Killer Heels (14 page)

Don’t say America, say the States. Don’t say Avenue of the
Americas, say Sixth Avenue. Don’t say Street after the street
name. Don’t say overseas, pavement, lift, cutlery: say abroad,
sidewalk, elevator, flatware or silverware. Don’t say Spanish,
say Hispanic. Don’t
ever
say Oriental, it’s racist: say Asian.

That last rule had been drummed into Coco by Lucy, who
was her new best American friend.
‘But Asian for British people means Indian or Pakistani,’
Coco protested.‘It’s really confusing for us.’
‘You just gotta suck it up,’ Lucy said cheerfully, an American
expression that Coco adored. ‘Here if you say Oriental you
mean a carpet. And I’m not a rug.’ She pursed her lips around
her straw and took a slug of her whisky sour. ‘Having said that,’
she added, ‘you can pretty much get away with anything if
you’ve got an English accent.’
‘I worked that out already,’ Coco said, smiling.
‘Oh, God, yes.’ Emily chimed in. ‘I’ve had tons of people ask
me already if I’m friends with “Princess Kate”!’ She pulled a
face.‘I do keep saying that it’s actually “Catherine, Duchess of
Cambridge”, but no one cares.’
‘And what do you say when they ask you?’ Coco said.
‘Oh.’ Emily giggled and drank some more vodka and diet
tonic. ‘I say yes, of course I know her. I do sort of know her
sister Pippa actually,’ she added. ‘From Mahiki and Boujis.’
Lucy’s brow furrowed, not recognising the names: a typical
aristocrat, Emily always assumed that everyone else went to
the same places she did, or at least knew exactly what she was
talking about.
‘They’re the clubs where the Sloanes – the posh people
with tons of money – hang out in London,’ Coco explained to
her. ‘They drink cocktails out of treasure chests that cost a
hundred pounds a go and then they go red and dance to Abba.
Really badly.’
‘Oi, that’s a bit unfair,’ Emily said, pulling a face. ‘Not everyone dances badly.’
‘I bet Pippa dances well. What’s she like?’ Lucy asked
eagerly.
‘Well,’ Emily said with an expression of extreme seriousness, setting down her drink, ‘she has
awfully
good hair.’
Over Emily’s head, Lucy’s dark eyes met Coco’s, brimming
with amusement. Much as Coco liked Emily, she had to admit
that the more time they spent together, the fewer brains she
noticed rattling around underneath Emily’s own lush head of
hair. Emily was a brilliant fashion editor, had an excellent eye,
and was already putting together some eye-catching spreads,
but Lucy, a feature writer, was smart as a whip, and the difference between the two girls was increasingly noticeable.
‘She
does
have very good hair,’ Lucy agreed gravely. ‘Oh
look! X!’ She waved an arm back and forth in a half-semaphore, gesticulating at someone across the bar. They were in
Luxe, a bar around the corner from the Dupleix building,
which was the current fashionable watering-hole for its
employees to hang out after work – if, of course, they weren’t
heading off to launch parties and openings for the free drinks
and networking, or hitting the gym, which were the main two
after-work activities for Dupleix staffers.
Tonight was a Friday, which meant neither launch parties
nor openings, which were always mid-week; the girls, exhausted
from a gruelling week of work, had chosen the easiest spot to
come drinking. Luxe, as befitted its name, was plushly decorated, its dark purple carpet scattered with cosy groups of
small velvet tub chairs and matching velvet pouffes arranged
around low polished tables. The owners had been unable to
resist stripping the walls to bare brick – decades after the style
was first pioneered in SoHo lofts downtown, it was still hugely
fashionable – but had at least tempered their starkness by
draping huge swags of matching velvet along the upper half
and softening the lower part with hundreds of tiny candles.
‘X!’ Lucy hollered, half-lifting herself from her velvet seat.
‘Over here!’
Lucy’s such a tomboy, Coco thought. She doesn’t have an
inch of guile or girliness. The floppy-bowed blouse, the wide
tweed trousers that Lucy had been wearing the first time
they’d met were absolutely typical of her style; she was like a
chic 1920s flapper, with her dramatic bob and her narrow
body that wore men’s tailoring so perfectly. This evening she
was in a tight pinstriped waistcoat over a boatnecked silk Jil
Sander T-shirt and cuffed wool trousers, with four-inch-heeled
pumps. It was a look that Coco could never have pulled off,
but it looked wonderful on Lucy.
It was initially hard to tell who Lucy was waving at, there
was such a crush of people at the bar. Besides, its illumination
mostly came from the miniature candles set into copperbacked niches in the walls, which reflected the flickering light;
ideal for intimacy and romance, less so if you were trying to see
someone more than four feet away from you.
‘Ooh!’ Emily breathed. ‘Yummy!’
Coco saw exactly what she meant; the guy weaving his way
through the crowd towards them, his drink held high, was tall,
dark and extremely handsome. He raised his other hand in
greeting, flashing Lucy a ridiculously sweet smile.
‘X works at
Men’s Style
,’ Lucy said, as he arrived at their
table. ‘Junior fashion and grooming editor.’
‘Hi,’ Emily said enthusiastically, as he pulled up a stool and
sat down. ‘I’m Emily.’ She did her best, big, theatrical swoop of
blonde hair, tossing her head so the entire mass cascaded from
one side of her neck to the other. ‘It’s lovely to meet you! Are
you really called X?’ She giggled. ‘I must say,’ she added coquettishly, fluttering her eyelashes, ‘X certainly marks the spot.’
Oops, Coco thought. Emily, he’s pretty much bound to be
gay. He’s gorgeous, perfectly dressed, really fit, and he’s the
grooming editor on
Men’s Style
– you may want to take a deep
breath and back away, because he almost definitely bats for the
other team.
Lucy caught Coco’s eye again, pantomiming, her mouth
open wide in a comical O. Coco grinned back, enjoying the
entertainment. She took another tiny sip of the one vodka and
diet tonic she was nursing, making it last all evening; she would
pick up some sushi from the Japanese takeout two doors down
from the tiny apartment she shared with Emily in Fort Greene
on the way home. She had worked out at lunchtime in the
corporate gym, and she felt in control. A little light-headed
from hunger, but she was used to being hungry now; she fell
asleep to a lightly-rumbling stomach and awoke to one grumbling even louder. She understood now why film stars and
models were always photographed with cups of coffee in their
hands. Skim-milk coffee, with sweetener rather than sugar, was
practically calorie-free, and it filled you up, the caffeine buzz
carrying you along, distracting you from craving solid food.
‘I’m Xavier,’ the guy said, shaking Emily’s hand. ‘Xavier Fan.’
‘What a fabulous name,’ Emily gushed. ‘Now, Lucy’s just
been telling us not to say Oriental – so what are you, exactly?’
Lucy’s O opened even wider.
‘Chinese-American,’ Xavier replied politely. ‘My folks are
from Singapore, but they moved here before I was born.’
‘But you’re so tall!’ Emily looked him up and down with
lustful appreciation. ‘I didn’t know Chinese people got so tall.’
Lucy cracked up. ‘It’s all the protein in the States,’ she said,
giggling. ‘It makes us tiny little Asians grow big and strong.’
Xavier smiled at Emily. ‘You have such nice teeth,’ he said
gently. ‘I didn’t know English people had such nice teeth.’
Emily squealed with amusement. ‘Oh God, that’s hilarious!
You’re funny too.’ She patted his arm flirtatiously. ‘I have nice
teeth,’ she said, ‘because Mummy and Daddy have lots of dosh
and got mine fixed. Most British people don’t, so you’re not
completely wrong.’
Coco closed her lips over her own teeth, which were wonky.
The ones on her lower jaw overlapped at the front; she’d barely
been aware of the flaw before she started at
Style
in London,
but Victoria had commented on it, and of course, in America,
everyone’s dentistry was so much better. She remembered her
mum pointing out to the NHS dentist ten years ago that fourteen-year-old Coco’s – Jodie’s – teeth were a bit crossed. The
dentist had answered that Jodie had plenty of room in her
mouth for all of them; there was no need to give her braces.
I was so grateful not to have braces then, Coco thought,
miserably. But now I really wish my parents had been like
Emily’s.
‘Hey,’ Xavier was saying, reaching out his hand to hers; he
had lovely manners. ‘I’m Xavier. Or X, if that’s easier.’
‘Coco,’ she said, smiling at him, but very carefully, to avoid
showing her teeth. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘You work at Dupleix, don’t you? I think I’ve seen you
round,’ he said. ‘Maybe in the canteen?’
‘I’m always shooting through,’ she said ruefully. ‘I never
have time to sit down and eat.’
‘Coco’s Victoria Glossop’s assistant,’ Emily chipped in,
eager to reclaim Xavier’s attention.
‘Whoah,’ Xavier said. ‘I’ve heard some of the stories about
her. That’s got to be hardcore.’
‘Was,’ Coco corrected. ‘We’re celebrating my promotion. I
was her assistant. I got a new slave past the interview this week
– Monday, I’m off to the fashion cupboard.’ She raised her
glass. ‘To freedom,’ she said happily. ‘Well, sort of freedom.’
‘And lots of free stuff!’ Lucy chorused, clinking her glass
with Coco’s.
Emily and Xavier raised their glasses too, though Emily was
staring at Xavier the entire time they toasted Coco. Coco
couldn’t blame her; he was utterly gorgeous. Skin as smooth
and matte as Jersey cream, his face like a sculpture, his cheekbones high and strong, his long dark eyes sparkling with
amusement and charm. His tightly-fitted shirt and flat-fronted
black trousers showed off his long, lean figure, and they
contrasted stylishly with the steel piercings in his ears, three on
the side Coco could see. Actually, his shirt was snug enough
that she thought she could make out the tell-tale lump of
another piercing on his right pectoral.
‘I did a stint in the fashion cupboard on
Uomo Vogue
,’ he
said, sipping his drink, which was a tall orange concoction
garnished with three maraschino cherries. ‘Toughest gig I ever
had. I’d go to sleep and dream of opening boxes all night.’
‘Coco’s super-organised,’ Lucy said.
‘Oh wow!
Uomo Vogue
!’ Emily cut in. ‘You’ve worked in so
many cool places.’ She touched his arm again, did her hair-toss,
and flashed the teeth he had complimented all at once; it was
flirtation overload, and Xavier flinched fractionally from the
onslaught.
‘Steady, tiger,’ Lucy said, laughing.
‘Hey,’ Xavier said, looking around the three girls, clearly
wanting to include them all in the conversation, to avoid being
trapped in a tête-à-tête with the over-enthusiastic Emily. ‘Can
I ask you all something?’
‘Anything!’ Emily said loudly.
‘I’ve been noticing something in the last few weeks,’ Xavier
continued. ‘All you girls at
Style
look different than you did
before. It’s not just me – tons of other guys in the building’ve
been commenting on it too. Are you, like, wearing more makeup or something? Or higher heels?’
All three
Style
girls looked at each other and burst out
laughing.
‘Oh, now I know I’ve said something funny,’ Xavier said,
eyes bright. ‘Come on, what is it?’
‘It’s Victoria,’ Coco said. ‘Everyone’s trying to look like
Victoria.’
‘Before, when Jennifer was editor,’ Lucy explained, ‘she
wore flats and had her hair loose and never used any make-up,
so everyone sort of copied her. And she was very fashionforward. She’d wear whatever was the latest thing, even if it
didn’t suit her, so we all felt we had to do the same.’ She rolled
her eyes. ‘I’m
so
glad I can wear mascara again. And blusher. I
hated not wearing make-up at work.’
‘But Victoria’s really different,’ Emily chimed in. ‘She’s, like,
super-chic and has her own style, so we all need to find our
own. But she loathes it if you don’t wear make-up or high
heels, so we all have to do that.’
‘And bangles,’ Coco added. ‘Everyone’s got their Victoria
bangles.’
In unison, she, Emily and Lucy raised their arms and jangled
their big cuff bracelets, making a rattle that could be heard
even in the noisy bar.
‘That’s hilarious!’ Xavier exclaimed, laughing now. ‘Hey, if I
want a job on
Style
, should I get some bangles too?’ He shot
back one cuff of his tightly-fitted shirt, baring his wrist.
‘Wow, you’re so smooth!,’ Emily slurred appreciatively,
reaching out to try to stroke him.
Well, her gaydar may be faulty, but her taste isn’t, Coco
thought. He’s lovely. She watched Xavier politely fend Emily
off, launching instead into a conversation with Lucy about
getting tickets for an upcoming revival of a musical called
Flower Drum Song
.
Definitely gay, Coco thought. Shame for Emily, as he’s
gorgeous, but honestly, he works on a fashion magazine. What
are the odds? He was around the same age as them, in their
mid-twenties.
Too young
, Coco suddenly realised.
Or
–
much
too young for me
.
The wavering shadows of the candlelit bar hid her blush as
the memory flooded back of Jacob sitting on her desk a few
days ago. Since then she had thought about him incessantly,
endlessly checked Victoria’s schedule to see if she had any
more meetings where Jacob might conceivably be present and
Coco could arrange to bump into him. He had to be thirty
years older than her; she had never remotely been attracted to
someone of that age before.
But then, I’ve never really had anything serious before, she
reflected. She had had flings at college, and a brief relationship
with a sales rep at
Wow
, but no one that she could seriously
call an ex-boyfriend. Coco had always been more focused on
her work, her ambition, than she had been on having a
boyfriend. There’ll be plenty of time for that, she’d thought,
and there still was; she was only twenty-four, had her whole
life in front of her to get serious and settle down.
But now all I can think about is Jacob Dupleix touching my
chin. Stroking it. Telling me to say his name
.
Emily was reaching playfully for one of the maraschino
cherries in Xavier’s glass, and he was holding it out of her
reach, rolling his eyes at Lucy and Coco, mouthing, ‘Help me!’
to them.
‘Emily! Going-home time,’ Coco said, leaning forward,
seeing her flatmate’s eyes now glassy with alcohol. ‘And we’ll
grab something to eat when we get back, okay?’