by Zoe Caldwell
There’s a knock at my office door: Jess.
‘Yes,’ I call out, rising to my feet.
Jess opens the door. She’s wearing an eye-popping cobalt-blue dress with a red berry floral print and balloon sleeves. She’s teamed it with a cropped, checked Gucci jacket. Only Jess could pull off an outfit like that. Even our dress sense is juxtaposed. Jess likes flowing Isabel Marant dresses and quirky Marni designs – bold prints, asymmetry, florals, polka dots, ruffles. Her clothes suit her, but I wouldn’t be seen dead in that stuff. I prefer a more muted look – block colours, sharp tailoring, clean lines – Alexander Wang, Givenchy, Lanvin. That sort of thing.
Jess leads Rayna Mikhailov into my office. Rayna is the niece of Andrei Mikhailov – the Russian oligarch who owns Couture magazine. I met Rayna at a party years ago, but we don’t really know each other. She’s wearing a double-breasted, black, tweed Balmain jacket with a matching mini skirt. Under her jacket, she’s got on a blouse that looks like something from Joseph or Valentino. It bothers me a little that I’m not sure which. It’s a smart outfit – respectful, reverential. She didn’t have to. With a click of her fingers, Rayna could get me fired. I’ve had meetings with heiresses before, who know their power, and come to see me in between yoga classes and brunch, wearing sportswear, their hair bundled into a ponytail. But Rayna’s made an effort. Her hair is slicked back, her makeup on point. She’s wearing a pair of Oscar de la Renta gold drop earrings that I’ve had my eye on for a while. I glance down at her feet – Micky 85 pumps by Jimmy Choo. Nice.
‘Rayna, so happy to see you!’ I gush, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. I mouth ‘thanks’ at Jess as she ducks out of my office, discreetly closing the door.
‘So good to see you, too!’ Rayna enthuses, smiling broadly.
‘Please, take a seat.’ I gesture at one of the seats surrounding the oval-shaped oak table in the centre of my light-filled office.
‘It’s such an honour to be featured in Couture! Thanks for inviting me in,’ Rayna says, draping a sheath containing samples from her new swimwear range over the table, before sitting down.
I narrow my eyes at her for a microsecond, trying to read her. An honour? Rayna’s being featured because I received an email from Andrei with a link to her website and the curt message, ‘My niece wants a feature.’ It’s not like I chose to feature her or decided to invite her in. It was an order from above. Usually these heiresses know that. These rich, well-connected fashion girls with jewellery lines or accessories labels tend to have enough nous to realise they’re not being featured because I’m enamoured with their design flair. Their lines aren’t much more than an excuse to call themselves a designer at parties or pep up their Instagram bios. A status symbol. They know they haven’t gained coverage because they worked for it, but that doesn’t bother them, they feel entitled anyway. There’s normally a tacit understanding that we’re co-operating to create a myth around them, hyping them up as the kind of designer they’re not. It’s my least favourite part of my job – it makes what I do feel cheap – but I’ve come to realise I can’t escape it. Yet unlike those calculating, uncaring heiresses, Rayna looks genuinely invested in this meeting. She seems nervous, keen. She keeps smiling. She crosses and recrosses her legs.
‘So, tell me about your line. How did it come about?’ I ask, opening my notebook and unscrewing the cap of my Montblanc pen. If Rayna’s taking this seriously, that means I have to.
‘Well…’ Rayna clears her throat and begins telling me about some fashion masters she did in Moscow.
I nod, throwing in the odd, ‘Wow, that’s so interesting’, ‘Sounds fabulous’, ‘Absolutely’, as I make a few notes. I don’t actually need to make notes. I’m pretty sure I’ll remember the necessary details, but I want to look engaged. Rayna holds me in high esteem and I have to live up to that. I’m good at my job, surprisingly good, actually. I never set out to work in fashion or become an editor, but when you don’t have much going on inside, good clothes are essential. If people knew the depravity underneath my designer wardrobe, they’d have nothing to do with me, but clothes give me camouflage. They make me look and feel almost normal. Better than normal. Clothes are a language I understand. I observe what people wear; I’m hooked on it. There are other people who’d love to be in my shoes, to edit like me, but they don’t have what I have. They don’t have the same obsession, the attention to detail that stems from emptiness and a desperation to conceal. I’m hooked on fashion, it’s a lifeline to me.
As Rayna goes on, I absently check out her earrings, admiring their layered hoop design, their smooth finish. I decide I’ll buy myself a pair this afternoon. My thoughts then wander to last night’s kill. I still feel twitchy, unsatiated. I may have satisfied my bloodlust, for now, but ever since I crawled on top of Julian on that roof last night, I’ve been thinking about the curve of his pecs, the swell of his biceps, his thickly-muscled thighs. If only he hadn’t been an abuser, a rapist… I need release. I’ll have to call one of my lovers later.
I ask a few questions, fuelling Rayna’s ego, conscious of what she’ll say to her uncle afterwards. A ‘Camilla was so lovely’ or ‘Camilla was such a sweetheart’ could prove beneficial down the line.
After what feels like a sufficient amount of ego-stroking, I say with aplomb, ‘Now you must show me your designs! I can’t wait.’
Rayna grins and reaches for the sheath draped over the table. She unzips it and places a swimsuit in front of me. It’s nice. Black, strapless, with a bustier style and belted waist.
‘The range is about being sexy, without compromising on sophistication,’ Rayna says.
I nod appreciatively, fingering the fabric, examining the swimsuit’s careful construction.
Rayna presents a bikini with strapless cups and high-waisted bottoms. It’s nicely designed and no doubt flattering. I check out a few other pieces. I can’t help wondering if Rayna really designed them or if she had assistance, but, of course, I can’t ask.
‘They’re gorgeous. You should be so proud,’ I tell her. I stiffen a little, wondering if I’ve taken the flattery too far, but Rayna beams back at me.
‘Thank you! I’m so thrilled you like them. What a compliment!’ she enthuses.
We discuss the feature – a four-page spread. I tell her I’ll get one of my writers to do a more in-depth interview. We’ll arrange for a photographer to take pictures of her in her studio. I stifle the urge to yawn. Last night has taken it out of me and I need coffee.
I glance at my watch – Cartier Baignoire in rhodium-finish white gold with diamonds – taking a beat longer than necessary in the hope that Rayna notices it. I feel a swell of satisfaction when she clocks it, raising an eyebrow, impressed.
‘I’m sorry, Rayna. I have another meeting coming up,’ I tell her. She won’t care. In fact, it’s better if I look like I’m in demand.
‘Absolutely, thank you so much for your time,’ Rayna says.
She’s sweet. Naïve, but sweet. Perhaps the two go hand in hand, I ponder, as I screw the cap back onto my pen, close my notebook and stand up.
We talk a little more about the feature and I wish her well as I lead her out of my office, promising we’ll ‘chat soon’. Jess gets up from her desk to show Rayna out.
‘Camilla, sorry,’ Rayna pipes up as I turn back to my office.
I pause. ‘Yes?’
Rayna smiles awkwardly, looking a little sheepish. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but who’s your facialist? You’re glowing.’
‘Oh!’ I reach up to touch my face. ‘That’s so sweet!’
The truth is I haven’t had a facial for weeks, but I’m used to this. People always think I’ve had a facial after a kill. Sometimes my friends think I’ve got laid. Nothing like a good murder to get the blood pumping.
‘Erm, actually, I just bought a new La Mer face mask. I’ll email you the link,’ I tell her.
‘Wonderful, thanks, Camilla,’ Rayna replies gratefully.
‘No pro
blem!’
I close my office door and let out a sigh of relief. I arch my spine, feeling it click and then sit down at my desk. I reply to a few emails and scan my diary to see what I’ve got on for the rest of the day. Another meeting with a designer. A phone call with one of the board of directors. A meeting with production. I definitely need coffee. I pick up my Givenchy Antigona tote and slip on my new Burberry coat. It’s made from Italian cashmere. I’ve had it for a few weeks now, but I still can’t get over the way it feels – the fabric’s unbelievably soft and smooth. I stroke the lapel before sweeping my hair from underneath it. I head out of my office.
Jess is back at her desk. She looks up, perplexed.
‘Going somewhere?’ she asks.
‘Just heading to Starbucks,’ I tell her. ‘Want anything?’
‘Oh, err…’ Jess frowns. ‘I’ll go. Don’t worry about it!’ She rises to her feet.
‘No really, Jess, it’s fine,’ I insist, gesturing for her to sit back down. ‘I want a little walk, get some fresh air.’
It’s true. I really do. It’s a bright, cool day. Crisp winter sunshine with a chilled breeze: my favourite kind of weather.
‘Oh… Okay,’ Jess says, sitting slowly back down. She still looks uncomfortable.
I understand why. Some of the other editors working for titles owned by Mikhailov wouldn’t be seen dead in Starbucks. Public spaces are beneath them. They’re the type of people who have spent their whole lives in private schools, private members’ clubs, private resorts, private jets and private cars. They’d probably have a panic attack at the thought of entering somewhere like Starbucks, where anyone could just wander in, but I’m tougher than that. My colleagues know my Suffolk upbringing was more normal, they know I can handle Starbucks, but I think it still makes Jess feel like a bit of a slacker when I do things like coffee runs myself.
‘Could you do me a favour? One sec.’ I nip back into my office and grab the notebook on my desk.
I close my office door and hand it to her. ‘Could you type these notes up? From my meeting with Rayna.’
Jess’s face lights up as she takes the notebook. At least now she’ll feel useful.
‘Sure!’ she says.
‘Thanks, Jess,’ I reply with a smile.
‘Oh, how was your date?’ she pipes up, just as I’m about to leave. Told you she loves chit-chat.
I don’t usually divulge my personal life to colleagues, but Jess walked in on me the other day while I was on the phone to Julian arranging our date, and I didn’t think there was too much harm in admitting I was meeting up with a new guy. Drip-feeding details of my life here and there helps me seem normal.
‘It was okay,’ I tell her, shrugging. ‘He was good-looking, but we didn’t really have much of a connection.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Jess’s face falls. ‘You could have a second date, just to see if things develop?’ she suggests.
I picture Julian across the city, bound to the mast, blood pooling, congealing at his feet. His beautiful body decomposing on that rooftop, birds landing on the arrows sticking out of him, pecking hungrily at his eyeballs.
‘I don’t think so…’ I murmur.
‘Really? I reckon you might like him more than you’re letting on,’ she comments, eyeing me with playful suspicion.
‘No, honestly,’ I insist. Jess must have mistaken the wistful look in my eyes as I pictured Julian’s corpse for infatuation.
‘Are you sure?’ Jess presses.
‘Yes, definitely. He was a bit dull. A bit lifeless,’ I tell her, smiling to myself.
‘Oh…’ Jess replies glumly.
‘He was a one-date wonder. That’s all!’ I give her a pointed look, like I really mean it.
‘Fine!’ Jess trills, before opening my notebook.
Jess is married. I know she wants me to find Mr Right and have my own happily ever after, but she’ll have to wait a bit longer for that.
As I emerge onto the street, I’m struck once more by how glorious the weather is. I put on my Chanel sunglasses and walk towards Starbucks, pretending I’m oblivious to the eyes that turn to me, magnet-like, as I make my way down the road. I can never tell if the people around here recognise me, or if they just like my designer clothes, my face. I head into Starbucks. It smells cloying, of coffee beans, cleaning products and the stale breath of the freelancers that sit here for hours tapping away on their laptops. Someone needs to open a window. I try to ignore the smell and join the queue.
The staff are taking forever making coffees, the baristas shouting out orders over the rumble of the coffee machines. They’re reiterating orders, clarifying if drinks are grande, venti or tall, shuffling between coffee machines, depositing extra shots, flavoured syrup, soya milk, hot milk, cold milk, almond milk, coconut, putting together coffees with a meticulous, fastidious degree of precision as though co-ordinating a trip to Mars. I tap my foot against the linoleum floor, irritated, itching for caffeine.
Bored, my gaze drifts to a girl three or four people ahead in the queue. Her dyed-black hair is tied into a scruffy bun. It has the brittle, leaden, frizzy look of hair that’s been dyed over and over again using cheap five-quid dyes from Boots. I know because I used to have hair like that. She’s wearing a hooded top with a faux fur trim underneath a quilted Barbour jacket that’s seen better days. Bobbles of fluff have attached themselves to the stitching and a few of the quilted diamonds are beginning to unravel. She has a boho bag in faux leather with fringed detailing slung over her shoulder. Her jeans are too tight, as though she’s in denial that she’s put on weight and wants to squeeze into size twelves for as long as possible even though size fourteen would probably be more comfortable. Her shoes are cheap. Imitation Chloé Susanna boots – one of the most copied shoes in history. They’re creased, scruffy-looking, the heels done in. Although her clothes are all wrong, she looks like someone with aspirations. Someone confused. A poor girl who wants to be the sort of rich girl who wears Barbour and Chloé, but rich girls don’t wear their jackets until they’re falling apart. Rich girls don’t mismatch Barbour jackets with boho bags.
The man in front of her takes his receipt and walks to the opposite end of the counter where the coffees are being dispensed. The girl steps forward. She places her order, turning to talk to the barista. I catch sight of her face. She looks tired: shadows under her eyes, sallow skin, a breakout of spots on her chin. But despite that, her features aren’t bad. She has large eyes, a straight nose, full lips. It’s like her features are cloaked in a veil of stress. She could be really pretty if the veil were lifted. Sensing my eyes on her, she looks my way. I fail to divert my gaze in time, and she shoots me a defensive, accusatory look as though she doesn’t appreciate being stared at. As though she knows she doesn’t look her best and doesn’t need my judgement. I smile weakly, apologetically, but she just scowls and turns back to the barista, pulling a card out of a battered wallet crammed with receipts.
I wonder what this girl’s life is like. I feel like I want to help her. I want to reach out to her. I want to write her a cheque so she can buy some real Chloé boots or a new jacket. I wish I could do something, but of course, I can’t. Although, at least I’m doing one good thing for girls like her: I’m cleaning out the rubbish. Now that Julian’s dead, there’s one less fucker out there to prey on her. She takes her receipt from the barista, and glances anxiously at me before going to collect her coffee. I smile. She doesn’t return it.
She reminds me of how I used to be, before I reinvented myself, before I became Camilla Black. Maybe I’m just so narcissistic that I’m projecting myself onto everyone, but I see my old self in this girl’s tired, haunted eyes, in her poor-girl dress sense. She looks how I once looked, before I took control of my life, before I killed. Although I didn’t realise at the time that murder would set me free. My first victim was my old boss, Martin Summers. I never meant to kill him, but it turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done.
I was work
ing for a newspaper back then, trying to get ahead in journalism. I’d wanted to be a court reporter since I was sixteen. Ever since the time I plucked up the courage to take my dad to court for the things he did to me and it felt like the only person who believed me in the entire courtroom was a local reporter – Hannah Jones – who’d show up each day and sit in the gallery, head down, hair wound into a bun, making notes in sloping shorthand. Everyone – the jury, my lawyer, even my social worker, had written me off as a wild teenager making stuff up, but I could see in Hannah’s sympathetic eyes that she knew I was telling the truth. I could see her conviction in the stories she was writing, in the way she’d always go for the most damning angle she could get away with – casting my dad in the worst possible light. She came up to me at the end of the trial, after the not guilty verdict had been read out, and gave me a hug with tears in her eyes. She told me how sorry she was and urged me to be strong, insisting that I don’t let him ruin my life. That was the only time during the trial that I broke down. Hannah’s compassion was so foreign to me, and it changed everything.
From that moment on, I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to cover trials, to shame perpetrators, to sympathise with the underdog. I wanted to be the outsider who relies on gut feeling and facts, and shows sympathy and understanding, rather than being swept up with the herd. I wanted to make notes like Hannah, write stories and hold everyone to account. In spite of everything I went through, I managed to get good grades at school, but my dream turned out to be harder to bring to life than it should have been when Martin got in the way. I sometimes wonder whether Hannah ever had to deal with a boss like mine, or if she’d had someone decent, someone reasonable. I’ve googled her a few times over the years, but with a name like Hannah Jones, she disappeared into the ether long ago. It’s strange to think that if Martin had never come along, I might have ended up like her. Would I be sitting in a courtroom right now, my hand dashing across a notepad?