Killer Heels (41 page)

Three weeks later, Victoria was still completely shattered.
The
actresses and models who schedule the abdominoplasty caesarian
take off weeks for complete rest after the operation
, she thought.
I
was back to work after ten days, damnit
. She was being driven
home from the office, rather than attending the three evening
parties to which she had been invited; she simply didn’t have
the energy to manage anything after work hours. Her breasts
were sore and aching: she’d have to express, or feed, as soon as
she got back, and either option would take forever.

All I want to do is pass out. But I can’t. Not only do I have to
feed Sasha, I have to strategise about the god-awful news I got this
afternoon . . .

Her BlackBerry rang: exhaustion momentarily forgotten,
Victoria reached into her bag eagerly.
Please, she thought, please
let it be her, let it be her
. . .

Her heart leaped in happiness when she saw the name on
the display.
‘Darling!’ she sighed blissfully into the phone.
‘Darling,’ Lykke echoed just as ecstatically. ‘I miss you so
much.’
‘I miss you too – so much! How was the flight?’
‘Oh, very bumpy,’ Lykke said as serenely as ever. ‘There was
a storm. Some people threw up. But I never mind turbulence.
I am lucky.’
‘What time is it there?’
‘Eight-thirty in the morning,’ Lykke said. ‘I am very excited.
I have not been to Japan before, you know, and already I can
see that it is so beautiful.’
‘I wish I were there with you,’ Victoria said wistfully. ‘We
could visit the temples in Kyoto and Osaka and soak in those
lovely baths at the ryokans.’
‘I wish you were here too,’ Lykke said softly. ‘It would be so
romantic.’
Victoria heaved a deep sigh.
‘How are you?’ Lykke asked.
‘Hungry all the time!’ Victoria complained.
‘Victoria – you must eat more. Please tell me you are not
doing the five-finger diet any more – that is mad!’
‘Five
hand
diet,’ Victoria corrected.
It was the latest way of structuring a minuscule amount of
food consumption: five ‘handfuls’ of protein a day i.e. no more
than would fit into a woman’s palm. The protein itself, of
course, was the highest quality: Victoria was allowed smoked
salmon, prawns, fillet steak, yellow-fin tuna sushi and scrambled eggs. No salt, no sugar, as many green vegetables as she
wanted. She was drinking gallons of water, to fill her up, and
snacking on goji berries and nuts. It was three weeks after
Sasha’s birth; in another week she would start gentle exercise,
a specially-tailored Pilates regimen specifically for new mothers who had had the combined caesarean and abdominoplasty.
And after that, she’d be allowed to start having algae wraps;
the Pilates trainer had said their effects could be miraculous.
‘It is not enough food for you, yet alone for Sasha,’ Lykke
said fondly. ‘Please, Victoria, promise me – eat some brown
rice as well, yes?’
‘I still feel podgy,’ Victoria whined.
‘Victoria, you are always in a rush! You must not be so much
in a rush! It is more important that you are not hungry all the
time and your baby is not hungry. I diet, of course I do – before
the important shows I do not eat solid food for days sometimes, just fat-free protein shakes – but I am not a mother,
okay? You must be strong to make good milk for Sasha.’
Victoria sighed again. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ve
got some Japanese rice crackers at home. I’ll have some and
think of you.’
‘Eat them, and think afterwards of eating me,’ Lykke said,
laughing. ‘Will you do that?’
‘
Lykke!
’ Victoria said, torn between excitement and embarrassment, as she always was when Lykke talked about sex.
Victoria automatically looked up to check that the partition
between her and the driver was closed, the intercom was off.
‘I can’t wait to see you again,’ Lykke said softly.
‘When do you come back?’ Victoria asked. ‘How long are
you in Japan?’
‘Three days. You know, it is for a catalogue, they have a lot
of pages. And then to Hong Kong, for a trunk show. Wait, let
me check my organiser . . . it’s ten days, I think. I come back in
ten days.’
‘Too long,’ Victoria objected. ‘Much too long.’
Although she missed Lykke, it was a delicious luxury for
Victoria to love and be loved so much, to indulge in the kind
of sweet, babyish talk that she had never, ever done before.
Lykke and Sasha, she thought wonderingly. I never knew
what love was before, and I didn’t miss it. And then, in the
space of a few months, I fall in love for the first time and have
a baby, and fall in love with my baby, too, as soon as I hold her
in my arms.
I always thought love weakened you. And I was right. It’s terrifying – I feel vulnerable now, constantly. And I never felt vulnerable
before.
Victoria shivered.
‘Oh God, Lykke,’ she said, suddenly remembering the awful
news she’d had that afternoon. ‘Something ghastly’s happened
– you’ll never believe this. Jacob has proposed to Coco!’
Lykke was very fast: she barely took a moment to assimilate
what this meant for her lover.
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘I know. I never thought this would happen. He’s a perpetual bachelor – plenty of girlfriends but never any commitment.
You should see his apartment – it’s the ultimate single man’s
pad.’
Victoria’s voice was rising; she was still incredulous, hardly
able to take in the news.
‘She went to London for a shoot, and he followed her, met
her family and bloody proposed! And her damn spin-off
magazine’s doing really, really well, Lykke. I’m shattered, my
boobs are killing me, I can’t take painkillers because I’m
breastfeeding, I miss Sasha all the time I’m at work, I’m in
love with a woman, my husband hates me, I’m so distracted
at work it’s not true, and that little bitch has not only jumped
into bed with the boss, she’s somehow managed to get him to
ask her to marry him. Devious little horror! If it goes on like
this, she’ll be asking for my job as a wedding present – and
he’ll give it to her!’
‘Really?’ Lykke sounded incredulous. ‘Surely not.’
‘You should have seen him today,’ Victoria said grimly. ‘He
was like a schoolboy with a major crush. He came into my
office and sat on the edge of my desk and blurted it all out
with the biggest smile on his face. I mean, I’d heard the
rumours, but I didn’t quite believe it. They’re telling me her
ring’s a diamond the size of a goose egg.’
‘Aaah,’ Lykke said seriously. ‘This is not good. Not good at
all.’
‘You know what? He bloody told
Mireille
he was going to
propose – can you believe it!’ Victoria was getting crosser and
crosser.‘Didn’t bother to warn me, but he told
her
! I confronted
her as soon as he waltzed out all hearts and flowers, and she
did one of her shrugs and said she’d hoped it wouldn’t happen
and didn’t want to trouble me until it was definite. So I couldn’t
even get angry with her. She’s so good at that – it drives me
crazy!’
‘Wait . . .’ Lykke’s voice was faint; it sounded as if she were
talking to someone else. ‘Darling, I have to go,’ she said regretfully. ‘They are calling me. I try to ring you tomorrow at this
time, okay?’
‘Oh no, don’t go! Lykke, darling—’
‘I have to – I have delayed already. I am so sorry.’ Lykke
drew in a deep breath. ‘Victoria, remember what I said in
Paris? I am for you, completely. On your side, always. I will do
anything to protect you, and now Sasha. To make sure you are
safe, and happy. That no one conspires against you.’
‘Oh, Lykke . . .’
‘I love you, Victoria. Completely. To me, that is everything,’
Lykke said with utter conviction. ‘
Everything
.’
The line clicked off. Victoria made a little moaning noise
into the mouthpiece, frustrated at losing contact with her
lover. Snapping the BlackBerry closed, she saw that they were
parked outside of their house on Riverside Drive. The driver
had been too scared to interrupt her conversation.
He did the right thing, Victoria thought wryly, looking out
of her tinted window to see him hovering outside her door. I’d
have bitten off his head if he’d disturbed me when I was talking to Lykke. She tapped on the window and he instantly bent
over to open it.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Sorry to keep you out in the cold.’
Ruefully, she noticed his surprise. I’m working on being
nicer, she thought. Even before Sasha came, meeting Lykke
was making me nicer. And now I’m really making an effort. I
don’t want my daughter to copy me, to be a bitch like me.
It was icy outside. She unlocked the front door, her hand
shaking with the cold, and dashed inside the warm house with
relief. Jeremy and the decorator had done a wonderful job of
making it both stylish and cosy; the tongue and groove panelling of the long hallway was painted soft cream, hung with
framed silk textiles, and its floor was polished wood, gleaming
around the runner whose blues and greens echoed the wall
hangings.
Victoria slipped off her coat, hung it in the built-in cupboard
– oh, the bliss of American built-in cupboards! – and walked
down the corridor, towards the kitchen. Delicious smells
greeted her as she entered, wide white pillar candles clustered
in the centre of the table, burning softly.
Jeremy and the decorator had gone for an American Colonial
look for the kitchen, mixed with the Austerity Britain, 1940s
vibe that was so fashionable in the little homeware boutiques
in Hoxton and Shoreditch; the tongue and groove walls were
painted light green above the cream patterned tiles, the fridge
and most of the electrical items were pale sage, that retro
colour that looked simple and inexpensive but actually cost a
fortune to source. The big wooden kitchen table was Italian
pine, the countertops tiled in the same pattern as the splashbacks. Jeremy had longed for an Aga, and the designer had had
a terrible job talking him out of it, pointing out how hard it
would be to get oil deliveries in central Manhattan; Victoria
had consoled him by assuring him that when they got their
country house, in Connecticut or the Hamptons, that the first
thing he could do was buy a top-of-the-range Aga.
Though I doubt we can afford a country house, the way
things are going, she thought bleakly, pausing in the doorway.
With that scheming little bitch Coco out to take my job! I’m
at the top now – Anna’s never going to leave
Vogue
– the only
way for me is down. Everyone will pretend to be sympathetic
if Jacob kicks me out so his wife can edit Style, but really,
they’ll laugh their heads off behind my back.
Should I start considering my options? Try to jump before I’m
pushed?
Jeremy was standing with his back to her, stirring something
at the stove, singing to Sasha, who was in a sling on his back,
rocking gently with his rhythmic movements. Ever since her
birth, Jeremy had held Sasha close to him as much as he could
and swaddled her in a specially-designed blanket like a papoose
when she slept. He’d read up on swaddling and been very
struck by the theories that it made babies feel secure and
happy. Certainly, Sasha couldn’t have been a happier baby;
Victoria stood for a moment, watching her daughter bob
lightly back and forth with her father’s movements, her eyes
closed, her feathery eyelashes fluttering on her plump pink
cheeks. A Mozart flute quartet played from the Bose stereo,
exquisitely soothing.
He’s a wonderful father. A perfect father. How can I ever take
her away from him? But how can I bear to live away from her? I
can’t! This is what I want to come home to every night – Jeremy,
taking care of our child, doing the best job imaginable of looking
after her.
They were barely using the nanny whom Jeremy had taken
such pains to select after a long and gruelling process of interviews: he wanted to take care of Sasha himself, was blissfully
happy doing it. He had already asked his employers if he
could extend his paternity leave, and they’d agreed. Victoria
had a strong feeling that he would be going part-time from
now on, if he worked at all outside the home. For at least the
first years of her life, Sasha would be raised by her father, an
ideal solution.
But if I leave Jeremy to be with Lykke
, Victoria reflected
unhappily,
he might fight me to get custody of Sasha, and he
could win. He’s doing all the work of looking after her: I’m out
all day, he’s the primary caregiver. Jeremy might even want to
move back to London, take her away from me, to punish me for
cheating on him
.
And what if I fought him for custody and won? How cruel it
would be to try to take her away from him, when he’s already
living for her, his little princess? And if I won, how could I watch
my daughter being raised by nannies, instead of the father who
adores her?
We could try for joint custody, but how much would I really see
her?
Realistically, Victoria knew that the answer would be
‘barely at all’. She would slip back all too easily into her world
of parties and openings, early-morning exercise sessions, work
dinners. Sasha would spend more and more time with Jeremy,
and Victoria would miss out on watching her grow up.
No, this is what I want – to come home to my baby and her
father, this lovely, warm domestic scene
.
But I want Lykke, too. And not just for sex. I want to be with
her, to have her in my arms, to sleep with her every night
.
I have the perfect husband, the perfect father for my child, the
perfect lover.
Oh God – why can’t they be the same person?
She shifted involuntarily, the heels of her boots scraping on
the terracotta tiles. Jeremy, who hadn’t heard the front door
over the music, broke off his lullaby, turning his head to look
over his shoulder at his wife.
‘You’re back early,’ he said flatly. ‘Was your mistress not
available for a quickie?’
Victoria bit her lip. ‘She’s in Japan,’ she informed him.
‘So Sasha and I get the pleasure of your company,’ Jeremy
said, turning back to the stove, the lenses of his glasses misting
in the steam from the soup. He took them off and wiped them
on his apron.‘Aren’t we lucky to be second-best!’
‘
Jeremy—
’
‘I’ve made pumpkin and sweet potato soup,’ he said. ‘You’re
allowed those, aren’t you? I looked at the list the nutritionist
left. They’re under “occasional carbs”.’
Victoria was immediately anxious.
‘Yes, but did you put any—’
‘There’s no normal potato in the soup,’ Jeremy said, rolling
his eyes. ‘And no butter, just a tiny bit of olive oil. Which you
need,’ he added firmly. ‘Though since there’s only a teaspoon
in the whole pot, it’s scarcely even there.’
He put the spoon down in the ceramic holder on the
countertop, turned down the soup to simmer, and began to
carefully unwind the elaborate wrappings of the papoose in
which Sasha was held. Jeremy, always thorough, had practised the various ways to wrap the baby sling with a doll
before Sasha was born so that now, already, he was an expert;
he had her untied and gently swung round into his arms in a
bare minute.