Killer Heels (27 page)

‘Darling,’ Jeremy said, as she tucked her arm through his,
‘do you realise how nice you’re being lately?’
‘What?’ Victoria, a scion of the upper classes, would never
have dreamed of saying ‘Pardon,’ or even ‘Excuse me,’ if she
thought she had misheard something.
‘Nice,’ Jeremy said happily, as they ensconced themselves in
the Town Car, the bodyguard taking his seat discreetly next to
the driver. ‘You’re really being very nice to everyone. You said
thank you to your assistant, you were lovely to Coco – even
the nanny I settled on said she wasn’t as scared of you as she
thought she was going to be.’
‘Hooray for me,’ Victoria said dryly, sitting up even straighter
than usual because it was so hard to bend at the waist in the
three pairs of Spanx.
Jeremy took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. ‘It’s
the baby,’ he said, his voice deeply contented.‘All the hormones.
They’re making you a nicer person.’
Victoria stared straight ahead of her, at the shiny black
Perspex screen between the passengers and the driver, in which
she could make out her pale face, crowned with its blonde
chignon, her long straight nose and bright red lipstick.
It isn’t the baby, she knew, her stomach shifting under all
the layers of elastic wrapping that was flattening it down. It’s
Lykke. If anything’s making me a nicer person, it’s her.
Victoria had not seen Lykke since St Louis, a fortnight ago.
She had pored avidly over the results of the shoot, which had
been truly spectacular; she, Dietrich and Clemence had oohed
and aahed and clutched their chests dramatically and rolled
their eyes at each other in excitement even more than usual.
Victoria had even sneaked a couple of Polaroids for herself,
keeping them in a zipped pocket in her handbag, bringing
them out in absolute secret to obsess over, with the door very
securely locked . . .
But a couple of Polaroids just weren’t enough.
She longed to feel Lykke in her arms again, to have that
smooth silky skin against hers, that long, extraordinary hair trailing over her face, Lykke’s cool lips on hers. She had never felt
anything like this before, certainly not for poor sweet Jeremy.
She felt consumed, eaten up by her desire for Lykke. It was like
a drug; she had hoped that seeing Lykke in St Louis would
appease her craving, and it had, temporarily; but the trouble
was, it had left her wanting more. She had woken up the next
morning and rung Alyssa, instructing her to put her on an earlier
plane back to New York, not wanting to travel with the rest of
the
Style
team. She had scrambled to the airport and fled back
home, knowing that she would not be able to see Lykke in a
group of people and disguise the feelings she had for her.
She could be anywhere right now, Victoria thought jealously. On a Caribbean island, in London for some arty indie
magazine, visiting Milan to meet Armani. God, Lykke would
be perfect for Armani . . .
Victoria heaved a deep sigh. She couldn’t bear it if she
didn’t see Lykke again . . . Come on, Victoria, call a spade a
spade, she told herself in her crisp tones. What you mean is, if
you don’t fuck Lykke again.
And then a wave of guilt hit her, as if she were standing on
board a boat, holding onto the rail, and the bows had hit a
swell and sent a spray of seawater into her face, cold and salty,
a slap of reality.
Don’t lie, she berated herself. Victoria was famous for her
biting honesty; it was only fair that she turn that blinding
white light on herself when necessary.
It wasn’t just a fuck. You
and Lykke made love.
She bit her lip, hard, and to her great surprise, felt something jump in her stomach. No, not her stomach. Lower down.
I can’t be feeling the baby yet! she thought. It’s barely been
three months. That’s much too early, surely?
With perfect clarity, she remembered Lykke telling her that
she wanted to see her breasts in a month’s time, her stomach . . . saying that pregnant women were supposed to have
even better orgasms.
Even through the three layers of Spanx, swaddling her
crotch as thickly as if it had been mummified, Victoria felt
herself twitch and throb, that involuntary electric stab of
excitement that was impossible to fake.

Oh God, I have it so bad.
She saw Lykke’s face floating in front of hers, the beautiful,
serene features framed by the cloud of silvery hair. For the first
time in her hyper-controlled, super-ambitious, perfectlyorganised life, Victoria understood what passion was: why it
made sensible, intelligent, rational people throw caution to the
winds and steer their trains spectacularly off the rails into
headlong collisions with disaster.
I have an excellent marriage, she told herself, and a baby
on the way. Jeremy’s everything any woman could want in a
husband: sweet, supportive, with a good job. He puts my
interests before his own, he lets me make all the big decisions, he’ll take time off work so my job isn’t disrupted by
having a baby. We have one of the strongest marriages in fashion . . . I’d be lying if I didn’t say that Jeremy’s a big part of
my power base.
Victoria had never subscribed to the ridiculous idea, so
assiduously peddled by certain tabloid newspapers and every
single recent Hollywood romantic comedy, that it was hard for
a successful, ambitious straight woman to find a man to marry
her. That was nonsense: she knew plenty of high-powered
women with very strong marriages.
But still, Jeremy was unquestionably a gem. Victoria knew
how much she was envied – had always, frankly, been very smug
about it. She looked at him and met his eyes, soft and blue
behind the lenses of his glasses, full of love and admiration.
So am I going to put all this in jeopardy just for some model I’m
obsessed with? My God, it’s like the worst cliché in the book. If a
man were behaving like this, he’d be a laughing-stock.
‘Oh, thank God!’ she exclaimed as the car came to a halt
behind a long line of identical black Town Cars on West 27
^th
Street, hugely relieved to have a distraction from this uncomfortable speculation. ‘Here we are. Oh my
God
, look at the
dresses!’
The party, at the Museum at Fashion Institute of Technology,
was as small and exclusive as the museum itself. A-list, Oscarwinning actresses, fashion insiders, professional beauties of
both genders, were the only attendees; no padding, no non
entity plus-ones. It was being thrown to publicise an equally
small and perfectly-curated exhibition: just twenty-five of
Valentino’s most beautiful and celebrated evening dresses, all
in the signature bright red for which he was famous.
‘Darling Vicky!’ Dietrich ran up to her as soon as she set
foot on the red carpet, his cape trailing behind him, his
eyebrows plucked and tattooed into winged arches. ‘
Such
a
party! Inge’s pruned the guest-list to within an inch of its life.
Have you seen Halle? And Nicole?’
‘Not yet,’ Victoria said. ‘I’m dying to see what Halle’s wearing. Are there cut-outs? She pulls those off like nobody else.
Not much of an actress, but
such
a clothes-horse.’
‘Cover! Cover cover cover!’ Dietrich clapped his suedegloved hands. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘I’m steering away from Jennifer’s celebrity covers, Dietrich,’
Victoria said as she gathered her skirts, making sure the layers
hung perfectly before she turned to face the waiting photographers. ‘She was so vulgar! Any little TV-show actress, she’d put
on the cover for a quick thrill. And look at Anna at
Vogue
–
Oprah on the cover, for God’s sake! How is that fashion? I’m
going back to the professionals. And some actresses – but only
really famous ones – those who’ve modelled and actually know
how to sell a dress . . .’
Further down the red carpet, Anna Wintour’s heavy signature bob swung in their direction as Victoria’s penetrating
tones carried to where she was standing, talking to Nicole
Kidman and Kanye West.
‘I can’t believe
he’s
here,’ Dietrich muttered. ‘After his disastrous débâcle of a show in Paris last year.’
Victoria felt Anna Wintour’s eyes boring into the side of her
head, and very deliberately didn’t turn to meet them; she
smiled, however – a small satisfied smile that said
Oh yes. You
may have had it all your own way in New York for a while, but
I’m here now. Get used to it
. Swivelling towards the bank of
photographers, her arm wrapped through her husband’s,
Dietrich on her other side, his cape tossed artfully back over
his shoulders, she flashed her best, most photogenic smile as
the cameras clicked and whirred.
‘Victoria? It’s Gina from E. Love your dress! It’s Valentino,
of course, isn’t it?’ chirped a reporter, pushing a microphone in
Victoria’s face.
‘What else?’ Victoria said lightly, and saw the reporter’s eyes
widen in excitement at a new arrival on the carpet, behind
Victoria.
‘Darling!’ said Kate Moss, kissing the air in front of each of
Victoria’s cheeks. ‘You look sensational.’
‘Oh, you too,’ Victoria cooed as the cameras went wild.
What a fabulous party, she thought with great pleasure as
she descended the steps that led down to the museum space;
the staircase had been covered for the occasion in Valentinored carpet. Deferential flunkies were circulating with trays of
champagne glasses filled with a bright red cocktail.
‘Goji berry bellini?’ one flunky murmured, proffering the
tray.
‘Ooh, lovely!’ Dietrich said, taking one and cruising the
waiter in a single, efficient movement.
Victoria waved the drinks away; not only was she completely
off alcohol now – she felt horribly guilty about how much she
had drunk in St Louis – but she couldn’t allow any liquid to pass
her lips; not when going to the toilet would entail the painstaking removal and replacing of three pairs of Spanx. The small
foyer, with its central pillar, had been impeccably decorated for
the exhibition: videos were set into recesses in the white walls,
showing iconic catwalks from Valentino’s most famous shows,
models swaying down narrow white runways, elegant spindly
girls with necks like giraffes, dressed in streaming silk ribbons
and swirls of scarlet and crimson and cherry-red.
Across the room, standing next to the pillar in the centre,
she saw Inge Kavanaugh, the editor of
Dialogue
magazine, who
had curated and organised this exquisite little show. Short and
stocky, built like a fire hydrant, with pocked cheeks and a
no-nonsense attitude, Inge dressed to suit her figure, in squarecut, double-breasted men’s suits, silk pocket handkerchiefs,
and, occasionally, trilbies. Her dark, slightly greasy hair was cut
short and tucked back behind her ears, her hands usually
shoved mannishly into her pockets.
Frankly, she’s the stereotype of the old-school lesbian
, Victoria
thought, feeling horribly homophobic.
The irony of fashion editors’ professions, of course, was that
while they spent their working lives telling their readers what
to wear, what the current trends were and what they would
evolve into – that this winter was all hearts, stars and neonbrights, while spring would be floaty lace and ankle boots
– they were very unlikely to be seen dressed in anything that
featured on the pages of the most recent edition of their magazine. The most famous icons and muses were always
fashion-forward, creating new trends, pushing boundaries. And
the editors found their own style and stuck to it firmly. Anna
Wintour’s bob and Prada dresses, Victoria Glossop’s chignon
and mini-skirts were instant signatures; they knew what suited
them and adapted the fashions of the day to their own ends.
Like Inge. She always looks striking, in an eccentric-British
kind of way.
But if I start seeing women, Victoria thought, if I say I’m
bisexual, won’t people associate me with that kind of lesbian?
Won’t they make jokes about who’s the ‘man’ and who’s the
‘woman’? I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this – my God,
there are tons of gays and lesbians in the fashion industry, right
up to the very top! I couldn’t be in a better place to realise that
I like having sex with women – love having sex with women.
Well, one woman . . .
And then, as Inge raised a hand to wave at Halle Berry,
stunning in a red and gold Valentino mini-dress, Victoria saw
who Inge had been talking to. From behind the pillar, swaying
in what must be five-inch heels, emerged Lykke, wearing the
white jumpsuit she had had on the first time Victoria met her,
her hair crimped into a white frizz around her face that added
an extra few inches to her height. She had added false lashes to
her own, darkened with brown mascara, and painted her lips
palest pink; the effect was a Twiggy-like, 1960s style that made
her eyes look enormous. But, as usual, their expression was
grave, considering, giving her an air of serenity that was at odds
with the controlled mayhem around her.
‘Ooh – our new cover girl. Love the look. Very happening!’
Dietrich cooed, pointing at Lykke.
As if I hadn’t seen her already, Victoria thought, her heart
leaping. As if I could look anywhere else . . .
‘Is she with Inge?’ Dietrich asked, always avid for gossip. ‘I
must say, good for Inge if she is! That Lykke’s definitely got it
going on. I’d do her in a heartbeat.’
‘Who are we talking about?’ Jeremy asked, drinking some
goji berry Bellini.
‘Lykke!’ Dietrich carolled, waving enthusiastically at her.
‘Isn’t she fabulous?’
‘God, she’s quite something, isn’t she?’ Jeremy said appreciatively.‘Scandinavian, I imagine.’
‘Finnish,’ Dietrich said.
Victoria couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Lykke’s eyes met
Victoria’s, their expression changing, becoming challenging.
Between them, some of the most famous actresses in the
world, spectacularly dressed and made up, laughed and chatted with the most influential people in the fashion industry.
The air was heavy with perfume, and everyone was raising
their voices to be heard over each other; through the proppedopen double doors to the exhibition space were a dizzying
array of bright scarlet dresses on white mannequins.
‘He’s here!’ hissed someone close to the steps, and the next
moment Valentino Garavani himself, perma-tanned to a deep,
rich shade of mandarin, his skin the same texture as Coco’s
new Hermès Picotin bucket bag, dressed in an impeccably
tailored pale grey silk suit, came into view round the corner of
the stairs. He paused for a moment, looking down at the gathering, and his handsome face creased into a smile as everyone,
seeing him, broke into tumultuous applause.
There was a mass surge to the bottom of the steps, drawn as
if to a magnet, everyone wanting to congratulate Valentino, to
press his hand and kiss his cheek. Officially retired for several
years, it had been a coup for Inge that he had agreed to attend
this show, and she was right in the forefront, greeting him and
Giancarlo Giammetti, his partner, with the familiarity of years
of friendship.
Victoria slipped back, however, surreptitiously easing
against the flow of partygoers, looking for the distinctive,
white-clad shape of the woman with whom she was obsessed.
‘Lykke,’ she said in a whisper, as she crossed the room. It was
almost a plea.
It was the first time Victoria had said Lykke’s name to her
since they met. Pronouncing it casually to others – Mireille,
Dietrich, Clemence – had given her a secret thrill, the buzz
that came from summoning, as it were, your lover in a business
environment, when no one knew of the bond between the two
of you, the instant, flaring attraction. She had been curt when
she said it before, simply asking Lykke where she came from.
Now she sounded vulnerable, and utterly unlike herself.
Victoria never whispered, never lowered her voice. Ever.
Lykke was standing at the far side of the room, half-hidden
by the pillar. Next to her a video screen was looping through
its endless catwalk sequences, and with a start, Victoria saw
Lykke on the screen, her amazing hair dressed in elaborate
ringlets tumbling around her face, high-stepping, like a show
pony, the classic model’s walk in high heels and long skirts.
She wore a red satin dress, cut on the bias, like a slip but
infinitely more subtle, flowing like water around her long
thin frame.
‘That was the only dress I could wear,’ Lykke said, a flicker
of amusement in her voice as she saw where Victoria was looking. ‘I don’t really have enough breasts for Valentino.’ She
looked down at her almost-flat chest in her tight white jumpsuit. ‘I can’t do Dolce, or Versace. They never book me.’
Victoria nodded. Dolce, Versace, both wanted girls who,
though thin, had a naturally hourglass shape, while Lykke was
what they called in America a ‘tall drink of water’, straight up
and down; if she’d been curvier, the white jumpsuit would
have looked vulgar, rather than elegant.
‘I was just thinking you’d be perfect for Armani,’ Victoria
observed.
‘I’ve walked for Armani,’ Lykke said. ‘I love him.’ She took
in Victoria’s dress. ‘You look very beautiful,’ she said simply.
Victoria felt the blood rise to her cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she
said softly.
Lykke, on screen, had turned, was walking away, disappearing, with a last swirl of red satin, behind the white screen. And
Victoria returned her gaze to Lykke in flesh and blood.
She had wanted so much to be here, standing next to her. To
anyone in the room who wasn’t clustered eagerly around
Valentino, who was now being led through into the exhibition
space by Inge, Victoria and Lykke’s tête-à-tête would seem
completely innocent; an editor making conversation with the
model who was about to feature on her December issue cover.
But Victoria, who was never at a loss for words, suddenly
realised that she had no idea what to say.
‘I came to you once,’ Lykke said solemnly, gazing into
Victoria’s grey eyes. ‘Maybe twice, if we count when I first
came to your office. But I won’t do it again.’
Victoria’s heart plummeted. Her lips parted, but all she
could think of to say was a desperate ‘No!’ or ‘Why?’ and she
couldn’t trust her voice not to come out so high and panicked
that it would draw unwanted attention. Already the Van Cleef
& Arpels bodyguard was hovering by the pillar in case Lykke
tried to rip off the rubies and make a run for it, his hands in the
classic ball-covering clasp at his crotch.
‘Now you must come to me,’ Lykke continued, and Victoria’s
heart shot up again, dizzying her with the speed of its ascent,
making her light-headed.