Authors: Rebecca Chance
Or nipple clamps, a tiny little snip of sound as he flicked
them open and closed before attaching them to her, pulling
the soft pink flesh, hearing her whimper. Bending over her,
listening to the tiny sounds she was struggling to make, before
he pulled out the ball gag, tossing it aside, and straddled her,
giving her barely any time to gasp a breath before his weight
settled heavy on her chest, his cock hot and wide in her mouth
as it drove into her, her lips eagerly closing around it, sucking
and pulling hard, hearing his groans of encouragement above
her. Knowing how much she was pleasing him, trying to make
him come as hard as he had just made her writhe with orgasm,
drinking his come down with fast, practised gulps as he flooded
her mouth with hot, salty, almond-scented liquid. She had
learned to suck it down swiftly, a series of short, frantic swallows so that she didn’t choke, her mouth distended with his
stubby thrust of cock, her throat full of come.
Eighteen months ago, Coco had been a girl who had a welldeveloped sense of humour, a quick wit. But she was too tense
now, too skinny, her nerves too on edge for her to be able to
relax enough to see the funny side of anything, to think ironically:
This is the only time he doesn’t worry about the calorie
content of what I’m eating. The only time he rewards me for swallowing something – instead of gently pushing my plate away when
I’m halfway through, and telling me I’ve had enough, that I still
have more weight to lose . . .
He’ll be happy now. Surely he will. Now that I’m perfect
.
But beneath her pride in her achievement was a creeping
fear. Not so much of him, but of herself.
Because she had been starving herself for so long that she
was frightened that she wouldn’t know how to stop.
he waiting room was full of clones. Slim, elegant girls with
their hair pulled back into chignons, wearing crisp white
shirts tucked into tailored trousers or skirts in shades of grey or
beige, their wrists loaded with wide bangles, their make-up
simple and discreet. They sat in the moulded white chairs that
lined the walls, their legs crossed to show off their high stilettoheeled cage shoes, heavy with straps that reached up to the start
of their calves. On their laps were the latest It bags, or very good
imitations, decorated with buckles and tassels and zips. They
were all staring straight ahead, not deigning to notice each
other’s existence, as if they were the originator of their style and
all the other girls were inferior copies.
Jodie stood in the doorway, her portfolio under one arm,
looking at the clones with disbelief that gradually morphed
into panic. No one had bothered to look up at her: it would be
beneath their dignity to show interest in the new arrival. And
the assistant, sitting behind her glass desk, tapping away at her
computer, didn’t look up either. Why should she? Jodie was
simply the sixth girl to be interviewed this morning for the
coveted job of Victoria Glossop’s assistant, one in a long line of
Identikit young women who had done their best to dress like
their idol’s poorer, younger sister. It was for Jodie to go over to
the desk, to give her name in a hushed voice, to sit down next
to one of the other Victoria Glossop replicas and wait for her
turn, her chance to show Victoria that she was different from
the rest of them, the stand-out applicant whom Victoria really
had to hire . . .
Sod this
. Jodie’s hand clenched tightly around her portfolio,
sinking into the leather. It was real, and even though she’d
bought it on sale from Bilberry it had cost an absolute fortune.
She was proud of it: dark green, patent, embossed, with a
heavy brass clasp, she’d been planning to lay it on Victoria
Glossop’s famously immaculate desk and pull out her layouts.
At least it’s not beige, she thought savagely, glancing from one
clone to the next. But it was the only thing in Jodie’s possession that wasn’t. The clones were so upsetting because Jodie
had, exactly like them, dressed to replicate Victoria Glossop’s
famous style, her hair pulled back, her clothing colourless and
perfectly tailored. Victoria’s hair was always in her signature
chignon. She wore white, beige and grey, with touches of
black-and-white fur: snow leopard, zebra, sable. Victoria loved
heavy bangles. Victoria
loathed
hoop earrings. Victoria—
Jodie took a deep breath. She’d never win if she took these
girls on at their own game. Most of them were thinner than
she was: Jodie was a size 12 – on a good day, and in a label that
had a more generous definition of that size than one that sold
to skinny teens or model wannabes. A Marks & Spencers 12,
rather than a Lipsy or Stella McCartney. And at five foot six,
that was a perfectly happy weight for her – or it was, till I came
to London to work on fashion mags, she couldn’t help thinking. Because none of these girls was over a size 10, and she’d
bet that several of them, at least, had independent incomes,
rich boyfriends, or much better PR contacts for freebies than
she did. She’d already spotted a Marc Jacobs bag, a Miu Miu
skirt, and some amazing Zanotti heels, minimum £450 retail.
I can’t compete at this level, Jodie knew, without a hint of
self-pity. Her family hadn’t got a penny to spare; all she lived
on was her minimal salary as fashion editor of
Wow
magazine,
and the freebies she could scrounge up using
Wow
as a lever
were distinctly low-status. Her white shirt was Jil Sander, but
Jil Sander for Uniqlo, her pencil skirt Karen Millen – it fitted
her beautifully, but it was high street, not high end.
The girl sitting closest to Jodie glanced up, probably because
she’d become aware that Jodie was standing in the doorway,
hovering nervously. She zipped her eyes up and down Jodie,
taking in every detail of her appearance, pricing her hair, her
clothes, her shoes: in thirty seconds, a tiny smile lifted the
corners of her mouth and she turned away again, visibly relaxing with an attitude that said all too clearly that Jodie was no
competition for her.
She’s probably called Chloe, or Caroline, or Natasha, Jodie
thought viciously. Something posh or foreign, something much
classier than Jodie.
The open contempt that Chloe or Caroline or Natasha had
just demonstrated was exactly the spur that Jodie needed. It
had been hard enough to even get this interview, and she
wasn’t going to buckle under pressure now. She might not
have the advantages of money and class that the Chloes,
Carolines and Natashas did, but she came from a stable, loving,
supportive family, she’d been brought up to be confident with
who she was, and so what if she was a bit bigger than the other
girls? She was healthy and happy, and she had great instincts
for what women – real women – wanted to see in fashion
magazines. Clothes they could actually wear, models they
could identify with. Jodie knew she had real talent.
I need to stand out from the crowd – show Victoria that I’m not
just a clone
.
There were five girls in the room: that would give Jodie at
least an hour before her interview. No time to go home –
unable to afford a place of her own on her tiny salary, Jodie still
lived at home with her mum and dad in Luton. There was no
way she could ever make it back there to change her clothes.
No, I’m going to have to think on my feet
.
And there Jodie had a real advantage, because she did that
all day long. Jodie was a grafter; she’d been climbing the greasy
pole so far by working harder, thinking faster and being more
creative than anyone else around her. Fashion editor at
Wow
wasn’t much, and her budgets were small, but she’d managed
miracles with the little she had, and her layouts had been good
enough to secure her an interview with her idol Victoria
Glossop, editor of
Style
.
Nipping over to the desk, Jodie gave the receptionist her
name, and offered to bring her back a coffee of her choice if
she ensured that Jodie was called last. Agreement secured, and
an order taken for a skinny grande latte with extra chocolate,
Jodie shot out of the Dupleix building on Brewer Street,
turned right and hurtled up to Oxford Street as fast as her
shoes (Zara, loose interpretations of 3.1 Phillip Lim) would
take her.
Sixty minutes later, she was back, breathing fast, but the
skinny latte was unspilled. As Jodie set it down, the receptionist did a double-take, her eyes widening as she realised that this
was the same person who had spoken to her an hour earlier.
‘You’re next,’ she said in hushed tones; everyone at the
Style
reception spoke in an artificially-lowered voice, as if they were
in church.
It is a sort of church
, Jodie thought as she took a seat in one
of the uncomfortable, but highly fashionable white chairs.
We’re all worshippers, with Victoria Glossop as a cross between
the High Priestess and God
.
The atrium of the Dupleix magazine building, which
housed many other publications as well as
Style
, was extremely
smart, but the fifth-floor reception that led to the hallowed
ground of
Style
was decorated entirely in Victoria Glossop’s
signature palette; it might have been her own entrance hall.
Huge white vases held black orchids, the only flower that was
ever allowed to grace the receptionist’s desk. The walls were
greige – that perfect blend of grey and beige where neither one
had predominance – and the huge Chinese six-fold screen that
hung on the wall behind the desk was of a snarling white tiger,
black brushstrokes on cream paper in a black lacquered frame.
It was the screen, the seventeenth-century painting as vivid as
if it had been executed only days ago, that really showed how
excellent Victoria’s eye was: the rest of the room would have
been in perfect taste, but bland without the huge, magnificent
animal sprawling across its folds, bringing the décor to life.
Jodie’s phone beeped: a message coming in. Pulling it out of
her bag, she checked it quickly.
All right darling? Get the job? Making your fave dinner – shepherd’s pie! Can’t wait to hear how it went. And turn your phone
off!!! X x
Her mum, checking in. Jodie couldn’t help smiling as she
put the phone back in her bag, making sure it was set to silent.
Thanks, Mum. I’d’ve forgotten that
.
The thought of her mum’s shepherd’s pie, rich, fragrant
meat under the whipped potato topping, made her stomach
rumble in happy anticipation. Briefly, she allowed herself to
imagine returning to Luton in triumph: sitting down for dinner
with her parents and sister, tucking into a delicious plate of
home-cooked food, announcing that she’d pulled off a miracle,
actually succeeding in getting a job on
Style
—
One of the opaque glass double doors swung open: an
impossibly thin girl in skinny grey jeans and five-inch heels
emerged, followed by the interview candidate who had sneered
at Jodie in the waiting room an hour ago. She wasn’t sneering
now. Her head was held high, but her eyes were suspiciously
red and she was biting her bottom lip, hard, trying not to cry.
‘Jodie?’ the girl in skinny jeans said, looking at a list in her
hand. ‘You’re next. God, it’s taking
forever
.’
Jodie jumped up, smoothing down her skirt.
‘I hope you’ve had a stiff drink,’ Skinny Jeans said without
an ounce of compassion in her voice, holding open the door for
Jodie. ‘She’s in full bitch mode. I could hear her through the
wall ripping that one’s throat out, and once she gets the taste
of blood . . .’
‘That one’, visible through the glass doors, waiting for the
lift, had wrapped her arms around herself and was giving vent
to a series of whimpering sobs that she probably thought were
inaudible to the people in reception. Crossing the office, Jodie
glanced up to the snarling white tiger on the Chinese screen:
its pink tongue, the sneering curl of its nose, the sharp, daggerlike white fangs. It occurred to her that the tiger screen wasn’t
just the perfect final decorative touch, but that Victoria
Glossop had hung it there to symbolise herself. A warning that
anyone who crossed her was liable to get their head bitten off.
And when Skinny Jeans ushered Jodie through the assistant’s antechamber into Victoria’s office, snapping the door
shut promptly behind the latest victim to avoid any lastminute attempts to flee the ordeal awaiting them, Jodie almost
raised her hand to her throat in self-protection under the laser
stare of Victoria’s cold grey eyes.
‘Well!’ Victoria said in a voice as crisp as her perfectlystarched white shirt. ‘At least you’re original. Five points.’ She
scribbled something on her Bilberry notepad with a slender
silver Tiffany pen. ‘Though I’m deducting two for cheapness.
Those shoes. Always spend money on shoes. People notice. Sit.’
Jodie was so shocked by this stream of words that she didn’t
immediately obey the last one.
‘Sit!’ Victoria repeated impatiently, pointing with the
Tiffany pen to the beige leather chair in front of her desk. ‘You
should be grateful – I didn’t even ask the last girl to sit down.’
Victoria shuddered at the recollection, as elegantly as she
did everything else. Her nose was long, narrow and patrician.
Generations of Glossops had looked down that nose at peasants, intimidating them very effectively even before they’d
said a word.
‘I gave her a minus ten for appearance,’ she informed Jodie,
who was sinking into the chair, grateful for its support; her
legs were feeling distinctly weak. ‘And
no one
recovers from a
minus ten.’
There hadn’t been one girl in that waiting room who could
conceivably have been described as a minus ten – not, at
least, by Jodie. Heart in her mouth, she stared at Victoria,
who had swivelled her chair and was crossing her legs, tapping
on the notepad with her pen. It was true, what Jodie had
heard: the back of Victoria’s chair was bolt upright to ensure
perfect posture, beige leather made to her own specifications.
Her blonde hair was swept back perfectly, literally not a
single hair out of place, the side parting over her ear as straight
as if it had been executed with a ruler. The collar of her 3.1
Phillip Lim shirt was flicked up, emphasising Victoria’s long,
slender white neck, heavily twisted-around by strands of
huge black pearls, gleaming purplish against the pale background. Victoria’s desk was a shiny sheet of glass, uncluttered
by anything but a silver Apple Mac, the notepad, the pen, and
a silver-rimmed glass of bubbly water in which a slice of lime
floated. Through the clear glass, Jodie could see Victoria’s
waist, impossibly small, and her legs, most of which were on
display in her tiny beige mini-skirt.
‘So,’ Victoria said, snapping Jodie out of the trance into which
she had fallen while taking in the exquisite perfection of
Victoria’s appearance. ‘Am I to assume this was deliberate?’
She flicked the pen up and down in the air, indicating Jodie’s
hastily-assembled outfit. Jodie opened her mouth to give one
answer, made a series of lighting-fast calculations, and told the
truth instead.
‘I came in for the interview,’ she said, ‘and everyone was
dressed exactly the same.’
Victoria’s blonde brows drew together. ‘Including you?’
Jodie nodded. ‘And they were all doing it better than me. So
I ran out and got some new stuff as fast as I could.’
‘And your hair?’ Victoria asked. ‘Because frankly, it’s a dog’s
dinner. It actually gets worse the more I look at it. Minus two.’
She made another note.
Jodie hadn’t had time to get her hair restyled. All she’d been
able to do was to pull it out of the chignon she’d spent so
much time on that morning, brush it out and leave it loose.
She was growing out the layers, and it looked shaggy, she knew;
but she’d given it a quick spray with styling lotion in Boots just
now, and at least it was smooth.
She reached a hand up to it, embarrassed, as Victoria said,
‘So, tell me about this outfit that you cobbled together.’
At least she hasn’t deducted points for my outfit yet, Jodie
thought frantically. It was hard to breathe: Victoria’s narrow
grey eyes were fixed on her face, noticing, Jodie was sure, every
spot and blemish that she’d done her best to cover up that
morning.
‘Well, the T-shirt’s from Benetton,’ Jodie started nervously.
‘I know it’s not trendy, but they’re really good quality and the
cut is timeless. I picked navy because that suits me better than
white, and it’s a classic colour. And long sleeves, because I
wanted to keep the bangles and I really like them piled up over
a sleeve. It looks sort of medieval, which is coming back in. I
think it’ll be huge next year.’
She lifted one arm to show off the effect; the hem of the
sleeve was pulled down to the base of her thumb. Victoria
nodded.
‘Plus four,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
Emboldened, Jodie continued, ‘The jeans are Karen Millen.
She cuts really well for my shape and they’re classics too—’
‘Minus two for describing them as classics,’ Victoria snapped.
‘The grey will date fast and there’s too much branding. I can
see the name on those hem zips from here. I
loathe
visible
branding. But,’ she paused, ‘they do work with those cheap
shoes of yours. The length is right, and they fit you well. Plus
two. We’ll call it even.’
Jodie gulped.
‘My hair was in a chignon,’ she said feebly. ‘But I pulled it
down and brushed it out. I thought anything was better than
looking like all those other girls. And to be honest, it looked
better on most of them than it did on me.’
Victoria huffed: it took Jodie long painful seconds to realise
that this was a laugh.
‘Yes, you won’t do well copying my style.’ Victoria set down
her pen, recrossed her slim legs under the glass table, and
swung the one on top as if to show off her beige crocodile-skin
Prada shoe. ‘You’re not thin enough, frankly. You don’t have
the bone structure to pull your hair back fully. And there’s too
much pink in your skin for you to wear white.’
She looked down complacently at her legs, tanned to a delicate gold. Though naturally pale, Victoria was known to have
weekly spray-tanning sessions in order to achieve her perfect,
even colour.
‘Remind me where you’re working now?’ Victoria asked.
She huffed another little laugh when Jodie muttered, ‘
Wow
magazine.’ Jodie felt ashamed even mentioning something so
lowbrow in front of Victoria Glossop. ‘It’s a weekly. I don’t
have much of a budget, but I’ve done some good layouts. I can
show you . . .’
She leaned down to pick up her portfolio, which she’d
placed by the side of her chair when she sat down, sensing that
it would be a huge no-no to put it on Victoria’s immaculate
desk. Even now she hesitated, not wanting to set it on the
smooth sheet of glass in front of her unless she was specifically
invited to do so.
‘Don’t bother,’ Victoria said, waving it away with an imperious gesture. ‘It’ll all be cheap, cheap, cheap.’ She shivered. ‘I
despise
cheap. You know this job isn’t an editorial one? You’d
be working as my assistant. As far as status goes, you’re below
the junior shoe editor and the handbag girl whose name I can
never remember. You’re at my beck and call. I’ll put you
through hell. I assume you know all this already – I’m well
aware of my reputation.’
She smiled, briefly flashing even white teeth, each one
polished to an opalescent gleam. Somehow, Victoria’s smile
was even more frightening than her words; it was anticipatory,
looking forward to the appalling treatment to which she would
be subjecting her next assistant.
‘So tell me why you want this hellish job,’ she continued.
Jodie leaned forward eagerly, her eyes bright, only to be
stopped by Victoria holding up a hand to stop her. Her huge
grey diamond engagement ring blazed on the fourth finger,
precisely the colour of her eyes. Jodie, who had read up everything that had ever been written on Victoria, knew that although
it had been bought by her husband, Victoria had seen it in a
Sotheby’s auction catalogue in a sale of jewels owned by the
Bavarian royal family: she had had her assistant send it on to her
then boyfriend with a note that this would be the only ring
Victoria would consider accepting when he proposed – as she
assumed he was bound to do. He had instantly fallen into line,
as everyone seemed to do around Victoria. Once duly presented
with it, she had promptly had it reset more fashionably than the
Bavarian royal family’s jeweller could achieve, and insisted that
Alexander McQueen, who had designed her wedding dress,
match the exact shade of grey for the embroidery on the bodice.
‘I don’t want to hear that this is the opportunity of a lifetime,’ Victoria said briskly, ticking off no-go areas on her
fingers. ‘Or that you’ll work harder than anyone else I’ve ever
employed, or that I’m your idol and you’d do anything to sit at
my feet and learn from me. Or any variations on those themes.
Surprise me. Tell me something that no one else has today.
And make it quick,’ she added. ‘I’ve wasted far too much time
on these interviews already.’