Free Killer Heels by Rebecca Chance Page B

hardship; they were very comfortable,
and she liked the feeling of having her tummy sucked in.
Dressing up tonight, she’d managed to get into a size 10 dress,
silk, tightly-fitted, in a pale grey that was very on trend, and
accessorised it with a heavy tumble of carefully-chosen and
layered necklaces that had drawn an approving nod from
Victoria as she left for the evening. She’d practically bankrupted herself on the faux-snakeskin silver Stella McCartney
shoes, but they were an investment, she’d told herself, wincing
as she handed over the credit card; they’d go with everything.
Her hair was straightened and pulled back into a smooth ponytail, and her green Urban Decay mascara brought out the
matching green flecks in her hazel eyes. After a few months at Style , watching everyone else’s dress sense, learning from them
how to evolve her own way of interpreting the latest trends,
she was already infinitely more sophisticated than she had
been three months ago.
Well, of course I bloody am, she thought ironically. I’m
called Coco now, aren’t I?
She knew, however, that she was expected to lose some
more weight. She couldn’t, for instance, have borrowed
anything from the fashion cupboard; its stock was much
smaller than a size 10. She still had a tummy, while Emily’s,
under her clinging Comptoir des Cotonniers silk top, was practically concave.
And Tiff’s – well, it wasn’t fair to sit Tiff next to a skinny Style girl and make comparisons. More importantly, Tiff
wasn’t making those kinds of comparisons herself; she was
perfectly happy as she was, with her plump bosoms, round
tummy, and the generous thighs which the thin red jersey of
her dress was straining to contain. Tiff had got herself up by
her definition of smart tonight, heavy eyeliner all around her
eyes, hair pulled back into a high ponytail, a big chunky
Swarovski necklace sitting high on her collarbones, and
though she looked very out of place in the Oxo bar, she had
a confidence about her that came from knowing the men she
fancied all fancied her right back.
Tiff knows who she is, and she’s happy with herself, Coco
thought, looking at her sister, who was now flirting with the
waiter who’d brought her Singapore Sling in a manner that
bordered perilously on sexual harassment. Coco’s glance
moved sideways to her new friend, so different from her sister
in every way, belonging to a completely different tribe. Tiff was
like a sturdy carthorse to Emily’s glossy show pony.
Emily knows who she is as well. Where she comes from, the
kind of man she’s going to end up with, what she’s going to call
her kids.
So where do I fit in? Coco found herself asking. And the
answer was almost immediate.
Stuck in the middle, in no-man’s land. You don’t know who you
are or where you fit in. Luton’s behind you, but you’re not a Style
girl yet; they’re all so immaculate, so self-assured.
Tiff and Emily might be secure in the knowledge of who
they were, but that wasn’t enough for Coco. Her drive, her
aspiration to make something more of herself, to push herself
as hard as she could to achieve goals that would be out of
reach for almost anyone else, singled her out, set her apart.
Coco’s dream was to have Victoria’s job: one day, she told
herself. One day I’ll be editor of UK Style . But being set apart,
even if it was her own choice, could feel horribly lonely
sometimes.
Everything took a back seat to her ambition. Friendships,
family, relationships. Tiff was giggling with the waiter now,
pointing over at Coco.
‘That’s my lil’ sister!’ she was slurring happily. ‘Pretty, isn’t
she? You single, mate? ’Cos she is. You should ask her out –
she’s got it all. Looks, brains and a fuck-off posh job.’
Coco squirmed uncomfortably, but the waiter, a handsome,
smooth-skinned twenty-something with dark-chocolate eyes,
followed Tiff’s indicating finger and smiled at Coco appreciatively. Tiff knew Coco’s