Authors: Rebecca Chance
Style
.
‘Aaah!’ Jennifer screeched in shock.
She reeled back under the onslaught of water which,
Mireille noticed with distaste, was greenish and a little smelly.
Jennifer had not supervised her staff well enough to ensure
that the water in her vases was changed every single day. Plus,
the stems of the flowers should have been freshly trimmed; as
Mireille had observed when handling them, this had not been
done either. Zarina is good but not perfect, Mireille noted. I
must have a word with her when all this has calmed down.
Jennifer had raised her hands to her face; she was trying
frantically to flick the dirty water away from her eyes. She staggered on her feet, and Mireille caught her shoulders, pressing
her back and down onto one of the upholstered chairs facing
the desk.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she said briskly. ‘Stop talking like
this, it will do you no good at all. Calm yourself down, and go
home when you are ready. But remember, you have two
months to work here still. You must complete your notice. If
you walk out now, you will forfeit everything – you will not get
a penny of your settlement.’
She reached out a hand; Zarina laid a handful of tissues in
it. Mireille dabbed Jennifer’s face, wincing at the odour of the
fetid water. Jennifer began to sob, long, gulping sobs which
signalled that the anger had worked itself through her and the
grieving process had begun. Mireille gave her another handful
of tissues and stood back.
‘There’s nowhere for me to go now,’ Jennifer wept. ‘This
was as good as it gets – the only way is down. Anna Wintour
won’t leave
Vogue
for decades, and I know who Hearst already
wants for
Harper’s
. What am I going to do? I don’t even want
to stay in New York! It’s totally humiliating! Victoria’s going to
come here and lord it over everyone . . . I’ll have to see her at
every party, every gala. Oh God, what am I saying? I won’t be
invited to
anything
any more!’ She doubled over in misery, her
sobs becoming even gustier.
Mireille smoothed down her skirt. ‘I advise you to talk to
Bilberry,’ she said calmly. ‘They have just been bought by
LVMH, and they are looking for a creative director. The job
would be based in London, of course, but if you do not wish to
stay in New York . . .’
Jennifer’s sobbing stopped abruptly; she looked up at
Mireille over the tissue she was holding, her mouth open.
‘Just an idea,’ Mireille said lightly. ‘But it would suit you
very well, I think. I will leave you alone now to recover.’
Zarina had been flitting round the office, pulling down the
blackout blinds, darkening the room; Jennifer had had these
fitted at great expense when she became editor, as she suffered
from migraines. She had tried a whole range of medications,
but the only one that worked had turned out to have the sideeffect of causing her to put on a few pounds. Of course, she
had immediately stopped using it, preferring to suffer horribly
once or twice a month but remain a size four. To do her justice,
practically every other person who worked in fashion would
have made the same choice.
Mireille gave a small smile of approval at Zarina as she left
Jennifer’s office. Zarina, knowing where the power was located,
followed Mireille out and closed the office door.
‘I’ll get Jennifer home when she’s all calmed down, Mireille,’
she said deferentially. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t manage on my own.’
‘Not at all.’
Mireille contemplated Zarina, who, on her father’s side, was
a de Ruiter, a scion of one of the oldest and best-connected
New York families, dating back to the earliest Dutch settlers of
Manhattan Island. Her mother was equally aristocratic, and
her Persian origins had given Zarina her black eyes and enviablythick mane of dark hair. Zarina’s socialite background was
typical for a
Style
staffer, but Mireille did not usually choose
girls like her to mentor: in her experience, the richer and more
privileged they were, the less able to think on their feet, act
quickly and efficiently in a crisis.
Zarina, however, was clearly an exception to this rule.
‘You did very well,’ Mireille pronounced. ‘I am very pleased
with the way you handled that situation.’
Zarina flushed bright red with happiness.
‘Look after Jennifer until she leaves,’ Mireille instructed.
‘Victoria will doubtless bring her own assistant over from
London.When Jennifer goes, I will make sure you are re-assigned
somewhere commensurate with your talents.’
Zarina’s eyes brightened, and she said quickly, ‘I’d really like
to be your assistant, Mireille. I know I’d learn so much from
you. If I could be your assistant, plus have some styling responsibilities, that would be my dream job.’
Mireille smiled, a slow smile of pure satisfaction. Cinnamon
had signed her own death warrant that afternoon, and Mireille
would need a replacement.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Consider it done.’ She turned away, tossing over her shoulder: ‘And the first thing I will teach you is the
correct maintenance of flower arrangements. Remind me,
please, the first day you start with me.’
oco stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby of the
Halston. It was a gorgeous December day in the city,
sunny and crisp, and she had a huge pair of Dior sunglasses
propped on the crown of her head. One of the delights of a
New York winter was that although it could be bitterly cold,
the norm was blue skies and sunshine, none of those low-skied,
grey, miserably damp London winters.
The doorman of her building was outside on the sidewalk, clad
in a bulky, loden-green overcoat with big gold buttons and military braiding, stamping his feet to keep warm on the icy pavement.
He jumped to attention as Coco came through the revolving
door, wrapped in an oversized, mink-trimmed Prada padded coat,
beneath which her stick-thin legs looked impossibly fragile.
‘Cab, Ms Raeburn?’ he asked, and Coco nodded. He strode
down to the edge of the sidewalk, lifting his whistle to his
mouth; but he didn’t need it. The Bowery was teeming with
taxicabs, and one stopped almost immediately, the doorman
popping open the door and holding it for Coco. It was one of
the new SUV yellow cabs, big and comfortable, and Coco
looked tiny in it as it rolled away. Six of her could easily have
fitted into the high back seat.
‘Five Fifth Avenue,’ she said to the driver, and relaxed back
as the cab threaded its way through the uptown traffic. The
leaves on the linden trees bordering the Bowery had all fallen
by now, the skeletons of the trees dramatic and stark, lightly
loaded with the snow that had fallen overnight. Black and
white, like the classic prints of the New York skyline.
Coco remembered the autumn foliage, beautiful and
dramatic, like nothing she had ever seen in England. When the
leaves changed colour here, it was an event heralded on the
local news channel, New York 1, for weeks beforehand. As
soon as the green started deepening at the tips to bright
splashes of yellow and scarlet and amber, spectacular bursts of
colour against the grey buildings, New Yorkers would get in
their cars and head upstate for foliage viewing. She had thought
they were crazy until her fiancé had driven her up to Pacific
Palisades in late September to show her the woods there: she
had been struck dumb at the sight. It looked as if cans of paint
had been thrown onto the trees, a dramatic panorama of reds,
oranges and yolk-yellows that signalled the arrival of fall.
A fantastic, all-American backdrop. Just what she’d needed
for the shoot she was planning, just what Victoria would love.
First thing Monday morning, she’d driven everyone crazy by
re-jigging the entire shoot, a March-issue piece on neon-bright
accessories, and bussing everyone up to the Palisades. The
resultant shots had been phenomenal: long-limbed models
stretching arms in elbow-length leather gloves, legs in microfibre tights, in fluorescent shades of lime and lemon and violet,
sharp and spring-like against the blurred background of the
autumn shades.
Fall into Spring
, Coco had called it.
She smiled, remembering how stunning the photos had
been. Mireille had admired the artistry of the styling, Victoria
the vivid colours and dynamic movement. Coco had managed
to please them both.
The cab crossed Houston Street and headed for Washington
Square Park; its white marble arch, modelled after the Arc de
Triomphe in Paris, loomed imposingly over the bright trees
below and the elegant red-brick houses on the north side of
the park. Coco wished, as she did every single time, that the
cab could pass through the arch itself, like a gateway to one of
the most beautiful stretches of Fifth Avenue – a wide, breathtaking panorama up to Madison Square Park. It was such a
glamorous approach, she felt almost as if she should have been
in a carriage, horses trotting in the shafts, like a princess on her
way to a ball.
Well, we’re going to a Christmas gala dinner and dance with
Marc Jacobs and Roberto Cavalli at the New York Public
Library, she thought. That’s the equivalent of a modern-day
ball! And I’m definitely marrying into New York royalty.
The cab pulled to a halt in front of Five Fifth, a beautiful,
pre-war greystone monolith a block wide. It narrowed gradually after the twentieth storey, with fewer apartments on each
floor, becoming larger and more expensive, their balconies and
terraces just visible from the street, the greenery planted on
them softening the imposing lines of the building. Five Fifth
was too fashionable to have the traditional red carpet laid out
from its main entrance to the sidewalk; instead, it had chosen
a deep charcoal grey, bordered in cream, with linked ‘5’s in its
centre. The uniform worn by Franklin, the daytime doorman,
was the same dark grey. He was already opening the cab door
as Coco finished paying the driver, extending one gloved hand
to help her out.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and Franklin looked at her
admiringly as she stepped onto the grey carpet, at her elegant
outfit, the sheen of money that buffed her to a high gloss. She’s
gotta be some kind of British aristocrat, he thought. A real nice
way about her, always says please and thank you so politely.
You can tell class as soon as you see it. No wonder he’s marrying this one.
He followed her deferentially up the carpet to the door,
executing the doorman shuffle, dodging in front of her to hold
it open, commenting: ‘Beautiful evening, Ms Raeburn.’
He moved ahead, leading the way to the bank of elevators,
extracting a big bunch of keys and sliding one into the lock
beside the far elevator, then pressing the button to open the
doors. Coco, of course, had her own key, but the more rich and
privileged you were, the less you had to do for yourself, and
part of Franklin’s job was to ensure that she didn’t have to do
anything so vulgar as reach into her bag for an elevator key.
‘All set,’ he said, stepping back to let her enter. ‘Enjoy the
view up there. Great night for it, it’s real clear.’
‘I will, Franklin. Thanks,’ she said as the doors shut and the
elevator started its journey. There were no buttons inside apart
from the alarm: the lift’s sensors told it when it was occupied
and sent it on one of the only two journeys it could make –
down to the lobby, or up to the fortieth-floor penthouse. It was
mirrored in the Art Deco style that echoed the period in which
Five Fifth had been designed, and Coco instinctively checked
her make-up and hair in the panel beside her as the lift
ascended, pleased to see that even in the overhead light her
skin looked smooth and poreless, her light-brown hair pinned
and drawn to the side in a loose twist that was the latest style
for twenty-something girls.
My eyes look huge, she noticed. They never looked like that
when I was a size 12. She shivered at the memory of being that
big.
What a heifer! God, I can’t even bear to look at old photos of
myself!
Proudly, she rested her hands on her hips, feeling the
bones there, clearly defined even through the fluffy lace knit of
the designer cardigan.
I’m perfect now. New York perfect. Sample
size perfect
.
The doors slid open, a tiny, discreet peal ringing once to
indicate to anyone in the penthouse that the elevator had
arrived. Coco stepped out, directly into the living room of the
apartment. She hadn’t quite got used to the luxury of having
no front door yet; it was still almost disconcerting, as if something were missing. The split-level living room was decorated
in dark, masculine colours, the deep blood-red leather of the
sofas gleaming against the dark oak flooring. Two richlypolished cherrywood humidors, one on either side of the bar,
purred quietly away, and a priceless Isfahan carpet, wool
woven on silk in an intricate pattern of red and indigo swirls
on an ivory background, lay in the centre of the room, anchoring the colour scheme.
When she had first visited the apartment, Coco had gasped
at the beauty of the carpet, reluctant to walk over it; now she
stepped on it with her sharp Balenciaga heels without thinking
twice. Familiarity bred, if not contempt, then at least casual
indifference. She walked into the master bedroom, which was
even more stunning than the living room, but one she had
barely noticed on her first visit. She blushed, looking at the
huge bed that dominated the room, with its elaboratelydetailed mahogany headboard, its twisted, carved, wooden
poles at each corner.
The bedroom, too, was split-level, and she descended the
three steps that led to the open bathroom area, its bath on the
same giant scale as the bed, chiselled from a single slab of black
granite; it had fitted into the service elevator, but to bring it
into the apartment, walls had had to be dismantled and rebuilt
around it, the floor strengthened to hold it. The twin sinks
were of the same granite, the bidet and toilet a matching black,
made to order, and they, too, were all on view, not even a paper
screen to block the sight of someone using one of the facilities
from anyone else in the entire room. The mica-flecked tiles
glittered subtly as Coco passed on her way to the French doors
at the far side of the bathroom.
Unlatching them, she walked out onto the terrace. It
wrapped around the entire apartment, an extraordinary luxury,
big enough in its two main sections for dining tables seating
sixteen, landscaped with planters containing tall trees, ornamental topiary, a herb garden off the kitchen and roses twining
around the stone framework of the balcony. This was her
favourite aspect, the south side. Here she could look down on
the entire spread of Washington Square Park, see the arch from
above, the fountain, tiny people moving on its pathways, kids
on skateboards, the dog park, huge Rottweilers and Great
Danes reduced to specks as they gambolled and played.
How far I’ve come in four years! she sighed, still not quite
believing it. The wind was cold up here, sharp and piercing,
and she held the fur-lined collar of her coat closely to her
throat with her leather-gloved hands. What if someone came
along, jerked the Isfahan rug from beneath her feet, told her
that she was just Jodie Raeburn from Luton, a size 12 girl in a
size 0 body? Would she accept it without question, agree that
they’d found her out as an impostor?
Or would I tell them they’re wrong, that I deserve to be here,
high up in Manhattan, on top of the world
? She raised her head,
chin pegged high, no longer staring down at the people below,
but the sky in front of her, the tip of Manhattan Island where
it narrowed to the Battery, the grey waters of the Hudson and
East Rivers merging into the Narrows, the choppy stretch
between Manhattan and Staten Island.
Yes, I would. I’m good at my job, I deserve to have it. I’m loved,
I’m valued. I’ve jumped through every single hoop that life’s held
out for me: worked harder, run faster, passed every test.
She heaved a deep breath.
And God knows, there have been
lots of tests.
Memories flooded into her mind, powerful, shaming memories. Words she had said, things she had done, commands she
had followed. A velvet blindfold, tightly fastened over her
eyes, the sensation of her eyelashes blinking frantically against
the soft fabric, her wrists pulling against fur-lined handcuffs
fastened to those carved wooden poles on the bed she had just
passed. Dampness between her legs, soaking her silk knickers.
Fingers stroking every part of her, entering her, making her
dance and pull against her bonds, teaching her exactly what he
wanted, schooling responses from her. Ice cubes inside her,
drops of wax on her skin, searing hot for just a fraction of a
moment, tracing a line between her breasts, down her stomach, down further until she thought she could no longer bear
it, and pleaded desperately for him to stop, and then realised
that she could bear it, even wanted it . . .
Coco shivered, and told herself it was because of the chilly
winter air. She was always cold these days, should really go
inside: but she wanted to watch the sun set, shadows gradually
falling across the stone flagstones of the terrace, the delicate
burgundy leaves of the Japanese garnet maple tree casting a
tracery across Coco’s shoulders. She turned her face up to the
sun, its rays on her face warming her skin gently despite the
sharp breeze.
I’m finally thin. Really thin. I fit this dress precisely, she told
herself, dragging her thoughts to a safer perspective, to something in her life that she could control.
At last I fit into it. Not
just getting the zipper-up, squashed into it like a sardine. It hangs
just right.
And he’ll know straight away. He’ll see that. He sees everything. He’ll see how perfectly it fits me, he’ll know I’m at his target
weight, and he’ll be so pleased with me . . . He’ll say that I’m
finally perfect.
Slipping off the cashmere-lined glove on her left hand,
Coco looked down at her engagement ring. She had had to buy
winter gloves in a larger size to fit over it. Turning her hand
back and forth, mesmerised by the huge, brilliant diamond,
she heard nothing but the light whisper of the wind in the
branches of the maple trees. Not the peal of the arriving elevator, or footsteps crossing the tiled bathroom floor, stepping out
onto the terrace. Perhaps it was a deeper quality to the shadows that were slowly reaching across her body that triggered
her sixth sense and told her that she was being watched.
She swung round to see a figure on the side of the terrace.
The setting sun was in her eyes now, and she blinked, trying to
make out who it was: a woman, and a very thin one, hair drawn
back from her face, big sunglasses on her eyes.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked, holding up a hand to shade her
face. The huge diamond ring caught the sun and flashed out a
million tiny shards of light, red and white and green and cyan,
iridescent and glittering, sharp as daggers.
‘Hello, Coco,’ said the woman, stepping forward. She was
holding something in each hand, a pair of small glass bowls on
stems, their contents golden: champagne coupes. ‘I thought we
should toast your engagement,’ she said. ‘And your new job.’
‘How did you—’ Coco began, completely confused by this
sudden appearance.
‘How did I get in?’ The woman was close enough now to
hand Coco one of the glasses. Coco took it automatically, staring at her in disbelief as she continued, ‘Oh, didn’t you know?’
She smiled. ‘Jacob called me. He wanted us all to meet here.
He has something he wants to say to both of us. What do you
think it could possibly be?’