Authors: Rebecca Chance
Coco
,’ she
corrected herself, grimacing, ‘but I know lots of times you’re
sitting on your bum in that office, having no fun at all. Like last
week! You didn’t get back till past midnight, and you missed
Gran’s birthday party. Mum’s still moaning about it to me.’
‘Tiff, my job’s really important,’ Coco said defensively. ‘That
time I was organising logistics for a shoot in Havana that went
arse-up. You remember, Emily?’
She turned to her work colleague and saw Emily flinch at
the words ‘arse-up’, a flinch she quickly converted into a nod
of agreement. It was the tiniest of involuntary movements, and
no one but Coco, who was hyper-alert, would have noticed.
Fuck, Coco thought, swiftly consigning that word to the dustbin as well. It’s my accent. Posh girls can swear as much as they
want – ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘bugger’ sound brilliant in their
accent. But in my bog-standard one . . . not so much.
‘The fashion director had food poisoning,’ Coco told her
sister, ‘the photographer went AWOL with two local rentboys,
and the model was freaking because her medication got confiscated by Cuban customs.’
‘What kind of medication?’ Tiff’s eyes were wide. ‘Oi!’ she
shouted at a nearby waiter. ‘I’ll have another one of these
Singapore thingies. I need to get bevvied up.’ She looked at
Coco and Emily. ‘You two want another? My shout.’
‘No, thanks,’ they said in unison.
‘Bor
ring
!’
Tiff was well on her way to being drunk now. Coco knew
the pattern. Tif would get louder and more friendly, try to
dance on tables, start molesting waiters, and then, with little
warning, crash like a giant oak. Coco would have to make sure
that was her last cocktail, then pour Tiff into a frighteningly
expensive cab. They’d have missed a direct Luton train from
London Bridge, and no way could Coco manage to manoeuvre
Tiff, in her drunken state, on and off the two tube trains it
would take to get them from Waterloo to King’s Cross, then
haul her over to the St Pancras platform for the late-evening
Luton train.
God, I’d love to be able to afford to live in London, or at
least on a tube line, Coco thought wistfully. But low-level fashion magazine jobs paid practically nothing. That was why the
magazines were mostly staffed by girls like Emily – ones with
private incomes and parents who bought them flats or subsidised their rent.
‘Let’s get some food into you, Tiff,’ Coco said, reaching for the
bar menu.‘Oh, look, spicy chips. Shall I order you some of those?’
‘Mmn, chips,’ Tiff said, grabbing the menu. ‘Yum! We all
getting some, then?’ Even in her tipsy state, she couldn’t fail to
see the recoil of both Emily and Coco at this suggestion.
‘Oh, no thanks,’ Emily said swiftly. ‘I’m actually really full
from lunch.’
‘Yes, me too,’ Coco chimed in. ‘I had a big plate of brown
rice salad.’
‘You had a plateful of
brown rice
?’ Emily said unguardedly.
Oh bollocks, Coco thought gloomily. I thought that was a
healthy choice – it’s full of fibre, isn’t it? And there were
peppers and spring onions in it – and some feta. Well, quite a
lot of feta, I suppose.
She put her hand defensively over her tummy, which bulged
out more than it had done this morning. Getting down to a
size 10 hadn’t been that difficult, driven as she was; she’d eaten
more sensibly, cut out Danish pastries and sausage rolls, banned
herself from picking up breakfast from her local Greggs bakery,
chosen fruit salad for dessert and stopped drinking full-fat
milk in her coffee. In addition, she’d found a studio called
Pilates HQ in Islington that offered a free starter class, and it
had been such hard work that she’d known straight away it
was doing her good.
Coco had never been sporty, and so she had no idea about
how to exercise properly; the few Pilates classes that she’d
done so far had left her sore, activating muscles she’d never felt
before. The teacher said that Pilates gave you a corset of
muscles, tightened up everything, as if you were wearing an
invisible pair of Spanx. She could already feel the difference;
her waist was nipping in, her love handles were harder to
pinch. By the time she’d started at
Style
, she was wearing size
10 skirts – and not size 10 from one of those shops that did
vanity sizing to make you feel better, but proper size 10s from
French Connection and Karen Millen.
Until the Pilates corset was fully formed, Coco was wearing
Spanx constantly – okay, not
actual
Spanx, because they were
very expensive and she couldn’t afford them, but the M&S
version. That wasn’t a hardship; they were very comfortable,
and she liked the feeling of having her tummy sucked in.
Dressing up tonight, she’d managed to get into a size 10 dress,
silk, tightly-fitted, in a pale grey that was very on trend, and
accessorised it with a heavy tumble of carefully-chosen and
layered necklaces that had drawn an approving nod from
Victoria as she left for the evening. She’d practically bankrupted herself on the faux-snakeskin silver Stella McCartney
shoes, but they were an investment, she’d told herself, wincing
as she handed over the credit card; they’d go with everything.
Her hair was straightened and pulled back into a smooth ponytail, and her green Urban Decay mascara brought out the
matching green flecks in her hazel eyes. After a few months at
Style
, watching everyone else’s dress sense, learning from them
how to evolve her own way of interpreting the latest trends,
she was already infinitely more sophisticated than she had
been three months ago.
Well, of course I bloody am, she thought ironically. I’m
called Coco now, aren’t I?
She knew, however, that she was expected to lose some
more weight. She couldn’t, for instance, have borrowed
anything from the fashion cupboard; its stock was much
smaller than a size 10. She still had a tummy, while Emily’s,
under her clinging Comptoir des Cotonniers silk top, was practically concave.
And Tiff’s – well, it wasn’t fair to sit Tiff next to a skinny
Style
girl and make comparisons. More importantly, Tiff
wasn’t making those kinds of comparisons herself; she was
perfectly happy as she was, with her plump bosoms, round
tummy, and the generous thighs which the thin red jersey of
her dress was straining to contain. Tiff had got herself up by
her definition of smart tonight, heavy eyeliner all around her
eyes, hair pulled back into a high ponytail, a big chunky
Swarovski necklace sitting high on her collarbones, and
though she looked very out of place in the Oxo bar, she had
a confidence about her that came from knowing the men she
fancied all fancied her right back.
Tiff knows who she is, and she’s happy with herself, Coco
thought, looking at her sister, who was now flirting with the
waiter who’d brought her Singapore Sling in a manner that
bordered perilously on sexual harassment. Coco’s glance
moved sideways to her new friend, so different from her sister
in every way, belonging to a completely different tribe. Tiff was
like a sturdy carthorse to Emily’s glossy show pony.
Emily knows who she is as well. Where she comes from, the
kind of man she’s going to end up with, what she’s going to call
her kids.
So where do I fit in? Coco found herself asking. And the
answer was almost immediate.
Stuck in the middle, in no-man’s land. You don’t know who you
are or where you fit in. Luton’s behind you, but you’re not a Style
girl yet; they’re all so immaculate, so self-assured.
Tiff and Emily might be secure in the knowledge of who
they were, but that wasn’t enough for Coco. Her drive, her
aspiration to make something more of herself, to push herself
as hard as she could to achieve goals that would be out of
reach for almost anyone else, singled her out, set her apart.
Coco’s dream was to have Victoria’s job: one day, she told
herself. One day I’ll be editor of
UK Style
. But being set apart,
even if it was her own choice, could feel horribly lonely
sometimes.
Everything took a back seat to her ambition. Friendships,
family, relationships. Tiff was giggling with the waiter now,
pointing over at Coco.
‘That’s my lil’ sister!’ she was slurring happily. ‘Pretty, isn’t
she? You single, mate? ’Cos she is. You should ask her out –
she’s got it all. Looks, brains and a fuck-off posh job.’
Coco squirmed uncomfortably, but the waiter, a handsome,
smooth-skinned twenty-something with dark-chocolate eyes,
followed Tiff’s indicating finger and smiled at Coco appreciatively. Tiff knew Coco’s type perfectly: dark hair, liquid brown
eyes, skin a few shades darker than her own pink-and-white
colouring.
‘You got a girlfriend?’ Tiff was asking the waiter. ‘Or a
boyfriend?’
He could easily have said he did and walked away; instead
he stayed, still smiling at Coco, as he said, ‘No, I’m young, free
and single.’
‘Whee!’ Tiff clapped as he went on, directing his attention
to Coco: ‘So what’s this posh job you do, then?’
‘I work at
Style
,’ Coco said. ‘We both do.’ She glanced at
Emily.
Flatteringly, the waiter barely looked at Emily; he was
concentrating solely on her.
‘Cool! Maybe we can go out sometime,’ he said. ‘D’you
have a card?’
Coco produced one from her bag and handed it to him; he
put it in his pocket with a flourish.
‘I’ll be right back with your chips,’ he said to Tiff, giving
Coco a last smile over his shoulder as he turned away.
Tiff was grinning like a madwoman. ‘Am I a good sister or
what?’
‘He is awfully sexy,’ Emily said enthusiastically. ‘You lucky
thing, Coco.’
Coco shrugged. ‘I hope he’s not looking for anything serious,’ she said. ‘I’ve barely even got time for a one-night stand.’
‘Aww!’ Tiff slurped up a big gulp of Singapore Sling. ‘Tell
you what, if I had to choose between my job and getting my
end away, there’d be no fricking contest! Right?’ She elbowed
Emily, who giggled nervously. ‘Right? What kind of bloody job
is
that
?’
The only one I want
, Coco thought intensely.
The one I’d
sacrifice everything for
.
Tiff was cross-examining Emily about her love life, and
Emily was loosening up, giggling more genuinely, spilling the
details with more and more enthusiasm. They’ve got more in
common with each other than they do with me, Coco realised
in shock. Tiff and Emily believed in a work-life balance: for
Coco, her work was her entire life. The waiter, returning with
Tiff’s spicy chips, winked sexily at Coco. He was gorgeous. And
she knew that if he rang her, she was going to turn him down.
She couldn’t afford a single distraction right now. To win the
prize, she had to keep her eyes fixed straight on it, not deviate
for a moment. She couldn’t afford to look away.
Tears pricked unexpectedly at Coco’s eyelids. It couldn’t be
the alcohol; she was only on her second VLT. Once she’d have
been almost as tipsy as her sister; now she was measuring and
dosing everything, learning self-control in a series of small,
solitary life lessons. She was changing, breaking out of her
chrysalis, and it hurt.
Fake it till you make it
, she’d read in an
article years ago. Well, she was faking it successfully enough,
but she was constantly afraid of being laughed at, mocked for
thinking she could truly be a part of
Style
. Could she really
manage to blend in with girls whose background was so much
smarter, whose education was so much more privileged than
her own?
All she had to hang onto was her knowledge that she was
really, really good at her job, the hardest worker at the entire
magazine. And sometimes, that didn’t quite feel as if it was
enough to keep her going.
Coco swallowed back the tears.
I’ll be editor of UK Style in ten years’ time
, she promised
herself.
All this work, all this struggle’s going to be worth it in the
end. So what if I have to skip one of Gran’s birthday parties? So
what if I can’t date for a while? So what if I can’t eat Mum’s
shepherd’s pie or Greggs sausage rolls? I’d give up more than that
to have Victoria’s job. And nothing’s going to stand in my way
.
lready the temperature in the Moroccan desert was 40
degrees Centigrade, though it was only a couple of hours
after dawn. Everyone on the
Style
shoot was sweating profusely;
the make-up artists and fashion team were huddling in the
tents that had been pitched to give them shade, fanning themselves and complaining in low voices about the heat, the stink
of diesel from the jeeps and the big noisy generator, the smell
of camel and horse dung, and how all their products were
starting to melt in the heat. Jools, the tall, skinny, incredibly
long-waisted English model booked for the shoot, white as a
magnolia, with a shock of red curly hair that had been teased
into a foot-high Afro, had to be followed by a Berber with a
parasol at all times, keeping her white skin protected from the
scorching sun; however, she was much taller than the parasolcarrier, and the poor man was wrenching his back with the
effort of holding it up high enough to cover her head.
Even with the shadow from the sunshade, the glaring rays of
the sun bounced off the glittering grains of sand and reflected
up onto Jools’s face. She blinked, hard; she was trying not to
cry and spoil the elaborate metallic make-up she was wearing.
Already she was sweating, but she didn’t want to go into one
of the tents, knowing that she’d be met with stony, hostile
gazes. The shoot had barely started, and already it had run into
a huge problem, which everyone seemed to be thinking was
her fault . . .
‘Did the stupid bitch actually say she could ride?’ she heard
the photographer’s assistant ask. He was standing quite a way
from her, across the other side of the wadi, so he must have
pitched his voice deliberately high for it to carry over to her.
‘Apparently. Silly twat,’ snapped the photographer, feeling
in the pockets of his safari jacket for a cigarette.‘Bloody models
will say anything to get a job. Did I tell you about the one last
year who said she could swim like a fish for an Italian
Vogue
spread? The little cow had some phobia about putting her
head underwater! I said to Franca, “Let’s throw her in the deep
end and get some great shots of her drowning”!’