Killer Heels (26 page)

Mireille traced a perfect semicircle on the parquet floor
of her studio with the tip of her ballet shoe, a neat, warmingup,
rond de jambe
.

Jacob took Coco out to dinner last night. And I know exactly
what that means
. She sank into a deep
plié
, her turnout impeccable, her knees exactly in line with her feet.
I wonder if Victoria
knows? I doubt it. She’s somewhat distracted at the moment
.

Mireille’s lips curved as she rose into a
demi-plié
, and then
onto the balls of her feet, a
relevé
that stretched her hamstrings,
long and lean.

What with being pregnant, and having sex with our new
cover model, Victoria had enough on her plate without noticing that Jacob had selected a new protégée to
mentor
– among
other verbs Mireille could use in this context.

Mireille lowered her heels and drew her feet into first position. As she ran through the five basic positions, performing
elevés
in each one, she congratulated herself on her excellent
network of eyes and ears, which had let her know as soon as
Jacob’s secretary had obtained Coco’s internal Dupleix extension for him, when the dinner booking had been made at Gari,
that his driver had, last night, dropped off Jacob and Coco at
Jacob’s Washington Square apartment . . .

If Victoria had only bothered to cultivate an equally alert
group of allies and satellites, she would have the same information that I do. But unfortunately, Mireille reflected
complacently, she’s much too abrasive to inspire loyalty in her
employees.

The mirror opposite the barre on which Mireille’s hands
were placed showed her elegant figure, dressed in a pale grey
leotard over matching tights, her hair drawn back into her
signature bun, its white streak running dramatically from her
forehead to her crown, twisting through the bun. There wasn’t
a scrap of make-up on her face, but with her customary bravery and poise, she faced the merciless early morning light,
streaming through the north-facing windows of the small
studio she had had constructed when she moved into this
Riverside Drive apartment, decades ago.

The studio’s walls were mirrored, so that Mireille could
observe herself from every angle, judging her body and her
alignment with the same merciless green gaze that picked out
and eliminated every potential flaw in her fashion spreads. The
leotard and tights were the same size, the same brand, that she
had worn since she was a
corps-de-ballet
member at the Paris
Opéra. Any infinitesimal bulge on the stomach or the hips, any
tiny gain in weight, would be immediately obvious in the harsh
white light.

How will Victoria feel when she finds out that Jacob is . . .
mentoring Coco? Mireille asked herself as she turned to the
right, resting her left hand on the barre, elbow relaxed, and
took up fifth position, preparing for her series of
battements.
Because this is serious. Gari, and back to his apartment the first
night. His favourite restaurant, and an instant decision to take
her to his place. That is no light choice for Jacob. I know exactly
what it means, and Victoria should too: this is no casual fling.
Coco is his new protégée
.

I don’t imagine Victoria will be very happy about this new
development
. Mireille slid her right leg out in front of her,
straight as a steel bar, the toe pointed.
Victoria considers Coco
very much her protégée – she found her, re-named her, brought her
to New York . . .

And now that Jacob has taken Coco under his wing, as it were,
Coco is no longer Victoria’s eager little apprentice. In fact, it means
she’ll soon be a rival to Victoria. Younger, fresher – even keener, if
that’s possible. Victoria probably expected Jacob to have a little
fling with Coco – a couple of blow-jobs in his limo in return for a
nice present from Chanel, a scarf from Hermès – but this is now
on a much more elevated scale
.

Mireille’s leg flashed out to the side, to the back,
grands
battements
now, beautiful sweeping movements, up and down,
like a knife slicing through the air, precise and perfect.

No, Victoria will not be happy at all
.
She was smiling now, the crow’s-feet at the corners of her
eyes creasing. Mireille did not want Victoria’s job: her primary
desire was to be left alone to fulfil her own role at
Style
with
the skill and taste that she had refined to perfection over
many years. She had seen editors come and go; the recentlysacked Jennifer Lane Davis had actually been one of Mireille’s
favourites. Jennifer had respected Mireille’s vision, realised
that the Frenchwoman brought elegance and sophistication
to the magazine; had refrained from tampering with her
layouts and concepts.
Switching to her left, resting her right hand on the barre now,
Mireille allowed herself a tiny little shrug, a pursed
moue
of her
mouth, before she began the series of
battements
on the other
side. Unlike Jennifer, Victoria was incapable of leaving anyone
alone; that was her great defect. She was terrible at delegating.
Because she does not trust people, Mireille observed. And
that is a weakness. One that can be used against her. One
should be wary, but one should trust in the measure to which
it is deserved.
Mireille was becoming increasingly tired of Victoria’s insistence on supervising, double-checking and second-guessing
every decision she made. I am the fashion director, the creative
heart of the magazine, she thought, her irritation rising. If my
editor tells me she wants all the girls to jump and run in the
photographs, I do it, even though in my opinion it is vulgar.
But I do what she asks, I provide her with superb, graceful
photographs, and in return, does she give me what I ask for?
No, she interferes. I cannot shoot a cover without her flying to
the location to make sure I’m doing it exactly the way she wants
.
Of course, Victoria had had an extra motive for coming to St
Louis. She had wanted to see Lykke again, after their torrid
encounter in the Lipstick Building’s studio.
She is such a fool! Mireille thought, her irritation fading. To
have sex with a model, in our own studios, in a hotel suite with
all of us staying in the same hotel. That little assistant editor
Emily saw Lykke coming out of Victoria’s suite, and now she’s
telling everyone. Such a shame. I wanted that information all
for myself, to use when I saw fit. That bloody Ludovic – he
can’t keep his hands off the young women, and he kicks them
out as soon as he’s finished. Such bad luck for me that Emily
happened to be in the same corridor when Lykke was leaving
Victoria’s suite . . .
Mireille knew all about that, of course. She knew everything, certainly about Ludovic’s unpleasant tendencies when
alone with his latest victim. That was one aspect of fashion
that would never change: older men preying on women barely
out of their teens, the latter so keen to succeed in this cutthroat world that they would never complain about the
indignities the men visited on them in private.
It is inevitable. Mireille shrugged. Jacob and Coco, Ludovic
and every model or assistant he can get his dirty hands on. But
he is a wonderful photographer, and the girls are two a penny.
What can one do?
Rien du tout
. Nothing at all.
She sighed at the frustration of not having the gossip about
Lykke and Victoria all to herself. But you couldn’t bolt the stable
door after the horse had fled, and it had most definitely fled by
now. Rumours had already spread beyond the
Style
offices. It
wouldn’t be long before everyone in the fashion industry knew.
And Victoria had made plenty of enemies. Someone, somewhere, was bound to tell her husband.
Mireille herself would never have dreamed of doing
anything so vengeful, so crude. It was by no means her style.
However, the more distracted Victoria is, she thought, the less
time she has to bother me, to interfere with my art.
Mireille’s leg swept up, to a ninety-degree angle in front of
her, slightly turned-out; she drew it in a straight line, all the
way round to the back of her body, a faultless
rond de jambe en
dehors
. She winced; her hips were not what they had been, and
the strain on the hip flexors of keeping the turnout, the leg
parallel to the floor, was more noticeable as the years went by.
It was a shame, sometimes, that Mireille had no equal to
confide in. Because as soon as she had met Coco, she had
wagered with herself that Jacob’s wandering eye would alight
upon this new girl. Coco was everything Jacob appreciated in
a protégée: dedicated, talented, very bright, very focused, a star
in the making, a girl who did every job she was given better
than any of her predecessors. Attractive, yes, but not a great
beauty; like Mireille and Victoria before her, Coco was in need
of Jacob’s help to truly make her blossom.
Jacob will make her over. Style her, buy her a new wardrobe,
slim her down, polish her like a jeweller with a precious stone until
she shines from every facet. Make sure she’s promoted, as fast as I
was, as fast as Victoria was.
Until she’s a worthy rival to Victoria.
And the more Coco was promoted, the thinner she grew,
the better she dressed, the more stylish she looked, the more
nervous Victoria would become. The more concerned that
Jacob was grooming Coco to, one day, supersede Victoria. Take
her job.

And the more Victoria will leave me alone to do mine.
Mireille had made her decision. Carefully, discreetly, she
would encourage Coco, give her extra help to speed her journey up the career ladder. It would unquestionably annoy
Victoria, be a thorn in her side. Victoria herself, having elbowed
Jennifer Lane Davis out of the way two years early to take her
job, knew better than anyone how an ambitious young woman
could work on and influence the boss of a company to get
what she wanted from him.
Decided. I’ll set Coco against Victoria – working in the shadows, of course, so that Victoria can’t see my hand in it. No matter
who eventually comes out on top, it’ll be a win-win situation for
me, as the Americans say. If Victoria stays as editor, she’ll be
wounded, vulnerable, less secure, more willing to trust me and give
me my head. And if Coco wins, she’ll be so grateful to me that
she’ll let me do whatever I want.
And really, all I want is to keep shooting some of the most beautiful fashion spreads in the world.
Mireille was so content with this conclusion that she did
something she rarely tried any more: she spun away from the
barre, rising
en pointe
and executing five
fouettés en tournant
,
the viciously difficult ‘whipped’ pirouettes that were the hardest turns to execute in the entire ballet repertoire. Once, long
ago, Mireille had been able to cover the whole length of a
stage, performing the thirty-two
fouettés
that were the famously
challenging centrepiece for the lead ballerina in
Swan Lake
.
While now I can barely manage five
, she thought ruefully,
lowering her heels to the floor again.
My pictures are my art
now
.
And I’ll do what I must, in order to keep them perfect.

‘Just do it!’ Victoria ordered. ‘Push me in with one hand and
zip with the other.’
‘I sort of need both hands to pull the sides together,’ Alyssa
said helplessly. Gritting her teeth, she took hold of the soft red
silk chiffon, dragged it together as tightly as she could, and
started to inch the zip up once more. It reached a certain point,
the widest part of Victoria’s hips. And then, it stopped.
‘Erm . . . I think you might need another pair of Spanx,
Victoria,’ Alyssa mumbled, the words almost inaudible because
of her fear of how her boss might react.
‘Fuck!’ Victoria yelled.‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! This stupid, bloody,
shitty
pregnancy!’
Spinning around, the ankle-length skirt of the dress sweeping around her legs dramatically, she put both hands on her
hips, staring at herself furiously in the full-length mirror.
Alyssa, kneeling beside her, had to shuffle frantically out of the
way to avoid being stepped on.
‘I’m going to wear this dress,’ Victoria said furiously. ‘I don’t
care if I can’t drink a glass of water, I don’t care if I can’t
breathe
,
I’m going to wear this dress tonight!’
‘It
is
gorgeous,’ Alyssa agreed sycophantically.
Vintage Valentino, in lipstick-bright red, the evening dress
had a dramatic halter neckline, fastening just at the base of
Victoria’s delicate collarbones with an elaborate diamanté
circle through which two wide pleated bands of red chiffon
were drawn, tying behind the neck and falling dramatically
down her narrow, bared back. Valentino knew exactly how to
dress underweight women; the halter style concealed her
frighteningly-slatted upper ribcage, but bared the shoulders
and arms, showing off how slim they were. In the early 1980s,
when the dress had been made, the woman wearing it would
not have been lean and toned from Pilates press-ups; now, she
was expected not just to be thin, but to look as if she had
completed a triathlon the day before.
Reaching down, Victoria hauled up the skirt and held it
around her waist. ‘Get me another pair of Spanx,’ she
commanded grimly.
It was incredibly difficult to get the third pair over the two
which Victoria was already wearing. Tugging, grunting with
the effort, Victoria hopping from foot to foot, holding up the
dress as Alyssa hauled the thick, elasticated high waistband of
the control pants up and up to its final resting place, inches
above the waist, midway up Victoria’s ribcage.
‘Great,’ Victoria gasped. ‘I can hardly breathe. Try it now.’
She dropped the skirts before Alyssa had let go of the last
Spanx; awkwardly, Alyssa struggled to extricate her hands
from its waistband.
‘Come on! I haven’t got all day,’ Victoria said, clicking her
fingers.
Sweat beaded at the base of Alyssa’s Afro as she tugged the
open sides of the dress together once again, underneath
Victoria’s raised left arm, and started to pull up the zipper tag.
‘I think this is it,’ she panted, praying with everything she
had that she could get the dress closed this time. ‘I think we’ve
got you in . . .
yes
!’
Triumphantly, she snibbed the tag up the last few teeth. The
dress had already been hooked closed at the top; the metal
hook and eye were digging into the sensitive skin on the underside of Victoria’s left breast, leaving red marks. Much as Alyssa
resented Victoria for making her perform intimate menial
tasks, she was reluctantly impressed by her boss’s grit and high
pain tolerance. Victoria would wear the Valentino all evening,
smiling and making conversation and whirling elegantly from
one group to another, never showing the pain she was in.
Because when she took it off, she’d have weals on her body
from the hook and the boning of the dress.
But you won’t ever know that from the expression on her
face, Alyssa thought, racing to get the slingback Louboutins
Victoria had picked out to wear tonight, kneeling in front of
her boss as she lifted one foot, then the other, sliding them in.
‘Shit! I swear my sodding feet are bigger too,’ Victoria
snarled. ‘I’m retaining water for bloody Kate Middleton!’
‘Oh, those are going to be such amazing photos,’ Alyssa
sighed devoutly, rising to her feet. ‘I can’t wait to see them.’
‘No talking about that!’ Victoria rounded on her assistant,
the translucent red silk chiffon layers swishing beautifully as
she moved, each finished with the finest, hand-sewn strip of
red satin ribbon. ‘No talking about my pregnancy, no talking
about the Kate Middleton shoot, you understand? Zip it and
keep it shut!’
‘I haven’t said a word, Victoria.’ Alyssa trembled from head
to toe. ‘I promise.’
‘And don’t stand next to me,’ Victoria continued, staring
viciously at Alyssa’s reflection in the mirror until the girl
obediently jumped out of the line of sight. ‘Not until I’ve had
the damn baby and I’m back to size zero again! The last thing
I need as I get bigger is some six-foot tall, hundred-pound,
twenty-something, thin-as-a-rake black girl making me look
like a beached white whale by contrast.’
‘I’m so sorry, Victoria!’ All the elation Alyssa had felt about
getting her boss into the dress she was hell-bent on wearing
tonight ebbed away; she sounded on the verge of tears as she
backed towards the door. It opened just as she reached it,
hitting her a glancing blow on the back.
‘Oh, gosh! I’m terribly sorry,’ Jeremy blurted out. ‘Are you
all right?’
Heaving a bubbling, gasping sob, Alyssa shot past him and
out into the main office.
‘You are awfully hard on your assistants, darling,’ Jeremy
said, glancing after her.‘That one looks as if she’s going to cry
her heart out.’
‘
Her
!’ Victoria said crossly. ‘I miss Coco. Coco never bloody
cried.
Coco
,’ she added unfairly, ‘would have got me into this
dress with only
two
pairs of Spanx on.’
‘With
what
?’ Jeremy said blankly.
‘Corsets, basically,’ Victoria said. ‘I can barely sit down. And
don’t worry.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘They won’t hurt the
baby. I got Alyssa to check with the gynaecologist.’
‘Oh, well done, darling.’ Jeremy bustled across the office
to kiss her.‘You knew I’d worry, didn’t you?’ He pulled back
to look at her. ‘Oh,’ he cooed, ‘you look so lovely! Like a
princess.’
Victoria rolled her eyes. ‘Darling,’ she drawled, ‘I dress
much
better than the average princess. My God, have you seen some
of those European ones? Oh, and you haven’t even had the
whole effect yet! Alyssa!’ she called. ‘Send in the Van Cleef &
Arpels man, will you?’
Moments later, a heavyset man in a grey suit that strained
over his shoulders came lumbering into the office. From his
inside jacket pocket, he produced a velvet-covered jewellery
box, which he snapped open to reveal a pair of ruby and
diamond earrings, mounted in platinum. Crimson light flashed
from the huge rectangular rubies, their deep scarlet set off and
framed by the brilliant-cut white diamonds, a larger square
diamond topping each setting, concealing the hook behind.
Victoria slid them into her ears and pivoted to look in the
mirror for the full effect.
‘One point eight carats each,’ she said smugly. ‘Stunning,
aren’t they? And look at the colour match! I sent the dress
over so they could pick out rubies as close to the shade of red
as possible.’
‘I wish I could buy them for you,’ Jeremy sighed. ‘But God
knows what the bonuses are going to be like this year, with the
crisis in Europe—’
‘Shh, silly.’
To his great surprise, his wife leaned forward and kissed him
on the cheek.
‘I don’t need to buy jewellery,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I can
borrow anything I want, any time I want. That’s one of the best
parts of this job.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Very smart,’
she said approvingly. ‘Nothing like an Ozwald Boateng suit on
an Englishman. Two-button. Perfect for you.’
Jeremy smoothed down his grey silk tie. ‘I just wear what
you put out for me,’ he said self-deprecatingly.
‘It’s such a relief that you have your own dressing-room
now,’ Victoria said. ‘It makes life so much easier. How did
things go with the interior designer today?’
‘Oh, the nursery’s coming along great guns,’ Jeremy beamed.
‘Fantastic!’ Victoria picked up her silver snakeskin clutch
and took a last look at herself in the mirror. Her signature
blonde chignon was the ideal hairstyle for the dress; she’d had
it pulled back more severely than usual, the hair absolutely
smooth to her scalp, to show off the magnificent earrings. Her
YSL lipstick was cerise, a little brighter than the crimson dress,
to avoid an overly-matched look, and Hervé himself, one of
the best make-up artists in the world, visiting from LA, had
spent an hour giving her the ultimate barely-there make-up.
The shades and contours were so expertly done that in pictures
she would look flawless, but as if she had barely tried, just
slicked on some lipstick, pulled on a wonderful vintage
Valentino and headed out for the evening’s cocktail party and
exhibit opening.
‘Where is it tonight?’ Jeremy asked as they headed out of
her office, the Van Cleef & Arpels-employed bodyguard
following on their heels, his job to shadow Victoria all evening
to make sure no one tried to steal the earrings.
‘Darling.’ Victoria tapped him playfully with her clutch.
‘You know – look what I’m wearing. I’ve been talking about
this for weeks! It’s the Valentino Very Red show. Oh, thank
you,’ she said to Alyssa, who was waiting by the door with her
sheared-mink capelet.
Alyssa looked visibly taken aback. Victoria swept past her
and through the
Style
reception, draping the capelet carefully
over her shoulders. She smiled warmly as she saw Coco, waiting for the elevators.
‘Coco,’ she said, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you how fabulous your polka-dot shoot was. I just saw the stills. So vibrant
and witty. And
young
,’ she added fervently. ‘
So
young. I
loved it.’
Coco flushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice
heartfelt.
‘You’re getting positively skinny,’ Victoria commented,
looking her ex-assistant up and down with approval. In a tight
Vanessa Bruno black snakeskin-print sheath and olive suede
bootees, her hair pulled back to the nape of her neck in a short,
clubbed ponytail, her make-up discreet, Coco looked like the
archetypal Manhattan girl-about-town.
‘Your eyelashes are the best they’ve ever looked,’ Victoria
said with a little nod of professional approval. ‘And is that a
Hermès Picotin?’ She leaned forward for a look at Coco’s dark
brown leather bag, a deceptively simple, open bucket shape,
with a hanging silver lock and two short, wide straps.
‘Goodness!’ Her eyebrows shot up. ‘
Someone
has a rich
admirer.’
Coco went even redder. She tried to say something, but no
words would come out.
One of the lifts in the bank pinged, a green light coming on
over the doors as they slid open, and the handful of people
waiting scurried back, wanting to make it clear that they
wouldn’t try to share a car with the editor of
Style
and her
entourage.
‘Join us,’ Victoria said to Coco benevolently as she stepped
inside.
Envious stares watched the doors close behind Coco,
unaware that she would infinitely have rather not been trapped
into an elevator ride with Victoria.
‘I hope he’s nice,’ Victoria said to her favourite protégée.
‘Rich is important, of course, but you’re a very talented girl,
Coco. You shouldn’t marry money and then give up work, like
so many of the
Style
girls. Pick someone who doesn’t expect
you to turn into his housekeeper as soon as he gets his ring on
your finger.’
She flicked the Hermès bag lightly with her finger. ‘Still, a
two-thousand dollar bag,’ she added. ‘He must be in love! Are
you going to meet him now?’
Coco was blushing so hard now that she would have fitted
in perfectly to the Valentino Very Red show. She nodded fast.
Coco doesn’t realise that I know she’s fucking Jacob
, Victoria
realised, very amused.
For goodness’ sake! First he wanders into
my office asking me where to find her, and then he’s made a point
telling me that I need to make sure she’s promoted fast – how
would I
not
be aware that Jacob’s taken a shine to her? And she’s
doing very nicely out of it. A Hermès bag, her hair restyled very
chicly, and clearly, Jacob’s been making sure she loses more weight.
She’s a very lucky girl
.
And Victoria had given her fair warning: ‘Don’t get ahead of
yourself,’ she had said a few weeks ago, when she was sure of
the nature of Jacob’s interest in Coco, ‘and don’t forget it was
me who gave you your first break.’
Coco’s a smart girl, she
knows which side her bread is buttered
. Jacob would play with
her for a while, a new toy. He would make sure she did well
out of it, and Victoria would play along too, move his protégée
up the career ladder, but ensure that Coco was grateful and
loyal to her.
Really, if Jacob had to pick someone on
Style
to fuck for a while,
he couldn’t have done better: I’m happy to promote Coco
. This
way, Victoria wasn’t forced to elevate a protégée of Mireille’s
– she’d briefly wondered if Jacob had taken a shine to Mireille’s
assistant, Zarina – but one of her own.
Much better this way
.
Clever girl, Coco. Get as much out of Jacob as you can.
Victoria didn’t think for a moment that Coco would be
anything but a fling for Jacob. In Victoria’s opinion, Coco
simply wasn’t refined enough for him.
Yes, she’s clever and talented, but really, look at Mireille and
myself – if there’s one thing we have in common, it’s that we’re
well-bred, naturally elegant. Whereas Coco – well, I can’t see
Jacob taking seriously someone who wanted to work in fashion
but didn’t have the nous to change her name from
Jodie,
of all
things!
This observation amused Victoria so much that she gave
Coco a particularly warm smile as the lift reached the ground
floor.
‘Have a lovely evening,’ she said kindly, sweeping out of the
lift, the scarlet skirts of her dress moving wonderfully in the
breeze coming through the open door of the lobby; she looked
like a fashion illustration come to life as she passed the tall
pink granite, steel-banded pillars.