Authors: Rebecca Chance
Tears were pricking at Victoria’s eyes again, and it was all
she could do to repress them.
‘My heel . . .’ she managed, and couldn’t say any more,
because she really thought she might burst into sobs if she
uttered one more word.
‘Lean on me,’ Jeremy said, wrapping her arm through hers.
The crowds parted, still in silence. It was just too good a
spectacle to miss: Victoria Glossop, walking like Quasimodo,
hopping from the ball of one foot to the high heel on the other
and back again, her skirts hoiked up so she didn’t trip, hobbling
awkwardly across the room and up the stairs.
‘She
has
put on a little weight,’ someone whispered. ‘Don’t
you think? I’d say at least seven pounds.’
‘She’d better watch it or heels will be snapping under her
like driftwood,’ someone else sniggered maliciously.
Seven pounds? How dare they? It’s only five and a half,
Victoria thought furiously, humiliation rising in her like bile in
her throat. She held her head high, limping up the stairs, and
as she and Jeremy disappeared from view, she heard a roar of
voices as everyone started, with feverish haste, to gossip about
her. Her weight gain. Her pregnancy. Her affair with Lykke.
At least she had got Jeremy away before someone had the
chance to drip the poison of her recent indiscretion in his ear.
But how long will it be before he finds out?
she thought frantically.
Someone’s bound to make it their business to tell him. How
long do I have? Weeks? Days?
Panic rushed through her. And, from the bottom of the
staircase, laughter floated up as people started cracking witticisms about her, the high-pitched, gleeful cackle of the fashion
pack sinking its teeth into a victim.
acob hadn’t just given Coco a Hermès bag; he had loaded
her down with presents. Coco wasn’t stupid: she could see,
very clearly, that the gifts were not simply an attempt by an
older multi-millionaire to spoil his younger lover, sweep her
off her feet with glamour and luxury, but were principally
designed to improve her, make her over into a sleeker, more
sophisticated version of herself.
And since that was exactly why she had been attracted to
Jacob, she wasn’t at all offended. In fact, she welcomed it with
open arms.
Ever since she had woken up that first morning, lapped in
the delicious softness of Jacob’s enormous bed, wrapped in a
tangle of soft-as-silk Egyptian cotton sheets, Coco had been
unable to believe that her dream had come true. From the
moment she had first met Jacob, and realised that she was
intensely attracted to him, this had been the fantasy: to land in
a world of absolute luxury, with someone who not only wanted
to spoil, but to mentor her.
Sitting up, blinking in the sunshine streaming through the
windows of the penthouse apartment, so high up that there
were no other buildings to block any light, Coco pulled up
pillows behind her, propping herself against the huge carved
wooden headboard. Jacob, she sensed, was long gone. The
other side of the bed was cool, and, with a blush, she remembered the oven-like heat of Jacob’s body. If he had been here
recently, the indentation in the mattress would still be warm.
Sliding her legs off the bed, dropping the long fall to the silk
rug on the wooden floor, she felt the subtle warmth beneath
the soles of her feet that indicated underfloor heating. But
right beside the rug was a pair of fur-lined, backless velvet
mules, and she slipped her feet into them gratefully, walking
carefully down the black granite stairs to the bathroom area. It
felt weird to use the toilet in such an exposed situation, beautiful though it was. The wide, panoramic terrace beyond the
French doors wrapped around two sides of the bedroom and
bathroom, and the maple trees in huge silver planters, the trellises trained with climbing jasmine and wisteria, made it
impossible to tell if there was anyone out there. And this room
itself was so big, there might be more doors that she didn’t see,
through which someone might come in at any time . . .
Coco went as quickly as she could, flushed the toilet and
pulled her nightdress down again, relieved that she’d been able
to relieve herself in privacy. Along the wide marble shelf that
ran above the double granite sinks were set out moisturisers,
cosmetics, separated out in polished silver trays. Mostly Chanel,
Coco noticed, smiling at the coincidence between the brand
and her adopted first name. This was a level of luxury that she
had never experienced before. Of course, girls on the beauty
desks of
UK
and
US Style
had passed on creams and lotions
and make-up removers in the past, but it wasn’t the same as
standing in front of an entire line of products – cleansers,
toners, exfoliators, moisturisers, eye creams – all new, all
unopened, all especially for her. And across the room, on a
dressing-table, she could see a row of Chanel perfumes and
body lotions: Coco Mademoiselle, Chance, Cristalle Eau Verte.
All chosen for someone my age, she realised. Like the skin
creams. These are all for twenty-something girls. Walking over
to the dressing-table, her eyes widening as she looked at the
range of products Jacob had laid out for her, she saw a note on
its cherrywood surface, crisp black ink on the most expensive
vellum, written in the clear, legible handwriting of someone
who had grown up before it became so commonplace to use
computers that all people could manage was an illegible scrawl.
Good morning! Use anything and everything you want
, Jacob
had written.
Clothes in the dressing-room cupboard – I’ve left the
door ajar. Amira will make you breakfast when you’re ready.
There’s a car downstairs to take you to work. I’m off to LA for
meetings for two days – dinner on Friday, when I’m back? Leave
me your cell number and email.
You were amazing, my dear.
He had signed it simply with a big, swooping
J.
Coco picked
the letter up and pressed it against her chest – a silly, dramatic
gesture of which she was instantly ashamed.
But he wants to see me again! He called me ‘amazing’!
And there were ‘clothes in the dressing-room cupboard’ –
what did that mean?
It took her a good five minutes to find the dressing-room,
which really was a room, accessed from a door to the side of
the enormous bed. Her jaw dropped as she stepped inside, its
lights coming on as she did so, triggered by a motion sensor. No
question that it was very clearly the lair of a bachelor: dark,
custom-made mahogany, narrow racks of shelves holding
cufflinks in velvet recesses, perfectly-rolled up merino socks,
folded and ironed silk boxers, all with spotlights above each set
of shelves that came on as soon as Coco slid them out to goggle
in wonder at their perfect order. Superbly-polished Italian and
British shoes, their leather gleaming as if it had been oiled,
filled half of an entire wall. A quick look inside a closed
cupboard revealed stacks of cashmere sweaters and cardigans
in muted shades, the interior lined with cedar to protect against
moths, smelling rich and woody.
By the time Coco investigated the cupboard whose door
was ajar – she had been saving it for last, wanting to prolong
the anticipation – she was prepared for anything. Even so, its
contents took her breath away. On the rack hung a perfectlycurated range of clothes, black and grey and cream, silk T-shirts,
pencil skirts, crepe dresses, leather and suede jackets. A row of
shelves down one side held fine cotton T-shirts, silky beige
knicker and bra sets, 10-denier tights in soft, natural tans and
smoky greys; on the floor of the closet were three pairs of
shoes, all the same, dark grey suede stack heeled, high-cut
sandals in American sizes 5½, 6, and 6½, beautiful, elegant
shoes that would work with any outfit Coco assembled from
the wardrobe.
It could have been photographed for
Style
as an ideal example of a young working Manhattan girl’s June capsule wardrobe;
it would have fitted right into the
Make It Work!
section of the
magazine, high style on a careful budget, a selection of a few
quality pieces which would mix and match and take their
wearer anywhere she needed to go. Who had assembled it,
Coco couldn’t imagine, but her mouth watered as she rifled
through the rack. Only the time constraint – because she
needed to be at work in forty minutes – limited her, otherwise
she would have tried on every single piece.
And, in an orange Hermès box, tied with the classic brown
grosgrain signature ribbon, was the
pièce de résistance
: a deep
brown handbag in thick, textured leather, an open bucket
shape, equally suitable for day or for night, with a decorative
silver padlock hanging from the front. Coco’s mouth dropped
open as she lifted the lid of the box and saw the bag inside,
nestled in orange tissue paper.
He’s thought of everything, she noted. I can go straight to
work, perfectly dressed. I won’t even have to go to the office
holding my clutch bag from last night as a walk-of-shame
giveaway.
Twenty minutes later, wearing a cream and grey print Diane
von Furstenberg short-sleeved wrap dress over bare legs and
the size 6 sandals, her face made up with a veil of exquisite
Chanel cosmetics, her clutch bag and heels from the night
before stowed in the Hermès handbag, Coco found her way
through the living room and down the long corridor to the
kitchen at the very far end. It was a surprisingly compact space,
smaller than Jacob’s dressing room; the architect who designed
the place had been fully aware that anyone occupying this
penthouse would be entertaining frequently but not doing any
of the catering themselves. New Yorkers who lived at this
financial level never, ever did their own cooking, entering their
kitchen, at best, to pour themselves some water or, more likely,
request it from the housekeeper. Though it was lavishly done
out in marble and chrome, its counters lined with the latest
appliances, its size was appropriate for a room which would be
used by the staff, not the owner.
It was possible that Jacob had hired his housekeeper
specifically because she was small enough to fit neatly into
the kitchen. Amira, a tiny Middle Eastern woman with a
charming smile, informed Coco that the clothes she had
worn last night were being cleaned and would be returned to
her later in the day, at her work. Swiftly, she prepared Coco
a tray with a cafetière of black coffee, a glass of water, and a
bowl of granola, berries and non-fat Greek yoghurt, which
she carried out onto the terrace, placing the tray so that Coco
would have her back to the morning sunshine, warming her,
but not getting in her eyes.
He really has thought of everything
, Coco sipped her coffee
and stared in wonder at the panorama around her; the castellated grey buildings, with the tiny balconies and terraces at
their tips, little puffs of green foliage indicating private gardens,
like this one, thirty or forty storeys above the city. Below was
Washington Square Park: she could just about make out the
top of the marble arch. It was a typical blue-skied New York
early-summer day.
Even my clothes – the Max Mara dress, I’d
have had to get that dry-cleaned before I took it back to the fashion
cupboard – God, I’m not even going to
think
about Amira coming
in while I slept and picking up my bra and pants and stockings
from the floor. I’m just not.
He even told Amira what to give me for breakfast. Skimmed
milk in my coffee, sweetener in a bowl, low-sugar fruit and granola.
No fat. No bananas, no juice: barely any sugar at all.
After the light sushi dinner of the night before, followed by
their sexual exertions, Coco was ravenous: she could have
easily polished off a full English. Even after devouring everything on the tray, she was still hungry. But that was normal for
her nowadays; she was used to an almost-perpetual feeling of
hunger, and had trained herself, whenever she noticed the
pangs, to immediately remind herself that it meant she was
losing weight.
I know Jacob wants me to be thinner, she thought, standing
up and slipping on the butter-soft black leather jacket with
ruffles at the cuffs she had chosen from the dressing-room
cupboard. It would be too hot to wear later in the day, in
80-degree, humid June in New York City, but up here on the
terrace, early in the morning, she could put it on without
breaking out in a sweat immediately – and honestly, she
couldn’t bear to leave it behind. It was so beautiful.
Her heart sank, though, as she noticed the label.
It’s a
medium. It fits me, and it’s a medium. Jacob’s right – I am too big.
Look at Victoria and Mireille – they’re XS, not even a small! They
can wear anything. If I really want to be a fashion editor, I should
be able to wear sample sizes, and I can’t yet
.
Jacob’s absolutely right. He’s looking after me, thinking of
what’s best for me and my career.
Coco started to pick up the tray, to take it back to Amira in
the kitchen, but she had only taken a few steps towards the
French doors leading back into the dining room before Amira
dashed out to meet her, horrified, gabbling, ‘No, no, lady! I do!
I do!’ and grabbed the tray from her.
Embarrassed, Coco went through into the living room,
pressing the button for the lift, still awed by the lavishness of
having your own personal elevator whose doors opened
directly into your own apartment. As she descended to the
ground floor, she couldn’t help contrasting this exit from a
man’s apartment – the luxury, the wardrobe of clothes, the
delicious breakfast – to the occasion that she had stayed at
Xavier’s and sneaked out at dawn. His flat was the apartment
of a twenty-something on a small salary in Manhattan, scruffy
and budget-conscious, furnished from IKEA and the Salvation
Army and pieces people left out on the street when moving
apartment.
The lino tiles of the kitchen, on which her crumpled, sweaty
clothes from the night before had been lying, had been stained,
cracked and peeling. The smell she had noticed on coming
through the front door the night before had been explained,
the next morning, by the fact that a French restaurant, on the
ground floor, had a wooden cupboard right next to the stairwell, with a sign on the door reading
CHEESE STORE
.
PLEASE KEEP
LOCKED
. The odour of mature Roquefort was overwhelming
enough in June: by August, it must be unbearable.
It isn’t fair to compare Xavier and Jacob directly, Coco told
herself. Xavier works hard – he didn’t inherit a family company
like Jacob. He’s a great catch – he’s at my level, after all.
But once you had been dazzled by Jacob Dupleix, by a
wardrobe custom-filled just for you, by the deep attention and
focus he had given her last night at dinner, when Coco had
talked about her dreams, her ambitions, what she wanted to
achieve in her career, it was hard to think of anyone else. And
by how incredibly dominant he was in bed, she made herself
add, trying not to blush, remembering how she had fantasised
about Jacob’s big hands on her, and how the reality had proved
to be even more powerfully erotic than she could conceivably
have imagined.
She’d never thought he’d tie her up. Or spank her. And if
that was what he’d done on the very first night, what on earth
did he have in store for her on Friday?
She was blushing now; she could see herself in the mirrored
walls of the lift.
Only two days till Friday! I’ll be so careful with
what I eat. I’ll work out like a maniac; maybe I can lose another
pound before then.
But Coco had no idea how thorough Jacob had been in his
plans for her self-improvement. That afternoon, when she
was buzzed at her desk to say that there was a package for
her in reception, she assumed that it was her underwear and
the Max Mara dress, laundered and ready. She was unprepared for the sight of a delicate bouquet, deep pink roses and
darker pink agapanthus nestling in pale green leaves, on top
of a large white box.
‘Someone’s really into you,’ the receptionist sighed in
envy, as Coco carefully set aside the bouquet, unfolded the
top panels of the glossy box and pulled out a vellum envelope lying on top of her folded clothes. She recognised the
stationery immediately; it was the same as the note Jacob had
left for her that morning. And the envelope bore a
C
on it, in
the same bold black calligraphy which had handwritten her
the note.
Inside, a matching piece of paper, the size of a compliments
slip, was folded over two business cards.
For you
, Jacob had written.
They’re both waiting for you to
call and set up appointments. I’ve taken care of everything. Let me
know how things went when we have dinner on Friday.
Again, he had signed it with a simple, sweeping
J.
Coco
turned the business cards over in her hands, taking in what
they meant. One was for a personal trainer, called Brad Lowry,
who specialised, according to the lettering, in ‘body sculpture’.
And the other was for a lingerie shop in the Village, called La
Petite Coquette, a shiny pink card.
The thought of presenting herself to Jacob, newly bodysculpted, in the kind of sexy underwear sold by a boutique
called La Petite Coquette made Coco shiver from head to toe
in sheer excitement. Tinged with the tiniest hint of fear.