Killer Heels (37 page)

But the film stars were aging, and thinner on the ground.
East 58th Street was no longer fashionable; it incarnated
money now, not trendiness. The young hip movie actors and
musicians went to Da Silvano, Il Cantinori, Periyali, Pastis,
downtown restaurants where the food was indifferent and the
prices sky-high. But since none of them actually ate a bite,
preferring to push their food around desultorily in between
nipping to the toilet for a line of coke or the sidewalk for a
cigarette, the quality of the cooking was unimportant: the
important thing was to see and be seen.

Whereas at Le Cirque, the food was never less than spectacularly good. And once Jacob had given his loyalty to a place
– or a person – he never withdrew it. He had been lunching
with Mireille at Le Cirque for nearly thirty years, and in late
autumn, he always, without exception, ordered the risotto that
was the seasonal speciality of the restaurant, made with white
truffles flown over from Alba in Italy. He was emitting moans
of appreciation as he forked up the buttery, Parmesan-coated
grains of Arborio rice topped with paper-thin slices of truffle.

Mireille, naturally, wouldn’t have dreamed of ordering
anything that fattening: she had chosen a starter of sliced,
marinated tuna with a tomato gelée and rocket sorbet. Le
Cirque had been home to many chefs who had made their
reputations in its kitchen, but Sirio Maccioni had always
known that the key to keeping its distinguished clientele was
to instruct his cooks to provide rich food for the gentlemen,
and equally light dishes for the ladies who barely lunched.

Mireille glanced with amusement at Jacob’s visible enjoyment of his risotto, which the sommelier had paired with a
glass of crisp white Gavi dei Gavi.

‘Ah, Jacob,’ she said, cutting off a small piece of almost-raw
tuna and scooping the calorie-free tomato gelée onto it. ‘Do
you know what I am thinking,
mon cher
? That if your women
ate the same food that you allow yourself, they would not
remain your women for very long.’

Putting the tuna into her mouth, she chewed it with slow,
deliberate motions, making each bite last as long as possible. It
was a trick dancers used, to eat only a little but cheat yourself
into feeling that you had had more; Jacob had seen her do it,
decades ago, and been impressed.

I’m sure he’s taught it to all the girls who came after me, she
thought wryly.
Jacob looked up, his fork, loaded with truffle risotto,
momentarily suspended halfway to his mouth, his face a comic
caricature of disbelief.
‘It’s fine,’ Mireille said with even more amusement.
‘Continue, please.’ She sipped some fizzy water. ‘I merely
observe that the double standard is alive and well at this table.’
‘I work out with Brad three times a week,’ Jacob protested.
‘Plus I play tennis every Saturday. My yearly work-up with Dr
Kreizner was great this year – my bloodwork’s in tip-top
shape.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ Mireille said; she was holding her
water glass, and she raised it to him in a mock toast. ‘Long may
that last.’
‘You love to break my balls,’ Jacob grumbled cheerfully,
undeterred by her mockery, forking up more risotto.‘For thirty
years, you’ve been breaking my balls.’
‘Moh.’ Mireille shrugged elegantly. ‘Everyone must have a
hobby,
n’est-ce pas
?’
Jacob grinned at her and she smiled back at him; it was a
mutual look of perfect and absolute understanding.
‘I didn’t have any bread,’ he said virtuously, finishing off his
risotto. ‘Did you notice? I’m cutting back.’
‘
Très bien
,’ Mireille said with teasing approval.
Jacob reached for his wine glass. ‘It’s Coco, really,’ he said.
‘I don’t have bread on the table any more. It’s her weakness.
She says she finds it a hell of a lot easier if she doesn’t see me
eating it.’
Mireille’s plucked eyebrows shot up. ‘Most thoughtful of
you,’ she observed.
‘She’s trying real hard,’ Jacob continued, his expression
softening into a mush of sentiment, as it always did when he
talked about Coco. ‘I’m very proud of her. Brad’s putting her
through hell, and she never complains. He says she’s the pluckiest girl he’s ever trained.’
‘Coco is certainly determined when she wants something,’
Mireille commented, pushing her half-finished starter away to
indicate to the deferentially-hovering waiter that she had
finished.
‘You’re not going to eat the rest of that?’ Jacob asked.
Mireille rolled her eyes expressively. ‘You know it is a rule
with me never to finish a plate of food,’ she said. ‘No matter
what it is.’
‘It looks so good, though! Hey, hang on a minute.’ Jacob
reached over and speared a piece of tuna, dipping it into the
melting rocket sorbet. ‘Mmn, excellent!’ he said. ‘Melts in your
mouth. I wish you could teach Coco never to finish her food,’
he added wistfully. ‘I told her you do that, and she nearly bit
my head off. Okay, you’re good to go,’ he added in a friendly
tone to the waiter, who promptly whipped the plate away.
‘Coco is hungry all the time,’ Mireille said, sitting back in
the circular booth that ran around the entire arc of the dining
room. ‘I can assure you of that. You are lucky she did not truly
bite your head off and try to eat it.’
Jacob laughed, sitting back too as their plates were cleared.
A wine waiter bustled over, removing his empty white wine
glass, replacing it with the larger red wine glass: Brunello, to
accompany his entrée.
‘She’s looking so good, though,’ he said happily. ‘So beautiful! I think she’s only got five pounds to go till she’s perfect. I
got her this amazing Chanel dress in Paris – couture, of course.
Made to her ideal measurements. I told her, “When you get
into that, you’ll have your first couture piece. First of many”.’
‘Jacob,’ Mireille said cautiously, ‘Coco is already extremely
thin. You are aware of that,
n’est-ce pas
? You know, some girls
are not meant through nature to be a size zero. They are built
differently. Their bones are not tiny. They may starve
themselves, but they will never be really small.’ She looked a
little sad. ‘I have seen many talented dancers realise that their
frames will not allow them to be prima ballerinas. They leave
for modern dance, which is more . . . accommodating.’
But Jacob, clearly, was not listening to her.
‘I’m over the moon, Mireille,’ he said, beaming happily.
‘She’s such a bright girl! You know, she talks back to me. She
doesn’t let me have it all my own way.’
Then why is she starving herself to please you? Mireille
thought, but did not say. There was no point. I tried, she told
herself. I have made an effort, and now my conscience is clear.
‘And she’s making such a success of
Mini Style
,’ he continued, his smile even wider. ‘She fought me on the name, you
know? Said I hired her because she was in touch with the
younger generation, so I had to trust her on what to call the
magazine. And guess what, she was right! We’re killing
Teen
Vogue
already at the newsstands, and subscriptions are already
really healthy, considering we’ve only put out two issues.’
Mireille nodded. ‘It is indeed a great success so far,’ she
agreed.
‘She’s a pistol,’ Jacob said contentedly, his eyes misting at
the thought of Coco. Companionably, he put his arm over
Mireille’s shoulders. No one observing them would have
thought that the charismatic, fifty-something man was confiding in the elegant, fifty-something woman about his pride in
his twenty-something girlfriend.
‘You know, I thought it would be Zarina that you would
choose,’ Mireille said consideringly. ‘I saw you notice her; I
thought she had sparked your interest.’
‘Zarina?’ Jacob looked blank. ‘There are so many girls,’ he
confessed, a little shamefaced. ‘And they’re all so pretty.’
‘My assistant! With the long dark hair and excellent
eyebrows,’ Mireille reproved him. ‘Zarina de Ruiter. If I am not
mistaken, you took her out to dinner at least once.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jacob’s brow cleared as he remembered the girl in
question. ‘Very pretty – and very smart,’ he added appreciatively. ‘We hit it off. But . . .’ he hesitated. ‘She was already so
polished, do you see? She knows everyone there is to know in
New York already. A Vassar girl, right?’
‘She comes from a very good family,’ Mireille agreed. ‘The
de Ruiters were among the first Dutch settlers – part of Mrs
Astor’s Four Hundred.’
‘My point exactly!’ Jacob spread his hands wide. ‘She didn’t
need me. She had everything already. Now Coco – I can give
her a real cultural and social education. I’m taking her to the
Met, to the ballet at Lincoln Centre, to private views. Venice
for Carnival in January, Wagner in Bayreuth. Skiing in Verbier
and Aspen – did you know she’s never even skied before?’ He
pantomimed shock and horror.
‘That poor deprived child,’ Mireille said dryly. ‘How has she
survived all these years?’ Poor child, indeed, she thought more
genuinely. At her age she should be dancing in downtown
clubs, jumping in swimming pools on the top of LA hotels, not
being dragged to the Ring Cycle in Bayreuth with a bunch of
opera-goers old enough to be her grandparents.
But, one must remember, the girl has gained her own magazine
out of her association with Jacob. And she will be travelling the
world in five-star luxury. A few years, and Jacob will have tired of
her. She will be free to see someone her own age, and he will spend
some years working his way through the latest crop of young
models, eventually choosing another young woman to mentor.
‘This time it’s different,’ Jacob was saying, his eyes agleam.
‘Mireille, I have something very important to tell you.’
Two waiters arrived at the table, each bearing a plate which
they presented and then laid in front of Mireille and Jacob
with the veneration of priests placing holy items before devout
worshippers.
‘You are certainly celebrating,’ Mireille said. ‘Tournedos
Rossini, no less.’
‘Tenderloin with foie gras for the
signore
,’ Jacob’s waiter
murmured reverentially. ‘With a
millefeuille
of carrots, honey
and pepper.’
‘And for the
signora
, turbot with ginger and herbs, accompanied by Swiss chard, tomato and Japanese mushrooms,’
Mireille’s waiter chimed in. ‘The citrus vinaigrette is on the
side,
signora
, as you requested.’
‘
Grazie
,’ Mireille said, as the waiters faded away from the
table with deferential nods.
‘I’m going to marry her!’ Jacob announced, raising his glass
of Brunello. He looked at Mireille’s glass of water and shook
his head, clicking his fingers to summon back one of the waiters. ‘You can’t toast with water. Champagne for the lady!’ he
said.‘Krug, I think.’
‘
Signor
, we do not serve Krug by the glass,’ a wine waiter
said apologetically, materialising instantly by the table.
‘Then bring us a bottle!’ Jacob bellowed cheerfully. ‘And
two glasses!’
He had managed the extremely rare feat of silencing
Mireille: she sat there, lips parted in sheer disbelief, until the
champagne arrived, was ceremoniously opened and poured.
Jacob turned to look at her, and saw her expression: he picked
up the glasses and gave one to her.
Its warmth, its reassurance, brought Mireille out of the
shock into which she had sunk. She took the glass and lifted it
to his, clinking in a toast.
‘Jacob—’ she began, after she had taken a long pull at the
glass.
But he interrupted her swiftly, his hand still on her thigh.
‘Nothing will change between us,’ he reassured her, his eyes
serious. ‘I promise you that. We’ll still have our lunches
together. You’ll still be my confidante, my oldest friend – my
dear, dear Mireille.
Je te promets, mon amour. Toujours
.’
Mireille was mortified to realise that she was blinking back
tears. She tilted her head fractionally, placing her hand on top
of Jacob’s.
‘Your French accent is execrable,
mon cher
,’ she said, managing to smile. ‘It never improves. Well.’ She drank some more
Krug. ‘I must congratulate you. I must admit, I never thought
this would happen. Not in a million years.’
‘Me neither.’ Jacob was grinning boyishly. ‘But that’s not all
– you’ll never believe this. I want to have kids!’
Mireille almost dropped her glass. She couldn’t help herself;
she burst out laughing. She wasn’t amused, not in the slightest:
it was sheer amazement.
‘I know, right.’ Jacob was positively gleeful. ‘I swore up and
down I wouldn’t ever have kids! But hey, you get older, you
start to think about the legacy you’re going to leave . . .’
His hand left Mireille’s thigh; he picked up his steak knife
and started to slice into his tournedos with gusto.
‘Coco’s young, she’s healthy, she’s bright as a whip. She’s a
career woman,’ he said. ‘That’s really important to me. I don’t
want one of these stay-at-home wives, with their charity
lunches – they’re all drunks and Valium addicts. What kind of
role model would that be if we have daughters?’ His expression went mushy again. ‘A little girl. How cool would that be?’
‘But, Jacob . . .’ Mireille was beginning to feel dizzy, as if this
man, whom she had known for more than thirty years, had
been taken over by aliens.‘Does Coco
want
to have children?
She’s only twenty-four.’
‘Twenty-five in a week,’ Jacob said through a mouthful of
steak and foie gras.
‘Still, that’s so young nowadays for a career girl. They wait
until their thirties to have children, usually. I assume you’re
going to leave it for a while?’
‘No way. I want to get started now!’ Jacob said happily. ‘I
thought a June wedding – five months to organise, that’s tons
of time if I throw money at any problems that pop up – and
then we can start making babies straight away. I know Coco
won’t want to be pregnant at her wedding,’ he added.
No, you don’t want Coco to be pregnant at the wedding
because you want a thin-as-a-stick bride, Mireille thought
cynically.
‘And that’s another reason for her to get her weight down
now,’ he said ingenuously, as he forked up the tender, fatty
tenderloin, the plump, rich foie gras. ‘So it’ll be easier for her
to stay slim even when she’s pregnant. Look at how well
Victoria’s doing.’
‘Jacob, Coco is not a doll,’ Mireille protested. ‘I’m sorry, but
it must be said! You are taking a clever girl, a career girl, one
who is not a natural size zero, and trying to make her into
something she is not. Are you sure she even
wants
children?
Have you asked her?’
She looked down at her turbot with something near disgust;
she couldn’t have eaten a mouthful. The hovering waiter refilled
her champagne flute, and very unusually for her, she let him.
‘Oh, she’s not like you, Mireille,’ Jacob said. ‘I know you
never wanted kids. Your art was your children – isn’t that what
you always liked to say? But she’s really tight with her family.
Nice group of people, by all accounts. She’s a family girl. She’s
definitely going to want kids.’
Mireille paused until she had regained full control of herself:
it was a heroic effort. Drawing in a deep breath, she tried one
more time.
‘Jacob,’ she began, ‘you want to marry, to have children . . .’
She couldn’t quite believe the words she was saying, but she
pressed on anyway. ‘
Très bien
! So marry! Have children! But
pick a girl who wants to be a trophy wife – a gallery assistant,
a PR girl, a model with brains. Not this one. She’s truly ambitious. To her, a career is the most important thing in her life
right now. Not something that she does while she is waiting for
a rich man to propose.’
‘I love that she’s ambitious,’ Jacob beamed. ‘I don’t want
some gallery girl, I want someone who’s going to make a
success in her own right. Like you,’ he said fondly. ‘Like
Victoria. My girls. My strong, successful girls.’
He set down his cutlery and looked at her, full in the face.
‘I’m ready, Mireille,’ he said simply. ‘You know? I’m
finally ready to settle down. Get a townhouse, or a big condo
on Central Park West. Leave Fifth Avenue. I’m ready,’ he
repeated.
Mireille smiled wistfully. ‘Women worry so much,’ she said
softly, ‘about whether a man will marry them or not. What
they do not understand is that a man will decide that he is
ready to settle down, and then the next girl he meets will
become the one he proposes to. If women could realise that,
they would stress themselves so much less. So often, it is a
simple matter of time and of fate.’