word.
She watched him go, all the way down the corridor, his step
as light and easy as if he hadn’t just deliberately driven a junior
employee of his into a haze of lust, her legs shaking, so wobbly,
even in stockinged feet, that she had to clutch onto the edge of
the shoe shelf to steady herself.
Oh my God! she thought, dazed, her head spinning. What
just happened? I can’t believe that he barely touches me and I
have this kind of reaction to him. I lose all my willpower, all
my commonsense. I’m scared I’d say, ‘Yes,’ to absolutely everything he asks me to do.
And Jacob’s my ultimate boss, he can even tell Victoria what to
do. He could get me promoted even faster than she’s doing now . . .
Bright dreams of power and possibility filled Coco’s head.
In that moment she felt that anything could happen, that she
just had to reach out her hand and grab her opportunity to
make her wildest, most dazzling ambitions come true.
I’ll book a hair appointment tomorrow. I’ll diet even harder. I’ll
make myself into the person Jacob wants me to be – a future editor
of Style
. . .
‘Coco? Coco, you in there?’
It was a male voice, but there the resemblance to Jacob
ended. A light tenor to Jacob’s deep bass, friendly and
easygoing, it was the tone of an equal, not a superior. Unlike
Jacob, this man wasn’t asking a question to which he already
knew the answer.
‘Hey!’ Xavier appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘There
you are. Wow, this place
rocks
.’ He stared around him, eyes
widening as he took it in. ‘It’s like a girls’ paradise, isn’t it?’ he
said, reaching out to lift with great caution a feathered tulle
Dior skirt. ‘Do you, like, just spend your entire time in here
trying stuff on?’
Coco took a deep breath and mustered up control of herself.
‘Most of it doesn’t fit me,’ she admitted, pulling a face. ‘My
hips are too big.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Xavier, slim in a red T-shirt and black jeans,
a pinstripe waistcoat over them with a dandy-like fob watch
strung across it, batted this away. ‘You look great,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘All you fashion girls think you’re, like, gigantic, and
actually you’re all way too skinny.’
Coco knew it wasn’t true, but she couldn’t help smiling at
him anyway. She, Emily and Lucy had been hanging out with
him regularly over the last few months. Emily had been politely
rebuffed by Xavier enough times for her to turn her attention
to more available men, which leached any awkwardness from
the situation, and Xavier was really good company. Coco liked
him a great deal.
‘Lucy said you were working late, and I was too – I only
just finished up. So I came to get you,’ he said cheerfully.
‘She’s already getting her groove on at Urge with Emily –
want to come along? We should totally celebrate you getting
your own desk!’
Coco hesitated for a moment. But X was right, Lucy was
right: she should celebrate. She’d had a long, tiring day, packing, unpacking, running round moving rails and re-sorting tons
of stuff; she’d been planning to crawl home and fall into bed.
And if it hadn’t been for Jacob Dupleix’s visit to the fashion
cupboard, that was exactly what she would have done. Gone
home and crashed. But now – now she was all worked up, her
head buzzing with ambition, her body with sexual excitement.
He had awoken so much in her that Coco knew she couldn’t
fall asleep yet. Not until she’d had some drinks, burned off
some brain cells and all this excess energy.
‘Can we go dancing?’ she asked, looking round for her shoes.
‘I need to let off some steam.’
‘Sure.’ Xavier looked surprised. ‘You haven’t been to Urge
yet? It’s a gay bar, there’s a big dance floor – you can shake
your booty all you want.’ He looked her up and down appraisingly. ‘You got anything you can change into? I mean, I’m
digging the sexy secretary thing,’ he gestured at her pencil skirt
and little short-sleeved, Peter Pan-collared sweater,‘but it’s not
exactly dancewear.’
Coco grinned. She always felt ridiculously at ease with X.
‘What do you think I should put on?’ she asked. ‘A leotard
and leggings?’
‘Actually,’ Xavier said, ‘that would be deeply cool. But no. I
was thinking more . . . this.’ He was rifling through a rail of
clothes due to go back to their respective PRs; with triumph,
he produced a black, sequinned Max Mara dress, sleeveless and
scoop-necked. ‘Here,’ he said, approaching Coco. ‘Put it on.’
‘That won’t fit,’ Coco started to object, but as Xavier handed
her the dress, she tailed off. ‘You know,’ she said thoughtfully,
looking at the cut, ‘it actually might.’
‘I do this for a job, you know,’ Xavier said, mock-indignant.
‘What, you think only women can be stylists? You girls are so
sexist! We have plenty of women modelling in