Killer Heels (32 page)

It gives me a few minutes’ respite from heading off to see Lykke
,
Victoria thought, and shrugged. It was all the encouragement
Coco needed.

‘It’s Ludovic,’ she said seriously. ‘I don’t think
Style
should
book him any more.’
Victoria stared at her incredulously.
‘Are you serious?’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you
seen
the
pictures from St Louis? He did the most fabulous job! Totally
modern!’
‘But Victoria, he’s a pig,’ Coco said bravely. ‘A rapey pig.
Emily went back to his room after that shoot, and he was
really awful, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had a
horrible time.’
Coco grimaced, thinking of the state in which Emily had
returned from St Louis, bruised, scratched, her bright happy
confident demeanour a thing of the past. Lucy and Coco had
rallied round, wrapped her in cotton wool, helped with her
work and got her into victim counselling. Emily was doing
fairly well, all things considered, having been able, after
Ludovic’s assault, to come back to good friends who looked
after her; she’d found a support group, too, which was apparently helping even more than the counsellor. The teenage
models on shoots, flying all over the world, with no continuity
in their lives from one day to the next, weren’t so lucky. And
from what Coco had found out since hearing from Emily what
he had done to her, Ludovic made a regular practice of picking
out a young girl and putting her through his own particular
wringer, knowing that she wouldn’t complain for fear of ruining her career.
‘There are other photographers who don’t do that to the
girls,’ Coco continued. ‘Really good, talented ones.’
‘You want me to blacklist Ludovic because he’s a bit overenthusiastic in the bedroom?’ Victoria said incredulously. ‘You
must
be joking.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Coco stood her ground. ‘It’s not acceptable,
what he does. It’s
wrong
. He preys on women. And he won’t
stop, because no-one will ever press charges. But we can at least
keep
Style
girls – and models on our shoots – safe from him.’
‘Oh,
please
.’ Victoria swept dismissively past Coco, out of
the suite. ‘This is fashion, and they’d better get used to it.
Young women, older men, what do they think’s going to
happen? I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.
Ludovic’s the talent, and Emily had better keep her mouth
shut and learn her place in the pecking order, like the rest of
the girls do.’
But what if it had been Lykke
? her brain, very inconveniently, asked her.
What if Ludovic had managed to corner Lykke
and groped her, or worse? How would you feel if that had
happened to her?
I’d want to castrate him with a pair of rusty pliers
, Victoria
answered savagely. The thought of Ludovic’s hairy hands on
Lykke’s pale skin, his carefully-cultivated stubble rasping her
breasts, made bile rise in Victoria’s throat. She knew the
rumours about Ludovic were true: he’d tried it on with her
once, years ago, backed her into a cupboard on a shoot and
started pulling up her skirt, and only a stiletto heel jabbed into
his foot had made him let her go. It hadn’t been the most
pleasant of experiences.
She glanced back at Coco, following her down the wide,
luxuriously-carpeted hallway, and read her expression: Coco
looked positively disillusioned.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Victoria said, surprising herself; it was
even more of a surprise to her when she was positively gratified to see Coco’s eyes light up in relief.
‘Oh Victoria, that would be
wonderful
– thank you so much!’
Coco blurted out.
‘Don’t get excited,’ Victoria snapped. ‘I haven’t made any
promises.’
Jesus, bloody Lykke!
she thought crossly.
I just think of her
and I get soft, damnit!

Coco was dashing forward to press the button to call the
lift, flashing her boss a smile of absolute gratitude. It occurred
to Victoria, for a fleeting, lunatic moment, to ask Coco whether
the story about her and Lykke was still going around. Whether
Lykke was still talking about it; how many people actually
believed it. Whether Coco had spent any time with Lykke at
after-parties in New York or London or Milan; whether Lykke
had ever actually had an affair with Inge Kavanaugh; if she
were seeing anybody else. Whether Coco knew, at all, in any
way, if Lykke still thought about Victoria, ever mentioned her
name, seemed at all wistful when Victoria’s name came up in
conversation, as it inevitably must . . .

Jesus Christ,Victoria,pull yourself together! she commanded
herself, as sharply and as briskly as she would have reprimanded one of her subordinates who was drifting off into
sentimental insanity. You sound like a fifteen year old with a
crush on a film star!

Taking a deep breath, she rested her hands on the swell of
her stomach, visible under her custom-made Chanel shift
dress. Now that there was no hiding it with three pairs of
Spanx, Victoria had, ironically, become more resigned to
having a convex belly: she almost found its curve satisfying, in
a totally unexpected way. She stroked her palms over it to
calm herself down.

This is what you need to focus on now, she told herself
firmly. The baby. Jeremy. Put everything else behind you.
As your father would tell you
:
Victoria, pull yourself together,
young lady, and get a bloody grip.

Judge Glossop’s wise words lasted with Victoria through
almost all of the Chanel show: it was dazzling enough to
provide a perfect distraction. The location alone was breathtaking: the soaring glass nave of the Grand Palais, Paris’s answer
to London’s Crystal Palace. Like the Eiffel Tower, the Crystal
Palace had not been intended to last: both monuments were
due to be torn down after the World Fairs for which they had
been built, and only survived because of their popularity: but
the Crystal Palace, originally in Hyde Park, had been moved
away from the centre of the city.

The Grand Palais, however, had been built to last, sited on
Cours-la-Reine, right next to the River Seine, which ran
through the centre of Paris. It was a deliberate one-up gesture
from the ancient rivalry between France and Britain, a determination to show that anything London could do, Paris could
do better. Restored recently at great expense, Chanel had been
showing its spring/summer and autumn/winter collections
there for several years now: Karl Lagerfeld had famously
adored the venue since being brought there as a child for its
iconic car shows, and, later, to see Maurice Béjart ballets in its
sumptuous surroundings.

Now, sitting in one of the prized front-row seats, the miniamphitheatre, painted completely in white, rising behind
them, Victoria told herself determinedly how lucky she was to
be here, at the pinnacle of her career. In the coveted front row,
she could see the UK, Russia, France, Italy editors of
Style
,
along with their
Vogue
counterparts. Only the most important
actresses and socialites were seated beside them: Catherine
Deneuve, Uma Thurman, Diane Kruger, Claudia Schiffer,
Vanessa Paradis.

None of the riffraff you get in London, Victoria thought,
reminding herself how happy she was to have skipped it this
autumn. There, they’ll sit you next to some skinny-boy rocker,
so strung out that he’s forgotten to wash for days. Or pointless
beings, like those awful, vulgar daughters of rock stars who
haunt the London shows. Little nonentities who’ll be
completely forgotten in a few years’ time because they have
nothing but youth and loudness and a famous parent to recommend them.

A gigantic seashell, ten feet high, painted white shading to
deeper and deeper shades of pink in its whorled folds, stood in
the centre of the white, circular stage, and models were filing
out of it, walking in two concentric circles around the borders
of the stage, dressed in delicate, ombré-shaded hues of grey,
white and pink. The pearls that Lagerfeld had used for his
spring/summer collection last year were embroidered onto
hems, twisted around the girls’ necks, dotted into their plaited
hair, less in evidence than in the year before, an echo back to
its underwater theme. This collection was equally dreamy, but
less aquatic; an invisible solo piano played a haunting, oddly
familiar accompaniment.

And then a gasp came from the audience as, out of the
centre of the enormous shell, rose none other than Lady Gaga,
dripping in pale grey chiffon and pearls, an elaborate pearl
tiara on her golden head, wearing much less make-up than
usual and consequently looking infinitely more beautiful. As
she began to sing, her clear soprano perfectly in tune, Victoria
realised that the song was a deconstructed version of one of
her biggest hits, done in a minor key.

Applause broke out, the swift patter of discreet clapping
that was the fashion world’s equivalent of a standing ovation.
Victoria joined in: the
coup-de-théâtre
had been stunning, the
music exquisite, Lady Gaga’s appearance would be talked
about for months, and the clothes were stunning.

I haven’t thought about Lykke for fifteen minutes! she
thought with great pleasure. I haven’t even seen her, and everyone’s out on stage now – no one else is coming out of the shell.
Maybe I was misinformed and she’s not walking for Chanel,
after all.

Relief and disappointment, in equal measure, flooded
through her. She sank back a little in the uncomfortable seat.
And then Lady Gaga’s voice soared impossibly high, a pink
glow began to suffuse the stage, and a final figure emerged
from the opening in the seashell.
Further gasps greeted her. The last model out was the bride,
the showstopper whose dress would, ideally, encapsulate the
entire collection and provide a romantic, yet unsentimental,
finale. This challenge set the bar very high, but the bridal dress
seemingly effortlessly surmounted it. Palest blush-pink at its
bodice, the ombré shading flowed down to the hem, darkening
to a deep rose red in the train that trailed in a silky pool behind
its wearer. It was strapless, the bodice designed to resemble
overlapping petals, and might have been specifically designed
for its model, whose snow-white skin showcased perfectly the
delicate hues of the wedding dress.
Lykke looked like a marble statue come to life. Her
colourless hair was braided close to her head, like that of
the other models, but the pearls woven through her plaits
were blush-pink, and there was just the faintest trace of rose
on her lips and cheeks. The effect was breathtaking, and
applause broke out once more, rising as Karl Lagerfeld
himself stepped out of the shell, wearing a dove-grey suit, a
pale pink silk bow at his neck, his signature fingerless gloves
grey suede. He took Lykke’s hand, leading her like a groom
in a long circle round the stage, blowing kisses to Lady Gaga
as he went. Lykke, swaying next to him like an orchid,
managed her train with consummate professional skill, so it
spread out behind her for the cameras. She made it look the
easiest thing in the world to walk, with cameras all around
her, on the arm of Karl Lagerfeld, while simultaneously
manoeuvring a floor-length dress which finished in a pearlhemmed, ten-foot length of silk.
She looks wonderful, Victoria thought, sadness diffusing
through her like a block of ice melting around her heart.
Sensing eyes on her, she glanced sideways, to the next curved
block of seats, and saw Mireille, sitting next to Natalie Portman,
dressed impeccably in a Chanel trouser suit, the house’s signature camellia pinned onto the lapel of her jacket. Mireille was
looking at Victoria, who sensed that her fashion director was
watching her to gauge her reaction to Lykke’s stunning appearance: the green eyes were intent, full of calculation.
Please, Victoria thought coldly. As if I can be caught out like
that! As if I’d give anything away somewhere this public.
She smiled at Mireille, lifting one hand in a little gesture
of acknowledgement that Mireille promptly returned, smiling back, the creases round her eyes deepening, the lift of
her lips supremely knowing. It took all Victoria’s self-control
to look back at the stage, knowing that Mireille’s eyes were
on her, observing her, acutely perceptive. Across the width
of the huge circular stage Victoria saw Coco, back in the
fourth row as befitted her lower status, but clearly visible
because of the raked seating: Coco was aglow with happiness, her face radiant with delight at attending her first
Chanel show.
She, too, raised a hand in a tiny wave at Victoria, smiling
shyly as if to thank her for this amazing opportunity, and
Victoria deigned to nod back at her, a queenly gesture that
acknowledged Coco’s expression of gratitude. Beside Victoria,
in his customary seat, Jacob Dupleix leaned close to her ear
and said; ‘Knocked it out of the park, I’d say.’
It took Victoria a split-second to realise that he meant the
show: she was staring at Lykke, watching her, so poised, following Lagerfeld’s cue to take the final bow.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ she agreed brightly. ‘Very editorial.’
‘That’s our September cover model, isn’t it?’ Jacob nodded
at Lykke.
‘Yes,’ Victoria said, her mouth suddenly dry.
‘Quite something,’ Jacob said appreciatively. ‘If I weren’t
head over heels, I’d definitely be asking her to dinner.’
The thought of Jacob asking Lykke out was so paralysing
that Victoria’s entire face froze for a moment, the small smile
she had plastered on it – to show how easy it was for her to
see Lykke, how unimportant the sight of her was to Victoria
– becoming a rictus that would have fit right in with the
gargoyles on Notre Dame Cathedral, further down the banks
of the Seine.
And then she took in the full sense of Jacob’s words, and her
eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline.
‘You’re head over heels?’ she repeated.
Never before had Victoria heard Jacob use this expression
about any of the models/actresses/whatevers he had amused
himself with over the years. It was more than a decade since
she and Jacob had parted company as lovers, and for the first
few years Victoria had kept a beady eye on his conquests,
afraid that a new protégée might upstage her, try to take her
spot in line for the editorships of
UK
and
US Style
. But she had
eventually relaxed, as it seemed that all Jacob was interested in
doing was to dip his hand again and again in the huge sweetie
jar that was the available pool of barely-twenty-something
beauties who were more than happy to date a charismatic
multi-millionaire head of a media conglomerate.
With amazement, Victoria saw Jacob’s features dissolve
into the goofy grin of a man who was unquestionably
loved-up.
Well, at least I can stop worrying that he’s getting a little too
serious about Coco!
she thought with a flash of relief.
That’s one
concern I can tick off the list – no way would Jacob ever be head
over heels about a provincial little nobody like her
.
‘You don’t know?’ he asked her, and though they were
speaking sotto voce, under the last ringing notes of Lady Gaga’s
powerful soprano, his tone was as amazed as it was happy. ‘I
thought you’d know by now! Vicky, you’re slipping. Well,’ he
added affectionately, ‘you’ve got an excuse at the moment, I
suppose.’
He patted her small bump affectionately.
‘You’ve never looked more beautiful, by the way,’ he said,
his grin positively avuncular. ‘Pregnancy suits you. You’re
blooming.’
It was all Victoria could do not to hit his hand away; she
loathed it when people touched her bump, calling attention to
a part of her body that she was quite unable to control.
‘Why should I know who you’re seeing this week?’ she
asked.
On stage, Karl Lagerfeld was waving a goodbye at his admiring audience as he led Lykke back into the shell once more.
Her red train whisked behind her, and Victoria followed it
with a gaze of longing.
‘I’m not just seeing her, Vicky,’ Jacob said, and Victoria realised that he was staring now across the whole circumference of
the stage, a fond smile on his wide lips. Her eyes lifted, trying
to see where he was looking.
‘It’s more than that,’ he continued, almost dreamily. ‘I
have feelings for her. She’s really something, you know? The
whole package. Looks, brains, smarts. I think she might just
be the one.’
Uma Thurman is the one? Victoria thought, because the
beautiful blonde actress, now standing up to leave the show as
the models filed back offstage once more, seemed to be directly
in Jacob’s eyeline.
Well, that would certainly make sense . . . she’s
closer to Jacob’s age than his little girlies. A grown woman, absolutely stunning, high-status enough for Jacob to settle down with
– but she has kids. How’s that going to work? Jacob’s never cared
about kids at all
.
Wait! Since when was Jacob looking for ‘the one’? I always
thought he was going to be the George Clooney of the media world,
the perpetual, debonair bachelor to whom having a girl stay the
whole night was a big deal
.
And then she saw that Jacob’s head was tilted higher, too
high for him to be looking at Uma Thurman, and, following
his line of sight, Victoria noticed Coco, in her girlish outfit
and her skinny new figure, returning his smile, lifting her
hand in the same little gesture of acknowledgement that she
had made to Victoria—
Jesus, it’s Coco! He really is talking about Coco! I can’t
believe it!
Victoria stared at Jacob with absolute incredulity. He was
gazing up at Coco, who was on her feet now, wearing the short
ruffled skirt and girlish jacket which he had doubtless bought
her. His expression was as smitten as a boy who’s in love for the
first time, his eyes soft and dreamy. Slinging the chain of the
Chanel Mini bag over her shoulder, filing out along the row of
seats with the rest of the attendees, Coco glanced down at her
lover and then over at Victoria, who had stood up too. Hands on
her hips, Victoria glared at the girl whom she had deliberately
selected to be her protégée, the girl she had mentored and
promoted and groomed for big things, and was now, all of a
sudden, the most dangerous rival Victoria had ever had.
Meeting her editor’s eyes, Coco’s own went wide with fear
as she read, only too unmistakably, the expression in Victoria’s
steely glare.
You little traitor!
it said, clearer than words.
Don’t think you’ll
get away with stepping on my toes like this!
Then Victoria felt Jacob courteously sliding his arm through
one of hers, escorting her out of the show.
‘I have a fantastic idea for Coco,’ he said, brimming with
enthusiasm. ‘Something she can really sink her teeth into.’
It’s more likely to be me sinking my teeth into her! I’m due
to give birth in nearly three months, and even though I’m
barely going to take any time off for maternity leave, this is the
worst possible moment for me to be unable to give this crisis
my full attention, Victoria thought viciously, turning her face
away from Jacob so he couldn’t read her expression.
In doing so, she found herself looking directly at Mireille,
the tell-tale scowl still on her elegant features, her long nose
crinkled up in fury. Before Victoria could recover, could paste
on a neutral expression, she knew that Mireille had taken in
her furious grimace. Mireille’s eyes flickered from Victoria, to
Jacob, looking tenderly up at Coco, who was descending the
stairs from her fourth-row seat, and when Mireille’s gaze
returned to Victoria’s, it was so full of comprehension and –
worse – sympathy, that Victoria cringed beneath.