Killer Heels (36 page)

Victoria’s entire face now felt as stiff as her lips, hardened
and calcified. She remembered, suddenly, the myth of Medusa,
how a look from her turned men to stone, petrified them. And
she understood for the first time the double meaning of that
word: she was frozen in place with terror, afraid that if she
moved, emotion would gush forth so unstoppably that she
would be utterly unable to control it.
‘Anyway,’ Coco repeated quickly, ‘I wanted to let you
know—’
‘You’ve done that bit,’ Victoria managed to snap.
‘Yes! Um, okay. Well, great. I’ll just . . .’ Coco couldn’t finish
the sentence; she emptied her champagne in one long gulp and
dashed away instead.
Victoria didn’t see where Coco went, didn’t care one iota,
had actually forgotten that Coco existed the moment she
disappeared into the teeming crowd. Her face, as immobile as
a mask, swivelled in the direction of the French doors that led
out onto the terrace. Only her eyes were alive, bright with
speculation.
I want so much to believe what Coco’s saying, I’m scared it
could be some sort of trap to make me give myself away.
But that isn’t Coco’s style. Not at all. If it came from someone
else – Mireille, Clemence, Dietrich – then I’d be very wary. I
wouldn’t believe a word until I had had it corroborated by someone I could trust.
But despite how angry I am with her right now, one of the
people I do trust to keep a secret of mine is Coco. If she says someone’s discreet, she should know; in all the time she worked for me,
she didn’t breathe a word about anything she organised for me.
Not even the smallest, most minor detail.
So maybe, just maybe, she’s telling the truth. And maybe,
Mireille was lying at the Valentino exhibit when she said that
Lykke had told her about my being pregnant . . .
Victoria was moving towards the terrace. She couldn’t help
it. Her feet were doing it for her, had made their own decision.
People tried to stop her as she wove through the crowd, smiled
to catch her attention, called her name, wanting to talk to her,
but she just kept going, pretending she didn’t notice, ignoring
even a hand laid on her arm by Jacob himself.
The fresh night air of a Parisian September evening, soft and
velvety, was deliciously refreshing after the closely-packed
atmosphere inside L’Arc, even though it was more than tinged
with smoke – no gathering of fashionistas was complete without large groups of skinny people dragging incessantly on their
cigarettes to dull their hunger pangs. The terrace was a prow,
pushing out on a promontory overlooking the Arc de Triomphe,
whose elaborately-carved marble pediment, illuminated pale
gold against the black night, was visible over the high silvered
walls. Brilliant green uplighters flooded dramatically up the
sides, around the chrome outdoor bar, casting eerie pools of
neon light and – very importantly – providing areas of darkness
where habitués could lurk in relative privacy.
Victoria kept to the shadows, ensuring that her very recognisable face was never lit up by one of the jade-green spotlights.
Slipping between tables, she worked her way over to where
she could see Lykke, leaning against the square tip of the prow,
a glass in her hand, half-concealed by one of the ball-topped
topiary trees that softened the sharp edges of the terrace. It
was only when Victoria was almost beside her that she realised
with excitement that Lykke was all alone.
And then, the opportunity that Victoria had craved was
suddenly overwhelming. Lykke was so close, close enough to
touch, if she reached out her arm; she was by herself, utterly
unusual at a fashion party, where a model would normally be
surrounded by admirers. It was so perfect that Victoria stopped
in her tracks, paralysed with anticipation.
Lykke’s head turned, like a white chrysanthemum on a
stem. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of Victoria,
who had so stringently avoided her for months, now deliberately seeking her out.
Victoria was tongue-tied. Lykke’s proximity was dazzling, the
play of light and shadow on her face from the pale green lighting
flickering through the leaves of the tree like a series of fashion
photographs, haunting and beautiful. Lykke regarded Victoria
with her customary gravity, her pupils dilated; only the swift rise
and fall of her narrow ribcage, visible through her clinging silk
blouse, betrayed that she was agitated by Victoria’s presence.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Victoria managed to say
eventually.
‘You are not worried by what people will say?’ Lykke asked
seriously.
Instinctively, Victoria stepped towards her, bringing most of
her body into the shelter of the tree, rendering her almost
invisible to the other guests on the terrace.
‘I am,’ she confessed honestly. ‘But I wanted to talk to you
anyway.’
‘So,’ Lykke said. She had moved backwards a little, making
space for Victoria in the little niche formed by the angle of the
tree and the terrace wall. But it was also, Victoria knew, because
Lykke didn’t want to be that close to Victoria: not yet. Not
until she had heard what Victoria had to say.
‘I thought it was you who told everyone I was pregnant,’
Victoria blurted out. ‘And that you and I were together in St
Louis. That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. I thought I couldn’t
trust you.’
Lykke’s eyes dilated still further. Even in this dim light, Victoria
knew their colouring so well that she could see, perfectly, the dark
ring around the light-blue irises deepen in shock.
‘No!’ Lykke breathed. ‘No, I promise you, it is not true.
Never – I would never speak about you, not at all. I have not
said a word!’
‘I believe you.’ Victoria moved closer, till their bodies were
separated by barely a few inches. ‘I should have known you
wouldn’t say anything.’
‘Why would you even
think
—’
‘It was Mireille.’ Victoria was keeping her voice down, but
now she lowered it to a whisper. ‘At the Valentino party in
New York, just after you and I talked.’ Her body felt suffused
with heat at the memory of Lykke’s words to her at FIT. ‘She
told me you’d come up to her and said I was pregnant – and
then I heard some
Vogue
girls talking about me and you in St
Louis, so I assumed that had come from you as well.’
She reached out for Lykke’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said,
her voice choked. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t do
anything like that.’
For a brief, intoxicating moment, Lykke’s long fingers wound
through hers, and Victoria’s bones began to melt with excitement. And then, with a swift pull, Lykke withdrew her hand
again; Victoria gasped at the feeling of rejection.
‘I can’t . . .’ Lykke drew in a long, shuddering breath. ‘I must
confess to you. I must tell you something first.’
‘Oh God!’ Victoria actually trembled from head to toe,
fearing some awful revelation. Mad speculations tumbled
through her brain: Lykke’s in a relationship with Inge
Kavanaugh – no, worse, they’re engaged. And I don’t care! she
thought frantically. No matter how bad it is, I don’t care! As
long as Lykke’s forgiven me, as long as she still wants to be
with me, I don’t care what she’s about to tell me.
‘My coming to see you, at
Style
,’ Lykke was saying quietly.
‘It was not chance. It was planned. Did you not think it was
strange? When does a model come like that for a go-see with
the editor of the magazine? Never.’
‘But you were supposed to see Mireille, and she was delayed,
and there was some mess-up with Clemence and Dietrich,
so . . .’ Victoria’s voice tailed off as she took in the import of
what Lykke was telling her.
Lykke nodded. ‘It was Mireille,’ she admitted. ‘She told me,
“Victoria will like you. You must meet her, alone in her office,
you must show her your book.” So she arranged it. I think
perhaps she arranged it with your assistant, but I am not sure.’
Victoria’s mouth had fallen open; she was gaping like a fish,
completely gobsmacked. ‘She said that I’d like you?’ she
repeated, amazed. ‘How would she know that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lykke’s shoulders rose and fell, signifying
equal bafflement. ‘But she knew that
I
liked
you
. That I found
you very attractive,’ she corrected herself.
‘How would she know that?’
Lykke hung her head in embarrassment. ‘I have said it,
before,’ she confessed. ‘At a fashion party, last year. We were in
a group, talking, and someone said your name, and I said, “Oh,
she is such a beautiful woman.” You know,’ she added in parenthesis, ‘it is not a secret that I am a lesbian. I said: “She is just
the kind of woman I find most attractive, that I would like to
be with.” I had maybe had a few glasses of champagne,’ she
acknowledged. ‘But I did not say it disrespectfully – just that I
found you very beautiful. And then, much later, this year,
Mireille calls me in to see her, and she says, “Lykke, I know you
would like to be on the cover of the magazine, very much, and
I think too that Victoria Glossop would like to put you on the
cover. And I think she will like you.” So I am surprised, because
I never hear that you are the same as me, that you like women.
But I am very excited to meet you – and not just to meet you,
to be alone with you, if Mireille will organise that. So I take the
opportunity.’
She reached out for Victoria’s hand, and Victoria did not
draw hers away.
‘Please forgive me?’ Lykke asked in a soft murmur. ‘You
know that what we do together is because I want to do it,
because I want you. Not because I want the cover. You know
that it’s real. I was scared to tell you, because you might think
it wasn’t real. But I can’t pretend like that. For me, sex is very
important. I can’t pretend with sex, I can’t do what I don’t
want to do. And,’ her hand tightened around Victoria’s, ‘I have
never felt like this before. I promise.
Never
.’
‘I haven’t either,’ Victoria whispered, her fingers now clinging to Lykke’s. ‘But how could Mireille know? I was never with
a woman before . . . how could she know?’
‘She’s like a witch,’ Lykke said, her shoulders lifting and falling again. ‘She sees things about people – things sometimes
they don’t know themselves.’
Victoria nodded.
It’s as if Mireille reads my mind
sometimes
.

‘But I’m glad,’ Lykke said. ‘Even if she told you a lie, that I
said you were pregnant—’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Victoria’s voice was heartfelt; the two women
were moving closer and closer, almost breast to breast now.
‘– I’m still glad, because she brought us together.’ Lykke’s
breath was warm on Victoria’s lips now. ‘Even if you never
want to be with me again, I’m grateful for that. It was the most
beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.’
Victoria parted her lips to say, ‘For me too,’ but as they
opened, Lykke’s mouth was on hers, Lykke’s tongue tracing the
contours of her soft, damp skin, and all thoughts of speaking
swept from her mind. Eagerly, she threw her arms around
Lykke’s neck, dragged her body close, frustrated only by her
bump, which meant that not every inch of them could touch.
But Lykke’s hands slid down, cradling the sides of Victoria’s
swollen stomach, stroking her with such tenderness that
Victoria felt as if an extra flood of relaxin had been released
into her lower body, inundating her.
‘It’s been so long!’ she moaned into Lykke’s mouth. ‘I’ve
missed you so much!’
‘Too long.’ Lykke showered her mouth with tiny kisses. ‘I’ve
thought of you every day – thought of you growing, feeling the
baby, wanting to touch you, to see how your body’s changing,
your breasts, your taste.’
Victoria was sure her entire body was suffused with red
now. ‘Lykke,’ she protested feebly, clinging to her lover.
‘But I want to taste you!’ Lykke said fiercely. ‘You want it
too! To lick you, to see how you taste now, to kiss your breasts.’
She hugged Victoria as tightly as she could, with the bump
between them. ‘To look after you, protect you and the baby. To
have you be mine. I would do anything for you, Victoria. I
would make sure no one could hurt you. I would always defend
you, stand by you. If people tell lies about us, even Mireille,
though she made us meet, I would stop her. I would never let
anyone damage or hurt you. Victoria, I love you—’
‘Victoria? My God!’
The voice from behind her wasn’t loud: it was a stunned
exclamation, not a shout. But it cut through Victoria’s delirious
haze of excitement like a cold bucketful of water tipped over
her head. Wrenching herself away from Lykke, she swung round
to see her husband, standing not two feet away from them.
‘
Jeremy!
’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘What are you doing here?’
Green light picked out her husband’s curly hair, flashed on
his glasses as he stared disbelievingly at his wife, caught in the
embrace of another woman.
‘I came over to surprise you,’ he said, his voice a thin thread.
‘You’ve just got one more day of shows, so I thought we could
grab some time together in Paris – have a romantic night out
before the baby comes.’
Victoria’s head swam. She actually thought for a moment
that she might faint. Reaching out for support, she found
Lykke’s hand, and she clung to it like a life-raft.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere at the party for you,’ Jeremy
was babbling, ‘and then someone said they saw you going out
to the terrace. I couldn’t find you, I thought you’d gone home,
but then I heard a voice that sounded like yours, and I thought
it couldn’t be – what would you be doing, hiding right at the
back here?’
Jeremy’s voice was thick with what sounded like imminent
tears.
‘Vicky, what are you doing?’ he finished hopelessly. ‘What
on earth is going on?’ He looked at Lykke. ‘And who the hell is
this
?’

opened in the mid-seventies on 65th Street at the
Mayfair Hotel: Frank Sinatra, Sophia Loren and Luciano
Pavarotti, the Kennedy clan and Ronald Reagan had all been
regulars. Elizabeth Taylor had come there to squabble with
Richard Burton; Nixon and Kissinger had famously lunched
there to bury the hatchet. Le Cirque’s move to Madison and
51st, as Le Cirque 2000, had been considered a mis-step, but
it was now triumphantly ensconced in a custom-built space in
the Bloomberg Tower, a glowing glass ceiling rising like the
circus tent after which the restaurant was named over the
dining space below. Sirio Maccioni, its voluble, charming
Italian owner, liked to say that the history of Le Cirque was the
history of the last forty years of New York itself, and certainly
politicians and agents still flocked to the third Le Cirque to
broker deals. Donald Trump and Ivana Trump were often to be
seen there – though not together; Woody Allen, Joans Rivers
and Collins, past and present mayors of New York City.