Killer Heels (4 page)

‘And that brings me to exactly what I want to talk about,’
she continued unstoppably.
‘Oh, Vicky baby, I know exactly what you want to talk
about,’ Jacob said, hugely entertained. He selected an oyster,
carefully squeezed a single drop of lemon juice into the bivalve,
then picked it up, tilting it to his mouth, pursing his full lips as
the oyster slid through them. With great relish, he swallowed
it slowly and dabbed his mouth with a starched white napkin.
‘I might as well get straight to it then,’ Victoria said, quite
unabashed. ‘I want to be the editor of
US Style
.’
‘You will be.’ Jacob picked up another oyster and dispatched
it, using the time it took to dress and swallow it to make
Victoria wait for his next words. ‘In two years’ time,’ he went
on, reaching for the napkin again. ‘Just as we agreed in New
York.’
‘But I’m ready
now
,’ Victoria pleaded. ‘I’ve done everything
you wanted at
UK Style
, and in half the time you thought it
would take. I’ve cleared out all the dead wood and brought in
a really strong team. I have a new editor lined up to replace
me, so I could take over in New York tomorrow, and
UK Style
would run perfectly well along the lines I’ve laid down.’
‘It’s not that simple, Vicky,’ Jacob said, his smile even more
charming. ‘We discussed all this in New York, two years ago.
You were going to do four years in London, turning round
Style
for me. Then – and not before – I was going to move you
back to the States. I know perfectly well that’s why you agreed
to leave
Harper’s
. You wouldn’t have settled for
UK Style
alone,
and I respect that.’
‘I want to be in Manhattan,’ Victoria said intently. ‘It’s the
centre of the media world. I should be there. I should be
there
now
.’
She steepled her fingers together under her chin, her grey
diamond flashing, but her eyes shining even brighter.
‘You know I should,’ she insisted. ‘My whole career’s been
leading up to this – it’s the job I was born to have! And this is
the right time for me to have it.’
Jacob was finishing his oysters; he didn’t speak, and Victoria,
though inwardly seething with frustration, knew that she had
to wait for his response. She’d pushed hard enough.
As he picked up the last fluted shell, she found herself
running through the entire trajectory of her career since meeting and impressing Jacob that Fourth of July. She’d spoken no
less than the truth just now: her entire career had been leading
up to this moment.
With Jacob’s influence, Victoria had risen quickly up the
masthead of
US Style
, propelled by his interest and her own
undoubted talent. Jacob was well-known for talent-spotting,
finding protégés and expediting their rise: it was known in
the US as ‘Jacob’s ladder’. But Victoria’s meteoric ascent to
power was faster, more jet-propelled, than anyone else’s. By
twenty-five she was in charge of a magazine start-up which
was a raving success from its first issue; by twenty-eight, she
was back at
Style
as executive fashion editor, a prestigious
position which she manoeuvred to give her almost as much
authority as the editor herself. An increasingly vicious power
struggle between Victoria and Jennifer Lane Davis, the editor,
sent both of them complaining to Jacob, telling him that they
were unable to work together. Victoria had wanted Jennifer’s
job; Jacob had told her she wasn’t ready. In pique, Victoria
had flounced off to
Harper’s Bazaar
as editor – Hearst had
been courting her for years.
Her run at
Harper’s
had been Victoria’s one stint as editor
that wasn’t an unqualified success. Hearst and Victoria Glossop
weren’t a perfect fit; their ethos was more classic, more timeless, and Victoria was always impatiently onto the next thing,
the most cutting-edge fashion, finding new ways to push the
envelope.
Harper’s
had never been her ultimate goal. She had
known it, and so had Jacob.
‘Do you remember what you said when I asked you where
you saw yourself in ten years’ time?’ Jacob replied eventually,
pushing away the china platter loaded with empty shells, their
interiors gleaming with a pale mother-of-pearl sheen, dappled
with drops of juice from the bivalves.‘When I first got talking
to you in Montauk, you said you wanted to be editor of
US
Style
.’ He grinned, his teeth perfect and white, showcasing
American dentistry. ‘At twenty-two! You see, I even remember
how old you were. It was quite something.’
‘I could have done it,’ Victoria told him.
The waiter was hovering, waiting to clear their plates,
concerned that Victoria hadn’t touched her soup; she waved
him away with a quick, brisk gesture, and took a couple of
spoonfuls, her eyes fixed on Jacob’s face.
‘Nah, I thought I’d let you cut your teeth at
Harper’s
first,’
he said casually.
‘You let me stew there for years!’ Victoria’s spoon clattered
back into the bowl; she pushed it away impatiently, signalling
that the waiter could take it.
‘Oh, you did good at
Harper’s
,’ Jacob said. ‘Hey, can I get a
new napkin?’ He smiled charmingly at the waiter.
Victoria fumed with impatience, but she had to play Jacob’s
game now, go at the pace he was setting.
It’s all a big game to him, she thought. He loves to put his
hand out and play with us, moving us back and forth like
pawns. She remembered the superbly detailed, nineteethcentury Venetian chess set in Jacob’s New York office, Murano
glass, burnt orange versus viridian green, each piece flecked
with gold, the board edged richly in 18-carat gold; Jacob
amused himself by working through classic chess problems, his
spatulate fingers looking even bigger as he moved the pieces
from square to square.
Well, I’m the Queen, she thought with a flash of humour. I
can go up and down, from side to side and diagonally too. But
I still can’t bloody move unless Jacob lets me . . .
‘Here’s the thing, Vicky,’ Jacob said, and she perked up:
finally, they were getting down to business. ‘Jennifer still has
two years of her contract to run. You know that. We talked this
over when I came after you at
Harper’s
. You’d do four years
here in London – nice little stay back in the motherland for
you, and it was a good move for me. The Brits at
UK Style
weren’t pulling their weight, and tactically it was great for me
to send in a Brit to get ’em to shape up. After four years,
Jennifer’s contract would be over and I’d move you back to
helm
US Style
instead. You agreed to that, honey. You know I
told you Jennifer’s contract is cast-iron – I’d have to give her a
huge payoff if I sack her now.’
Jacob spread his hands wide. ‘You can’t just try to change
the rules of the game halfway through,’ he finished. ‘And don’t
tell me you’ll take a pay cut to make up what I have to give
Jennifer, because I won’t believe you.’ He grinned. ‘I know
how much you love your perks.’
‘I’ll make back every penny of what you have to give her in
increased ad revenue alone in the first six months,’ Victoria
said sharply. ‘You know I will. Jennifer’s wasting money over
there. She’s playing it too safe, spending tons of money on big
names. I can slash her budgets, get actresses who’ll model for
free instead of the expensive girls she’s using, up-and-coming
photographers instead of the Top Ten she’s been relying on . . .’
Their main courses arrived, delivered by a waitress who
could tell they were deep in conversation; she slid the plates in
front of them and disappeared without a word.
‘Plus,’ Victoria added, her voice rising, ‘what kind of stupid
name is that – “Jennifer Lane Davis”? I despise women who
stick their husband’s name onto their own when they get
married. Either bloody well take his name or don’t! It’s a ridiculous American habit, and it never ends well. The husband
never double-barrels her name with his, and they always get
divorced in the end, and then she looks like a total idiot.’
Jacob was laughing now. ‘You’re always entertaining, Vicky,’
he said appreciatively. ‘I love your rants.’
‘Just sack her, Jacob,’ Victoria pressed on. ‘Do it.’ She
finished her cocktail, needing Dutch courage for what she was
about to say. ‘Because if you don’t – well, I’ve just had an
amazing offer from Bilberry. They’ve been taken over by
LVMH – you know, after all the scandal – and they want me to
be their creative director.’
Bilberry was a high-end English leather company, which
was now diversifying into stationery and other luxury goods.
Its takeover by Moët Hennessy/Louis Vuitton had come after
the sensational arrest of its CEO on an unrelated charge, and
provided a huge influx of investment funds which allowed
Bilberry to court a fashion editor as high-profile and prestigious as Victoria Glossop.
‘They say they’ll double my salary,’ Victoria said smugly.
‘And give me an unlimited expense account.’
‘Right,’ Jacob said, taking a frite, dipping it into the ramekin
of mayonnaise and eating it with relish. ‘But they won’t let you
live in New York, will they? Which is what you’re dying to do.’
Victoria’s grey eyes narrowed: she started to speak, but
Jacob held up a hand, cutting her off.
‘I know you have a whole spiel ready to convince me you’re
ready to up sticks and head for Bilberry, Vicky,’ he said gently.
‘And I know it’ll be really convincing. But I’m not going to
believe it.’
Her heart sank. She looked at the mound of glistening
dark-pink steak tartare on her plate, surrounded by smaller
piles of chopped red onion, capers, anchovies and lemon
slices, topped by the miniature yolk of a quail’s egg, presented
in its half-shell. It was her favourite dish, but she had no
appetite for it at all.
‘I don’t have to,’ Jacob continued. ‘You’ve made your case.’
It took a few moments for his words to sink in; when they
did, Victoria froze, barely able to believe it.
‘Give me a month,’ Jacob said, forking up some sea bass and
chewing it with gusto.‘I’ll go back to New York and set the wheels
in motion. I don’t need to tell you not to breathe a word in the
meantime. We’ll bring you over in two months, max. You and
Jeremy can have the Columbus Circle penthouse. Happy now?’
He glanced over at her affectionately. ‘Oh come on, Vicky,
say something. You got it. You got what you want!’ He raised a
hand, and a waiter shot over to answer Jacob’s summons.
‘Two glasses of the Pol Roger,’ he ordered. ‘We’ve got a celebration on our hands here.’
The champagne arrived almost instantly. Jacob touched his
glass to Victoria’s; she had recovered enough by now to lift her
own and clink back.
‘To the new editor of
US Style
,’ Jacob toasted.
Victoria barely ever allowed champagne to touch her lips.
The first taste was deliciously intoxicating, forbidden fruit,
sweet and golden, peaches and almonds in a glass. She set the
glass down before she was tempted to finish it in one go.
‘Was that a test?’ she asked. ‘One of the games you play
with yourself, Jacob – like those chess problems you love?’
‘Why, Vicky, whatever could you mean?’ Jacob asked, smiling, one arm thrown along the leather back of the banquette.
‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You and your tests. I think you meant
to give me the job all along, as long as I fought hard enough
tonight.’
Jacob’s smile deepened, but he didn’t say a word.
‘I learned that from you,’ Victoria said, taking a delicate
mouthful of steak tartare; it was delicious. ‘How to test people.
I remember every single one of the tests you put me through.’
‘And you passed every one,’ Jacob said with great satisfaction, taking a handful of frites.‘From the very start, when you
were a little slip of a thing barely out of your teens.’ He looked
at her fondly. ‘You had no hips at all, honey.’
‘Just the way you like them, Jacob,’ Victoria said dryly.
She was overwhelmed with excitement at having achieved
her goal, adrenalin flooding through her veins like liquid
silver. But she knew she had to act cool; Jacob didn’t like
women who gushed or sobbed or displayed any emotional
excesses.
‘Uh-huh,’ Jacob said, quite unfazed. ‘Just the way I like
them.’
He reached out and squeezed Victoria’s leg briefly, high up,
his large hand sliding under the hem of her mini-skirt, almost
wrapping entirely round her narrow upper thigh. It reminded
her of a trainer she knew assessing a new piece of horseflesh,
squeezing the horse’s flanks, checking them for strength and
alignment. Victoria smiled, proud of how well she’d kept her
figure; she’d been an American size zero ever since she’d
moved to the States and promptly slimmed down to what
Manhattan considered an ideal weight.
‘You haven’t put on a pound,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Not a
single pound. Good girl.’
His hand lingered for a moment, his index finger reaching
up just a little further, tracing slow seductive circles under her
skirt, an intimate caress completely concealed from any passing waiter, anyone at the facing tables. The circles widened,
deepened, his hand radiating heat, his finger just grazing the
lace trim of her silk Myla French knickers; he flicked his fingertip against the lace, once, twice, a little tease, but also a gesture
of control.
I know what underwear you have on
, his gesture said.
I can
touch it if I want
.
And Victoria’s body responded. Her thighs relaxed on the
banquette, easing apart just fractionally, her groin dipping
down, demonstrating to Jacob that his clever, caressing fingers
were having the effect he wanted. It was as if he had stroked a
cat just enough to coax it into rich, heavy, satisfied purring
before he removed his hand. Giving her leg a pat of approval,
he returned to eating his main course with a complacent
expression on his full lips.
How very Jacob, Victoria thought, raising her own fork to
stir capers and onions into her finely-minced steak, tilting the
quail’s egg yolk into the mixture and placing the empty shell
on the side of her plate. Her hand was perfectly steady, she was
pleased to notice.