Authors: Rebecca Chance
‘You wanted to see me, Victoria?’ she said, managing to
keep her voice even.
Victoria came to a halt by the big windows, her back to
them, the sun behind her making her into a thin dark shadow;
it was impossible to read her expression.
‘I have my eye on you,’ she’d said. ‘Remember that.’
Never, ever, tell Victoria you haven’t understood something
she’s said. Never ask for clarification
.
So Coco nodded carefully, and waited.
‘For good and bad,’ Victoria added. ‘You can go far. But
don’t get ahead of yourself, and don’t forget that it was me
who gave you your first break.’
‘Of course not, Victoria!’ Coco said swiftly. This is about me
working with Mireille, she thought. Victoria’s making it clear
who I owe, who I work for. I’ve seen her put down her markers
before. I know what’s happening.
‘And don’t get your head turned by any temporary attentions that are paid to you,’ Victoria went on. ‘You’re simply
one in a long line of young women. Remember that, too. Don’t
let it go to your head. I’ve seen that happen before, and it
never ends well.’
‘No. Yes. Of course, V-Victoria,’ Coco had stammered, at a
loss. What on earth was she talking about? Never ask for
clarification . . .
‘That’s all. You can go now,’ Victoria had said. ‘Tell Alyssa I
want my bandages.’
‘Yes, Victoria.’
Bandages
? Coco slipped swiftly out of the
office.
‘She wants her bandages,’ she said to Alyssa.
‘Oh dear, I hope I got enough!’
Alyssa picked up a Duane Reade bag and nipped into
Victoria’s office with it. Coco went back to her desk, turning
over Victoria’s last words, but with little clue to their significance. A week later, however, as she stood looking at her
reflection in the full-length mirror of the fashion cupboard,
other
Style
girls running back and forth behind her, picking out
outfits to wear for their evening dates, she knew exactly what
Victoria had meant.
A shiver ran over Coco from head to toe, fear and anticipation making her so nervous she almost thought she might
throw up. She had cut and styled her hair exactly the way he
wanted; at lunchtime, she had dashed to Blow, the blow-dry
bar on Fourteenth and Ninth that many of the
Style
girls
patronised. Emily had given Blow a mention on the
It’s
Happening
page, and in return they gave
Style
staffers a
discount; that was how it worked in the city. Junior editors and
manicurists and hairdressers and make-up artists and boutique
assistants all linked up in a complex mesh of favours, freebies
from fashion-cupboard clearouts or launch parties for a head
of highlights or a mani-pedi.
Coco had had a mani-pedi too, last night; she only wished
that she knew Jacob’s preference in nail colour. A French
manicure had seemed safe for her hands, and red for her
toenails: when in doubt, go for the classics. And he’d been right
about the hair, which suited her more than she had expected.
The other junior fashion editors had ooh-ed and aah-ed when
she’d got back from Blow, commenting on how pretty her
neck looked with her hair pulled back and clipped at her nape.
Her bag – a suede Gucci clutch – had been borrowed from
the cupboard, but she’d had to put her shoes on a credit card,
remembering all too clearly Victoria’s scathing dismissal of the
ones Coco had been wearing at her interview, and her consequent advice:
always spend money on shoes. People notice
. They
were Kandee ‘Liquorice’ pumps, black suede with 6-inch heels
mitigated slightly by the 1.5-inch platforms. She had barely
been able to walk across Bloomingdales’ shoe department in
them, but they looked fabulous, elegant yet dramatic, and the
salesgirl had not only assured her that she looked like sex on
legs, but snagged her a 20 per cent
Style
discount. Coco had
been practising walking in them ever since, and calculated that
she could just about make it out of the building, into a cab, and
into a restaurant with them on.
I mustn’t drink too much – I don’t think I can manage going
to and from the loo in these shoes, she thought, with a hint of
humour, grateful for something that would lighten her mood.
She kept checking her appearance over and over again, looking
for the tiniest of flaws; she was two pounds lighter than she
had been last week, but had it come off her hips, where he’d
told her she needed to be slimmer?
In one part of her mind, she knew that she was being ridiculous. That she looked perfectly fine as she was; that she’d
already lost more weight than she’d ever thought she could,
got down to an American size 4–6, an English 8–10. That,
despite all the magazines and papers and local TV stations
insisting that it was impossible to find a nice guy in this hugely
competitive city, she’d already found a lovely one, her own age,
who’d liked her so much he hadn’t even played games after
they’d had sex, but had come round the next day, only to be
crushed when she’d turned him down.
I look stunning, she told herself firmly, doing a slow turn on
her heels in front of the mirror. Any man would be lucky to
have me.
But she couldn’t help seeing herself through Jacob Dupleix’s
eyes.
‘Great shoes,’ Emily sighed, handing her a Michael Kors
black leather crop jacket. ‘Here, this’ll look great. You don’t
have to do it up,’ she added kindly. ‘Just let it hang open.’
Style
fashion cupboard, Coco thought ironically, slipping on
the jacket, which didn’t quite meet over her chest. The only
place a size 6 feels like a size 16.
‘I’m dying to know who you’re going out with,’ Emily said
hopefully, but Coco just favoured her with an enigmatic smile.
‘You know I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘I don’t
want to jinx it.’
Emily nodded vigorously; dating was a high-risk, high-stake
sport in Manhattan, and no one could blame a girl for playing
her cards close to her chest.
‘I was actually going to ask you,’ she started even more
hopefully, ‘that since you’ve sort of kicked X to the kerb, as
they say over here . . . would you mind if I had a go at him? I
mean, I think he was always into you, frankly, but now you’ve
given him the thumbs-down, I might sneak in there and try to
cheer him up – you know, catch him on the rebound. Things
are winding down with Sean, we’ve sort of burned out.’
Sean was the go-go dancer, whose time had clearly come to
an end. Behind Emily, Lucy rolled her eyes, but Coco couldn’t
help smiling: Emily was unstoppable.
‘No, go for it,’ Coco said, thinking that this was a great solution. If Xavier and Emily got together, that would get her off
the hook very neatly. They could still hang out; he couldn’t
possibly be resentful, or still have a crush on her, if he were
dating one of her best friends.
Briefly, she felt a wash of regret for Xavier, his strong young
body, his sweet dark eyes. And then she thought of his apartment, with its crumbling paintwork, its stinky stairs – it had
looked much more rundown by daylight – and she shook her
head.
I’m being awful and snobby. I’m trying to jump up the
ladder in one go, not climb it slowly. But I’m in a hurry, and
Xavier can’t get me to where I want to be, while Jacob can
.
‘Emily?’ A thought hit Coco, as she remembered, couldn’t
help remembering, the instant physical attraction that had
flared between her and Xavier as soon as they had touched.
‘Just go back to his if anything happens, okay? It would be
really weird to bump into him in the loo in the middle of
the night.’
‘Oh,
absolutely
,’ Emily said enthusiastically, already starryeyed at picturing herself overnight in Xavier’s apartment.
Coco couldn’t put it off any longer. She checked her phone
– past seven. Time to go. Especially as she was walking slower
than usual in the Kandee heels.
‘Wish me luck,’ she said to Emily and Lucy, surprising
herself with the words.
I don’t sound like someone going on a first date, she realised.
I sound like I’m embarking on a life-changing experience.
And she could see, from Emily and Lucy’s wide-eyed
expressions as they chimed in: ‘Good luck!’ that they were just
as taken aback as she was.
The Lipstick Building’s doorman, seeing Coco emerge from
the elevator, called over: ‘Miss? Your limo’s outside.’
‘Oh!’
Coco had thought she was making her way to the restaurant
under her own steam; she hadn’t known he’d be sending a
limo for her. Anticipation rising in her with almost unbearable
pressure, she crossed the lobby as fast as she could, leaving via
the revolving doors. There were always limos waiting outside
the Lipstick Building, and tonight there were several, but the
driver of hers had clearly been briefed, because he pushed off
from the side of the limousine, gesturing to her as soon as he
saw her come out of the building.
Swallowing hard, she wove across the crowded sidewalk
and slid into the limo. Where she received her second surprise
of the evening.
‘Hello, Coco,’ Jacob Dupleix smiled from the far corner of
the seat.
Coco nearly jumped out of her skin.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, stammering in shock.‘I d-didn’t expect
– I didn’t realise—’
‘Champagne?’ Jacob asked, but it wasn’t really a question;
he had a glass already waiting for her on the bar.
‘Thank you.’ Coco drank some, feeling ridiculous for being
so gauche. After all, she’d been expecting to meet him in half
an hour or so, in the restaurant he’d chosen for their date: this
was just a little earlier than planned. But he had taken her by
surprise, changed the rules. The tinted windows meant she
could barely see outside; it emphasised the isolation in which
they were travelling.
It’s as if he’s ambushed me.
Mentally, she gave herself a slap round the face.
The reason
he liked you in the first place was that you talked back to him. It
wasn’t your devastating beauty or your blinding dress sense. So
pull yourself together and use your wits!
She twisted around as the limo pulled away, wedging her
back into the corner of the seat, placing as much distance as
possible between herself and Jacob, crossing her legs as a
symbolic barrier; even the champagne glass, which she held in
front of her chest, was an obstacle separating their bodies.
‘How’s the new job?’ Jacob asked, still smiling. ‘Are you
happy to be out of the fashion cupboard?’
‘I’m happier that Victoria’s new assistant’s working out,’
Coco said dryly, managing to find her voice. ‘That’s a huge
relief. It means I’m only doing one job now, not two.’
‘Victoria misses you terribly,’ Jacob said, amusement in his
voice. ‘Did you realise? She told me the other day that you
were the best assistant she had ever had.’
Coco, always susceptible to praise, couldn’t help blushing at
the compliment. ‘Really?’ she blurted out. ‘That’s brilliant!’
Jacob nodded.‘But of course, the really talented girls don’t
stay long as assistants,’ he purred, leaning forward to clink his
glass with Coco’s. ‘They find themselves noticed and promoted
very fast. Even – if they’re really talented – being taken out to
dinner by the boss.’
Coco’s breath caught in her throat as Jacob moved closer to
her along the leather seat; when he pulled back after touching
his glass to hers, she felt less relieved than disappointed.
‘By the way,’ Jacob added, sipping more champagne, ‘I
imagine you haven’t mentioned that you’re having dinner with
me this evening to any of your colleagues at work?’
‘I haven’t told anyone at all!’ Coco exclaimed, horrified that
he would even ask the question. It would be incredibly
indiscreet of her to breathe a word, to boast that Jacob Dupleix
thought her worthy of a dinner invitation.
And then, looking over at Jacob, who was nodding in
approval, she understood that he had never thought she had
said anything to anyone. It had simply been a test to see her
reaction, to judge whether she would brush the idea aside
lightly, or take it as seriously as she had done.
Jacob does like to test people
.
Confused, she turned her head away from him, staring as
best she could out of the window. They were driving through
Central Park; she could tell from the embankment that rose on
either side of 79th Street, the unmistakable steep stone walls
with foliage above. For a moment, she shivered; it intensified
the sense of being utterly alone, almost claustrophobically so,
with Jacob, in this small space.
And then she felt his hand on her thigh, just below the
sequinned hem of her dress, his wide, spatulate fingers so warm
they almost scalded her through her chiffon-sheer, 7-denier
Wolford hold-up stockings. Normally, she would have jumped,
or started, even a little, at this intimate touch from a man with
whom she was sitting in close proximity. But there was something extraordinary about the feeling of his hand on her leg.
He wasn’t stroking her, or caressing her in any way; he simply
rested his hand on her, its weight surprisingly heavy. It was
calming, reassuring. As if he were quieting down an animal.
It’s another test, Coco thought, fighting to get some clarity,
her senses drugged, her body swimming with heightened
sensation. Do I let him leave it there? Do I say something, to
acknowledge this? Do I put my hand on his?
The solidity of his hand, the heat of his skin, made her
picture, all too vividly, what it would be like to have the entire
weight of his body on hers. And once she had that image in her
mind, she couldn’t, for the life of her, think of anything else.
She felt as if she were blushing from head to toe. The limo
swung in a curve, emerging from the park, turning downtown
on Central Park West, but Jacob’s hand remained on her thigh,
unmoving. It excited and unnerved Coco so much that she
could barely breathe without her diaphragm going into spasm.
Her quadriceps muscles were stiffening up, keeping her legs
crossed, trying not to move at all; she didn’t want to dislodge
Jacob’s hand. Even when the limo slowed, coming to a halt on
Columbus Avenue, she stayed frozen in place, and Jacob’s
hand didn’t move either, not until the limo door swung open.
Only then did he lift it, awarding Coco two deliberate pats of
approval before gesturing that she should precede him out of
the car.
Balancing awkwardly in her ridiculously high heels, she
clambered over the carpeted divider, taking the driver’s
extended hand to help her out; hired drivers in the city were
very used to supporting female passengers whose stratospheric shoes meant they could barely walk on their own.
Coco had never heard the term ‘limo shoes’ before she moved
to New York. Now she understood exactly what it meant:
shoes that were designed to impress rich men. The deal for
dates in Manhattan was that the men paid for the cabs, the
theatre tickets, the dinner and drinks, every expense incurred
on the date itself. The women put their money into their
maintenance, the hairdo, the waxes, the mani-pedi, the
clothes, the shoes, the perfume, all of which could easily add
up to a four-figure investment in snagging a husband who
would finance them in the future.
The restaurant was all glass and pale blue walls, elegant and
minimal, their corner booth discreet and secluded. But if you
had made Coco put her hands over her eyes and describe her
surroundings during dinner, she would barely have been able
to do it. All she could think about, all she could see and feel,
was Jacob Dupleix, sitting next to her in the booth, the exquisitely soft fabric of his shorn-wool and silk suit trousers pressing
lightly against her thigh, his left hand resting once again on her
leg, hardly ever moving. He drank, used his chopsticks, raised a
napkin to dab his lips with his right hand; the left remained
there almost through the whole meal, a constant intensely
physical reminder of what this dinner was all about.
He ordered them saketinis as soon as they sat down, and it
was only the strong alcohol, garnished with a perfect swirl of
cucumber peel, the palest green from a hint of cucumber
infusion, that kept Coco’s lips moving, kept up her side of
the conversation, as she felt his hand placed possessively on
her thigh.
‘I’ve ordered us the omakase menu,’ Jacob said, smiling as
he held up his martini glass, waiting for her to mirror him, to
clink their glasses together in a toast.‘Do you like sashimi?’
‘I never had any before I came to New York,’ Coco confessed.
‘I’m still getting used to it. That’s the one without the rice,
isn’t it?’
Jacob burst out laughing at this naïve description. He’s
always smiling, or laughing, Coco thought, her excitement
rising. I hope this is me – being with me. I hope he isn’t always
like this. I hope it’s something about me that entertains him so
much . . .
He wasn’t being cruel. That she knew for sure. There was
nothing mocking about his laughter, just genuine amusement;
his eyes sparkling, his teeth flashing.
‘All right, laugh at me,’ she said, pretending to be cross, her
confidence growing. ‘I always love it when I’m unintentionally
hilarious.’
‘There’s never a dull moment with you, Coco,’ Jacob said,
sitting back in the booth and observing her with frank interest,
a smile still curving his wide lips. ‘Why don’t I take out English
girls to dinner more often? You’re so much more intelligent
than the indigenous species in this country.’
‘No, we’re not,’ Coco said pertly, drinking some more
martini. ‘We just seem like it to Americans because of our
accent.’ The sake and vodka giving her Dutch courage, she
added: ‘I could sit here and just say bum, poo, fart for two
hours in an English accent and you’d think I was brainier than
Einstein.’
As soon as the words had left her lips, she bit her tongue.
Oh Jesus, did I actually just say bum, poo and fart to Jacob
Dupleix? What was I thinking
?
But then to her great relief, she realised that Jacob had had
to set down his drink, he was laughing so hard.
‘Coco,’ he said fondly, when he had caught his breath, ‘you
make me feel young.’
‘In a good way, I hope?’ Coco said quickly.
I don’t want him
to think of me as some immature twenty-something, a toy he can
pick up and put down. I want to be his equal – in brains, if nothing else
.
But then his hand closed for a moment around her thigh, a
brief squeeze, a surge of heat so paralysingly charged that the
thoughts switched themselves off as she focused, completely,
on not showing how Jacob’s touch affected her, how much she
wanted that big hand to slide up under the hem of her dress,
touch her in increasingly intimate places . . .
‘Tell me something,’ he said, and she leaned towards him,
her lips parted, the word ‘Anything’ on the tip of her tongue.
‘Your real name,’ he said softly, obliging her to lean in still
further. Coco could smell his aftershave, the subtle scents of
leather and tobacco. Her crash course learning from Victoria
had taught her to be much more discerning than she had ever
been before joining
Style
; she could tell immediately that the
aftershave was extremely, dizzyingly, expensive.
‘My . . . my . . .’ she stammered.
‘Your real name,’ Jacob repeated. ‘It isn’t Coco, is it?’
‘Oh!’ She was so distracted by him, so dazzled by his interest in her, that she had actually forgotten for a moment that
Victoria had renamed her. She had been Coco for over a year
now, at work at least, and work had been her entire life ever
since she’d been hired at
Style
; it was second nature to her to
answer to Coco now.
Embarrassed, she ducked her head. Jacob reached out, and
again, as on that first time she had met him, she felt his fingers,
gentle on the soft underside of her chin, lifting it, inexorably,
until her eyes met his.
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s Jodie,’ she said, half under her breath. ‘Victoria thought
it was too common for someone who worked on
Style
.’
Colour flooded her face, but by a huge force of will, she
managed to keep her eyes on his. Velvety-dark, full of comprehension and sympathy, they seemed to take in her whole
essence, understand who she was, where she came from.
‘I think Jodie’s a very pretty name,’ he said soothingly. ‘Very
pretty indeed.’
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled.
He raised his eyebrows, and she knew, instinctively, what he
meant, what he wanted.
‘Thank you, Jacob,’ she said, and shivered from the sheer
pleasure of saying his name.
‘
Hamachi-kama
,’ came a soft voice, and Coco jerked away
from Jacob as the waiter slid an ebony trencher onto the table.
‘And
ankimo
. Enjoy.’
‘Excellent,’ Jacob said, reaching for his napkin and chopsticks, unabashed at having been interrupted while engaged in
actively seducing his date. He rubbed his hands together in
anticipation. ‘This is one of my favourite Japanese appetizers,
hamachi-kama
. Do you know what it is?’
Coco shook her head.
‘It’s the jaw of a yellowtail,’ Jacob informed her, turning the
piece of fish on the trencher to show her the V-shaped jawbone.
‘Very tender. Grilled. No oil at all, just a little lemon juice. All
lean protein, practically zero calories. Here.’
He used his chopsticks expertly to flake the fish from the
bone, selecting a piece and picking it up, lifting it to Coco’s
mouth.
‘Open,’ he said, and she parted her lips obediently, the tips
of his chopsticks sliding into her mouth; she closed her lips
over them, pulling the fish off, chewing it, and as Jacob with
drew the chopsticks, his smile was complacent.
‘It’s delicious,’ she said, just grateful that it wasn’t raw. She
still wasn’t comfortable eating raw fish, though she knew how
good it was for you, how low-calorie; for a Luton girl, who,
before she moved to London, had never eaten fish before that
wasn’t battered and fried; sushi and sashimi were a huge
culture shock.
‘Excellent, isn’t it?’ Jacob said, as Coco eagerly tucked into
more
hamachi-kama
.
I’ll fill up on this
, she thought.
That way I won’t have to eat
too much raw fish
.
‘And now, the
ankimo
,’ Jacob said, picking up a small round
slice of what looked like meat from the second plate. Pale
pinkish-brown, garnished with fine curls of daikon and green
onions, it was also, unequivocally, cooked: Coco was even more
relieved.
‘It’s monkfish liver,’ he announced, his smile deepening.
‘Steamed, very lightly.’
Coco’s eyes stretched as wide as they could go, the whites
showing all round the irises as she looked in horror at what
was approaching her mouth.
‘
Fish liver
?’ she mumbled in disgust.
‘It’s delicious,’ Jacob said happily. ‘You’ll love it.’
She recoiled against the booth as the chopsticks came closer.
‘I don’t think I can,’ she said hopelessly.
Jacob’s hand on her thigh slid an inch higher up, easing fractionally under the hem of her skirt. He leaned in, his breath
warm on the side of her face.
‘Oh, I think you can,’ he said softly. ‘You do trust me, don’t
you?’
‘I—’ Coco began, and the next thing she knew, the smooth,
rounded tips of the chopsticks were pushing gently at her lips,
and she was taking the disc of liver into her mouth.