Naughty Bits

by Rebecca Chance

  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, nineteeth-century 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. He’s given me a hugely powerful position, and in return, he’s had his little dominant moment, made the point that he has the ultimate power.

  Well, that’s fine with me. I’ve always been happy to play Jacob’s games; I’ve always come out of them exactly where I wanted to be.

  Victoria heaved a long sigh of release. She was finally free to relish her dinner. For a moment, her fork toyed with the chopped anchovies, tempted to mix them into the tartare, but then she pushed them aside, her self-control as acute as ever; she loved anchovies, but the high salt content would cause her to retain water.

  ‘So who are you seeing now, Jacob?’ she asked, deftly directing the sexual tension that lingered at the table into safe waters.

  ‘Jools,’ Jacob said, and Victoria nodded at the name. Jools Gosling was the latest hot British model, a runway sensation with her high-stepping walk, boyishly-cropped hair and flat-chested, long-waisted figure. ‘Lovely girl. She’s on a shoot in Morocco for a few days.’

  ‘Aww, what a shame, Jacob,’ Victoria teased. ‘I bet you still want it every night, don’t you?’

  ‘Hey, take me to Annabel’s after dinner and I’ll pick up a slim young thing,’ Jacob said easily. ‘One of your upper-class girls. I like ‘em, you know that. Some Camilla or Vanessa or Florence. See, I even know all the names. It’s not like Jools and I are exclusive.’

  ‘You know, Jacob, you should get married,’ Victoria observed. ‘To a nice Camilla or Vanessa or Florence. It’s about time, don’t you think? When the models you’re dating are less than half your age . . . Jools is barely twenty.’

  Jacob’s thick eyebrows shot up. ‘Marriage? Honey, I did that once, in a galaxy far, far away, a loooong time ago,’ he said, drawing out the vowel for comic effect. ‘And that was enough. I’ve learned my lesson. Besides,’ he added, reaching out to lay a hand on hers, ‘I like my serious women really smart. You know that. Your English aristocrats, they’re not so bright. No hips, big brain: that’s my ideal woman.’

  ‘Well, I’ll happily come with you into Annabel’s,’ Victoria said, finishing her steak tartare with satisfaction. ‘And you can pick up some skinny Sloane, spin her on her axis, and show her the time of her life.’

  Dinner at the Wolseley, a celebration toast in full view of all the tables that count, and then off to Annabel’s, Victoria thought, anticipating the visit to London’s most exclusive nightclub, its membership list packed with hereditary titles, where Lady Gaga, no less, had played a private set just last year. And we’ll have another celebration toast there. Jacob told me not to breathe a word about my new job, but I won’t need to. London gossip will do it for me.

  Jennifer Lane Davis is going to feel a cold wind blowing over the Atlantic and down her neck very, very soon. Better start packing up your desk now, Jennifer.

  In her mind, Victoria blew her rival a little goodbye kiss.

  Bye bye, Jen. Don’t let the door of the editor’s office hit you on the way out.

  We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list to get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.