Killer Heels (38 page)

Jacob heaved a deep sigh, leaned forward, and kissed her on
the cheek.
‘Thank you, honey. Thank you for understanding. I’ve got
lawyers on it already,’ he said. ‘Sorting out all the paperwork.
No pre-nup, believe it or not. They’re screaming, but I’m an
old romantic. I’m in this for life. And hell . . .’ He shungged. ‘I’ll
be gone long before she is.’
He stroked Mireille’s cheek where he had kissed her.
‘I’ll always be here for you,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll never
have to worry about a thing. The apartment’s in your name.
And I’m settling a lump sum on you as well.’
‘Jacob!’ she exclaimed. ‘That really isn’t necessary.’
He shook his head: ‘I insist.’ He looked at Mireille, and for
the first time, he seemed anxious. ‘She’s a good girl,’ he said. ‘A
really good girl. You like her, don’t you, Mireille? It’s so important to me that you like her.’
Mireille hesitated for a moment.
How important is my
approval, truly? If I say I don’t really like Coco, don’t trust her,
will that put a spanner in the works
? She thought of Coco,
pictured her walking down the aisle to meet Jacob in the silk,
bias-cut Vera Wang dress that all New York upper-crust trophy
wives favoured, to show off the slim figures which had caught
them a rich older husband. But Coco would be, not slim, but
gaunt as a fever victim, letting a man older than her own father
slide a ring on her bony finger . . .
The temptation to lie was huge, the image before her eyes
more than distressing. She looked at Jacob, who was beginning
to frown now with concern at what her answer would be.
Speculations, calculations, raced through her clever brain.
But eventually, Mireille decided:
I will keep it simple. I will tell
the truth
.
‘I do, Jacob,’ she assured him, slowly. ‘I like her very much
indeed.’

Tiff stared around at the scene in front of her: three
skinny teenage models, in pleated skirts, ankle boots and tiny
striped sweaters, jumping on mini-trampolines set up in the
lobby of the Brooklands Hotel. The Art Deco design was
breathtaking; a huge twisted silver sculpture hung from the
ceiling, between two equally huge light fixtures that were
perfect Deco tortoiseshell discs. Daylight flooded in from the
double-height glass entrance wall. The photographer was up a
long ladder, shooting the girls through the sculpture as they
jumped, their limbs thrown wide, but artfully fixing into
dramatically elegant compositions, their expressions lively,
excited, youthful.

‘Tanisha! More fizz with the arms!’ the photographer yelled
across at the girl on the central trampoline.
‘It’s fun,’ Tiff said, impressed.
Coco laughed. ‘It
looks
fun,’ she corrected. ‘Did you see the
shots we got earlier? The girls racing the vintage cars? Or them
with Concorde?’
Brooklands, in Surrey, was the first purpose-built motorracing circuit in the world, and the glass-fronted hotel had
been set, dramatically, right next to the original track. Its wings
reached out for ideal viewing, from its balconies, of the vintage
car rallies and motorsport festivals hosted by the Brooklands
Museum. A Concorde airplane in the museum had provided
an excellent backdrop for shots earlier that day. By contrast,
Mercedes-Benz World, at right-angles to the hotel, was a showcase for the very latest cars on the market. Jacob, together with
Coco and Tiff’s father and brother, was out there right now,
roaring up and down the speed track and sliding round a wetskid circuit with great enthusiasm.
‘Nah, I was in the spa,’ Tiff said. ‘See my face?’ She shoved
her head forward at her sister.‘Like a baby’s bum! I went and
sat in the Jacuzzi, did you see that? It’s like this big wooden
barrel, outside on that big balcony at the top of the hotel. You
can see all the cars on the track, and there’s this whole off-road
hill thing over the side as well, where all these twats are going
round in jeeps, getting stuck in tiny little water puddles – I
laughed my head off, watching them fuck up! Practically
boiled myself like a lobster. But it’s really nice up there, Coco.
You should go. All cold outside and the water’s really hot. It’s
like being in one of them hot springs in Iceland.’
‘I won’t get a chance today,’ Coco started, but Tiff was
unstoppable.
‘And then I had a facial. Get this – they’re all designed by Jo
Malone’s sister! You know, the one that does those really posh
oils and things? The sister’s, like, this famous facialist. Fancy or
what? Skin plumping, the girl said it was. Feel my cheek – go
on, feel it.’
Coco stroked Tiff’s cheek, which did feel incredibly soft and
plump.
‘Lovely. Where’s Mum?’ Coco asked, biting nervously at the
cold sore she was sure was developing on her inner lip.
She felt consumed with stress. On paper, it had seemed like
a perfect scenario: she had flown over to the UK to do a shoot
for
Mini Style
at this extraordinary location conveniently close
to London. The PR that Dupleix worked with, Katharine
Walsh, the beautiful blonde, rake-thin, By Malene Birgerwearing reigning queen of London’s publicity girls, also
represented a small group of luxury, boutique hotels. Katharine
had taken Coco to Brooklands while she’d been in London in
September for Fashion Week, and Coco had immediately spotted how perfect the location would be, with its fabulous Deco
furnishings, its cars and its Concorde, for a youthful, fastmoving photo spread. She’d learned so much from Victoria.
This shoot would be called
Need For Speed
, the photos fashionably blurred with motion.
But then Jacob, hearing that she was off to London, had
decided to come along, saying that this would be the perfect
opportunity for him to meet the whole Raeburn family.
And that would have been manageable, Coco thought, if he
hadn’t heard that we were shooting right next to a racetrack,
and got his assistant to check out Mercedes-Benz World and
the hotel, and insisted on inviting everyone to stay overnight in
the best suites, as his guests, and booked Dad and Craig in for
driving experiences and Mum and Tiff for spa treatments . . .
And now it’s like everyone’s talking to me at once, and I can’t
focus on anything properly. My head feels as if it’s going to
explode, I’m starving hungry and I’m not due another energy bar
for two hours.
Tiff was chattering away, but Coco didn’t hear a word.
‘Tiff, could you just pop to the bar and get me a double diet
tonic?’ she asked, cutting in. Sugar was out, of course, but she
was allowed the next best thing, and she needed a hit of sweetener really badly. ‘It’s just through there. Put it on the
magazine’s tab.’
She indicated the bar, just off the hotel lobby, floored in rich
dark wood, anchored by a long, double-sided leather booth in
matching dark brown leather, five spectacular, gleaming silver
propellers rising from the centre. It was stunning, a triumph of
interior design. Coco would have loved to photograph in there,
but it was
Mini Style
she was shooting for, and there was no
way she could set a shoot for a teen magazine in a bar, even if
the bar itself didn’t appear. American advertisers were un
believably strict.
‘And Tiff – I’m Coco now,’ she added. ‘I didn’t choose it, but
it’s what everyone calls me now, and actually, I quite like it.’
Tiff pulled a face. ‘It’s weird,’ she complained. ‘And it freaks
Mum and Dad out.’
‘Well, they’ll have to suck it up,’ Coco heard herself snap.
‘There’s nothing I can do about it, and they’re being put up in
a stunning hotel, all expenses paid, treated like royalty – if all
they have to do is call me Coco instead of Jodie, it’s not much
to ask in return, is it?’
Coco’s voice had risen much higher than she’d meant it to:
the last thing she’d intended was to have a public squabble
with her sister while supervising a shoot for her magazine. Out
of the corner of her eye, she could see heads turning – not just
the people on the
Mini Style
shoot, but the reception staff as
well were staring.
Tiff looked stunned. ‘Well! There’s no need to get shirty,’
she said huffily. ‘I’ll go and get your tonic.’
‘
Diet
tonic,’ Coco corrected swiftly.
Oh my God
, she thought
in horror, as Tiff stalked away to the bar.
I sounded just like
Victoria then
.
‘Coco? Want to take a look at these last ones?’ the photographer called, descending the stepladder, which was being
held for her by a couple of minions. ‘I think we’ve got it.
Fantastic stuff. And the light’s almost gone, anyway,’ she
added hopefully.
This was the last set-up of the day: Coco felt a wave of
exhaustion sweep over her. They had been working since first
thing that morning, and she had been run ragged supervising
every detail of the shoot, while simultaneously keeping Jacob
happy, welcoming her family to the hotel and making sure
they checked into their suites and were introduced to Jacob—

Oh God. My boyfriend, meeting my parents. That was one of
the most uncomfortable moments of my life. Worse even than my
first interview with Victoria.
The Raeburn family had been
assembled in the lobby, waiting to meet their host before the
men departed for their slot at Mercedes-Benz World and the
women their appointments at the spa. Coco was keeping one
eye on her BlackBerry and one on the huge glass doors, waiting
to see Jacob’s limo pull up outside; but she hadn’t realised that
he wasn’t coming from London by car. The helicopter had
circled dramatically in a loop past the hotel, over the historic
old Brooklands racetrack, drawing oohs of appreciation from
Mr Raeburn and Craig, who had stood up to get a better view.

‘Not every day you see a helicopter landing almost next to
you, is it?’ Coco’s father had said appreciatively, as the featherlight, bright blue Twin Squirrel set down on the Mercedes-Benz
World airstrip. ‘Must be some real bigwig coming in.’

Oh
no
, Coco had thought hopelessly, dreading what was to
come;
as if the contrast wasn’t going to be bad enough . . .
Despite its being only a few minutes’ walk, a car had been
laid on to drive Jacob from the airstrip to the hotel. He was in
and out in thirty seconds, smoothing down his hair as he
stepped out of the limo, a gofer following him, pulling his suitcases out of the boot and loading them onto a cart. He had
flown in overnight from New York to London, gone straight to
the office for meetings, and then, obviously, charted a helicopter to pop to Surrey for an afternoon of driving and dinner, but
he looked fresh as a daisy; first-class travel and accommodation
were infinitely more relaxing than the economy versions. He
was wearing the international businessman’s off-duty uniform
of chinos, a cashmere sweater, and Gucci loafers: casual,
comfortable and clearly extremely expensive.
‘Ooh!’ Mrs Raeburn had commented, her eyes lighting up
as Jacob strode into the hotel. ‘Now that’s a man who’s ageing
well. He reminds me a bit of George Clooney. Nice. Why don’t
you take care of yourself like that, Brian?’
‘Mum! Gross,’ Tiff complained, as Coco writhed, realising
that the penny hadn’t dropped. She had told her family that
Jacob was older, the head of the company, but she hadn’t had
the nerve to give his exact age. Clearly, her mother, eyeing up
Jacob with open enthusiasm, had no idea that she was actually
talking about her daughter’s boyfriend.
‘Honey!’ Jacob caught sight of Coco, and opened his arms
wide. ‘Here you are, all ready and waiting!’
She couldn’t run into his arms, not in front of her family;
not when they were all turning to gawk at her, four faces all
with exactly the same dumbfounded, uncomprehending
expression. She compromised by walking swiftly towards him
and giving him a hug. Jacob insisted on kissing her, though, and
on keeping one arm around her as he extended the other hand
to the Raeburns in welcome. They were to come to him; he
was the Master of the Universe, after all.
‘It’s so great to meet Coco’s family,’ Jacob beamed. His
outstretched hand, nails buffed to a dull gleam, ten-thousand
dollar Rolex dangling from its wrist, hovered in the air for a
long, awkward moment before Craig elbowed his father frantically and Mr Raeburn, jolted into action, stepped forward to
shake Jacob’s hand.
‘Very nice to meet you, I’m sure,’ he said, barely able to meet
Jacob’s eyes. Like Jacob, Mr Raeburn was dressed in his best casual
clothes – a check shirt belted into beige trousers, and a dark blue
jacket – as advised by Coco, who had said to bring a suit for dinner.
And as he and Jacob greeted each other, Coco firmly encircled in
Jacob’s embrace, the contrast between the two men could not
have been more apparent. Jacob practically reeked affluence; Mr
Raeburn’s Sunday best from Debenhams did not. Jacob’s aftershave was subtle and expensive; Mr Raeburn had dabbed a bit of
Brut on his neck, at his wife’s insistence. Mr Raeburn’s shoes . . .
but, recalling Victoria’s comment on hers, Coco didn’t dare to
glance down at the contrast between Jacob’s polished Guccis and
her father’s cheap leather high-street lace-ups.
The worst part, of course, was that the two men were almost
the same age. Like most working-class couples, Brian and Sue
Raeburn had started their family early; Craig was twenty-seven
now, and the Raeburns were barely into their fifties.
Jacob’s actually older than Dad, Coco realised for the first
time, her heart sinking. But he looks – well, not younger,
exactly, but so much more privileged. Close up, doing his best
to smile at Jacob, her father’s skin was windburned, pre
maturely aged from all the years of working outside, loading
and unloading suitcases off airplanes and onto cargo belts, his
hands chapped, his cuticles torn. Now that his job as supervisor meant less physical work, he had put on weight, and his
belly hung over the waistband of his trousers.
Coco had always been proud of her father, his confidence in
his work and at home, his role as the man of the house, the
main provider. But next to Jacob Dupleix, head of an entire
corporation, international business tycoon, multi-millionaire,
one of the Masters of the Universe, it was inevitable that a
baggage handling supervisor for Luton airport would look
somewhat diminished by contrast.
‘Lovely to meet you too, Mr Raeburn,’ Jacob was saying
with unabashed warmth. ‘And you, Mrs Raeburn.’
Coco’s mother, pink in the face, smoothing down the layered
linen dress that she had run out to buy from Phase 8 for this
occasion, came forward to be greeted by Jacob in her turn.
‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said bravely.
‘Coco talks so much about all of you,’ Jacob said, smiling
benevolently at all of them. ‘Tiffany, Craig . . .’
Craig was pumping Jacob’s hand now, using both hands,
determined to make a good impression on behalf of the
Raeburn men.
‘Great entrance, mate,’ he said. ‘Landing in that helicopter.
Nice one.’
Jacob was grinning now. ‘Should be about time for us to get
out on that racetrack, eh?’ he said.
‘Yeah! Can’t wait to give it some welly!’ Craig said
enthusiastically.
‘Craig means he likes to drive fast,’ Coco said to Jacob,
whose smooth brow – he Botoxed, but only very carefully –
was trying to furrow in confusion.
‘Cool! Know what, Craig? Me too! We should bring you
along to translate, honey,’ Jacob said, kissing the top of her
head. ‘Coco’s so sharp, isn’t she?’ he said fondly to her parents.
‘You raised a real live wire here.’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Raeburn said, looking from her daughter
to her daughter’s boyfriend, her stare still bemused, as she
slowly took in the reality of the situation, that Jacob, older
than her husband, was complimenting her daughter as a boss
would an employee, a teacher would a pupil.
Tiff, pushing forward to receive a kiss on the cheek from
Jacob, was equally pink, equally dazed, but still as game as ever.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ she giggled. ‘You’re not at all what
we were expecting, I can tell you. Mum thinks you look like
a film star.’
‘Tiff!’ her mother snapped at her, outraged, going even
redder.
‘Thanks so much for having us here and everything,’ Tiff
went on, undaunted. ‘It’s well posh.’
Now it was Coco’s turn to cringe, but Jacob had eaten this
admiration up with a spoon.
‘Is that good, honey?’ he said, looking down at Coco. ‘
Well
posh
? I sure hope so!’
His attempt at Tiff’s accent was funny without being in the
least offensive; like all Americans, he loved to imitate a British
accent and could do either an exaggerated version of
Downton
Abbey
, or ‘Dick Van Dyke Cockney’. The second one, which
he went for now, was so comical that all the Raeburns fell
about laughing at his willingness to make a clown of himself,
and the ice was finally broken.
The men disappeared back out for the driving session, the
women up to the spa, and Coco had had a few hours to get on
with the job she was actually here for – hard as it was to
concentrate, after the embarrassment and confusion that
Jacob’s meeting of the Raeburns had engendered. It was everything mixed into one; the powerful differences of class and of
money, the even-more-powerful similarities of age, and, above
all, the sheer gulf that had so obviously opened up between
her life a year and a half ago, a struggling, underpaid assistant
to a magazine editor, and her life now, editor of her very own
magazine.
It was the gulf between Jodie and Coco.
Tiff never told me how Mum was getting on at the spa,
Coco realised now, drawing in a long deep breath. I hope that
went all right. Mum’s not used to anything so posh – facials
created by Jo Malone’s sister, for goodness’ sake! She’ll have
needed a lot of hand-holding and reassurance.
‘Coco?’ The photographer was standing by the stepladder,
looking at her, holding out the digital camera. Everyone, in
fact, was looking at her, their expressions identical: anticipation, carefully-veiled but nonetheless present.
They all want to go home, Coco knew. Back to London.
They’re all hoping I’ll check out these ones and say that we’re
done for the day. She glanced at the Cartier watch Jacob had
bought her for Christmas. Five already! Shit! Oh God, I so
hope we’re finished. We’ve been going at it since eight this
morning . . .
‘Here you go, madam,’ her sister snapped, handing her a
glass of diet tonic water. ‘Hope it’s to your satisfaction.’
She stumped off crossly, back to the bar;
off to start drinking
,
Coco thought ruefully.
Great – by dinnertime she’ll be
plastered
.
The glass of water was brimming, and slopped on the toes
of her boots as she hurried over to the waiting photographer.
Oh no, they’re suede – my new Vuittons – damnit!
Coco was close to tears, overwhelmed by the combination
of hugely-pressured work, everything riding on her shoulders,
with the always-stressful situation of her boyfriend meeting
her family.
Dinner tonight’s going to be a total nightmare
, Coco thought
miserably, staring down at the damp patches on her boots.
Oh
God, why did I ever let Jacob talk me into this?