Magdalena's Shadow, page 20
“Why don’t you go keep James company while Mama and Angie talk, okay, Bebe?” Coco coaxed the toddler off the sofa. Angie watched Bebe walk toward the swing, smiling when Bebe picked up the giraffe that made James laugh.
“You have a gorgeous family. You must have been very young when you had her.”
“She’s Magdalena’s daughter. Bebe is my sister.”
Angie’s eyes sparkled in the way Coco had expected.
“Listen, I imagine you’d like to write a story about all this, and I wish you wouldn’t. Please understand that my family’s privacy is very important to me. I don’t suppose there is any way I could talk you out of this?”
Angie smiled bitterly. “I know this isn’t fun for you, but Ryan Blackwell is going down in flames and everyone wants to know about the girl who’s taking him down. Your story is so sensational that I’m shocked you let me in.”
“So am I.” Coco shook her drug addled head. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I told Tom I was a friend of yours.”
“He knows you’re a journalist. He knows we’re not friends.”
“I promised him two hundred thousand for those photos he took of you. My publisher will pay you three if you will give me an interview. Your story will be on the cover of every tabloid in America whether you like it or not so it’s best you get the truth out now.”
“I’m not allowed to talk about what happened that night. My lawyers have asked me not to.”
“That’s okay. We can talk about you – your love of fashion, your mother, and your kids. We’ll keep it sweet and personal. Besides, I’ve already read the police report and the charges. The allegations are world news. This is about you not Blackwell. I promise to make this painless, N.V.”
Coco shrank from the sound of the name Blackwell had given her; it was another reminder of his manipulation. “My name is Nicole Valentina but I go by Coco. Please call me Coco.”
Angie set a small silver digital recorder on the couch between them and smiled. “Thank you, I would like that. I’m recording. I hope that’s okay.”
“Only if you promise you’ll never mention my son. You can write about me and about Bebe. I’ll even tell you why she calls me Mama, but never ever tell anyone about my son. I’m trusting you, okay?”
“Okay,” Angie nodded, “you have my word. Tell me what it was like being Magdalena’s daughter. Do you miss your mother?”
Coco thought for a moment, her eyes suddenly stung with tears. The vision of Magdalena standing at the cemetery threshold was still so clear. “I used to think I hated her. She left me when I was very little. Now I just….” Her voice trailed off. “I’ve learned that the part of me that loved her is stronger than the anger. I miss her every day.” The words hurt as she spoke them, their utter truthfulness sending a stab of sadness through her. “I miss her more than I can say.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Angie kept her promise; the interview was painless as was the article that ran the following week in over forty different publications worldwide accompanied by the dozens of photos Tom had supplied. Coco felt a spark of pride when Tia returned home from the grocery store with several different magazines, all with Coco’s face on the cover. But by far the best part of the interview was the $300,000 that Angie’s publisher wired to Coco’s account; as mercenary as it felt, Coco noticed a change in her health the moment money stopped being a terrifying worry.
“Thank you for selling me out, Tom,” Coco whispered into the phone several weeks later. She held James who was still only contemplating sleep. She walked the baby in gentle circles around the room, her phone held under her chin, her loose hair hanging down to her waist.
“My pleasure,” Tom laughed. “It was the most profitable thing I’ve done in years.”
“It’s the most profitable thing I’ve done in my whole life.” Coco laughed softly, watching James’ eyes begin to close.
“How well are you getting around now?”
“Pretty well. I’m still taking pain killers, but I can walk almost normally.”
“Well, I think it’s time you got back to work. I’ve got a friend in Rome who wants you in his show next Friday. It’d be an amazing experience. Also, I’ve been in contact with some fairly large designers. Every time I say your name they ask to meet you.”
“Tom! I’m a single parent whose mother just died in a helicopter crash. I’ve been beat up and left for dead and I need time to heal.”
She laid James in his crib. There was no sympathy in the ensuing silence.
“In a better, kinder world that would be a good plan. However, you are hot right now and you need to get back to work.” Tom spoke with a worrying level of conviction.
“No. I’m not going back out there.”
“Yes, you are. You’re front page right now, Coco. That won’t last unless you make it last.”
“I have money, Tom; I don’t need to do a thing.”
“And how long do you think that money will last? Think about the expense of a penthouse apartment like yours. Think of the expense of two little kids and a housekeeper. How are you going to support them when it runs out? You’ll be in your twenties, which in this business makes you ancient. You do this now and your career is set, no more money worries, not ever.”
Coco couldn’t argue with his reasoning. But she felt instantly tired and depressed. “I get time off in between shoots to see my kids.”
“Deal.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
When the plane lifted out of Chicago the second time Coco didn’t white-knuckle the arm rests. The many fears she had lived with had dissolved the night she had descended the Blackwell building under the mistaken assumption that she was dead. Even when the plane hit turbulence she felt only annoyance when her ginger ale splashed on the two white pills she had only just set on the tray. Somehow flying thousands of miles over the earth, cresting the North Pole, and landing in a foreign country wasn’t the least bit scary. Maybe it’s the drugs, Coco thought. She popped the last pill, closed her eyes, and waited for the pain to dissolve. She felt emotionally numb. Even leaving home this time hadn’t upset her, not the way it had when she had left for New York. Coco lay her hand over her eyes, crowding out the light that only intensified her headache. She felt raw, as if all the pain of the last two years had scarred her so deeply that she had stopped hurting and gone numb. Or maybe it’s the drugs, Coco thought again, but a moment later she was crying and she couldn’t stop.
Hours later the plane landed smoothly on the black tarmac outside of Rome. People rose in their seats, gathering their belongings while Coco sat staring out the window. She had watched the whole landing, felt the plane descend, watched the wings change as the plane slowed and dropped back toward earth. They hit the ground at what felt like two hundred miles an hour, the brakes screaming as the plane charged down the runway, decelerating at such a speed that the whole plane shook. She knew she should be terrified. Any other time in her life this scene would have sent her over the edge but not now, not today.
The plane taxied quickly to its gate, coming to a silent stop. Coco watched the people organize their carry-ons. A long line of passengers filled the aisle, waiting for the door to open. Coco put on her Chanel sunglasses, pushing them into her dark hair, and watched the passengers begin to stream by. Only when the last one passed did Coco shoulder her bag, straighten her black pencil skirt, and walk off the plane into the busy terminal.
Her body still hurt, but her mind was calm. She joined the stream of travelers who walked slowly past security and observed several happy reunions: a mother welcomed by her children, a wife embracing her husband. As she moved through the crowd, she didn’t see the group of men standing to her right.
“N.V.!” a voice called, stopping her in her tracks. Coco smiled mechanically and turned to see who had called, but was blinded by camera flashes. Half a dozen men called her name with various accents while they snapped her photo. Coco turned quickly away but the men followed. The bystanders, who only moments earlier had allowed her to melt into their quiet flow, turned and stared as Coco stumbled away from the paparazzi, moving through the main terminal toward the front entrance.
“Stop!” one of them called with a distinctly British accent. Coco had no idea where she was going.
“Just give us a minute of your time and we’ll leave you alone!”
Coco’s hands shook. Slowly she turned to face the men.
“Take the glasses off!”
Coco’s eyes flashed over their faces. Behind the paparazzi, stood a crowd of inquisitive people. How had this happened? How had they known she would be here?
“Take off the fucking glasses!”
Coco didn’t move; she felt frozen as she watched them watch her. Like a cornered deer with no fight left she waited for the attack. Airport security came only seconds later, breaking up the crowd. The uniformed Italians escorted Coco to a waiting Mercedes. The paparazzi dispersed into different cars. They fell in behind the Mercedes, passing other cars when traffic would allow and pulled up alongside her car. Coco lay down on the back seat, her bag clutched to her chest, and sobbed quietly to the sound of harsh voices calling N.V. through the city noise.
Tom met her in her room with a bone shattering hug.
“Tom, did you sell me out again?”
“Publicity is part of fame. It was good exposure. You have no idea how badly people want you. You should see the blogs I read last night. All your mother’s fans are out in force wanting to get a look at you.”
“A little warning would have been nice.” Coco sat on the bed, taking off her heels.
“You knew what it would be like, and you know you didn’t have to come.” His smile was beautifully teasing, his huge eyes innocently blinking in the golden light.
“No, I had no idea that I would be hounded out of the airport or sworn at or chased. Nothing could have prepared me for that.”
Tom had once said that Blackwell would work her until she dropped; it didn’t take long for Coco to realize that working with Tom would be a similar experience. He didn’t beat her, a definite improvement, but the schedule he set bordered on torturous. Coco wanted to rest on the day after her arrival in Rome, but she was already scheduled for fittings, beauty treatments, and parties that went on well into the next morning. In between these appointments and scheduled frivolities lurked the paparazzi, mysteriously present at every location. They called her by name, snapping her picture with unrelenting zeal and swore at her when she didn’t do what they asked. By the fourth day Coco felt so tired she was seeing double. Her body ached, and she needed rest.
“I’ve never walked a catwalk.” Coco reminded Tom of this vital fact the morning they watched the first section of runway being secured to a stage in preparation for the Friday show.
“Just don’t pull a Naomi and you’ll be fine.”
“Pull a Naomi?”
“Don’t you remember when she fell off the stage and landed in the audience? Like I said, don’t fall off and you’ll do fine.”
“You’re so much help.” Coco glared at him before turning to find the designer.
Coco arrived Friday morning feeling prepared for her very first fashion show. The designer’s assistant had shown Coco how to move, how to look, and when to turn. She was also assigned an assistant of her own to help her change quickly and find her place in the lineup. She knew what was expected of her, but as she stood backstage in a floor-length black and white diagonally striped evening gown she felt choked by fear.
“Drink this.” Her assistant pressed a thin glass of champagne into her hand.
Coco’s nerves were visibly strained. All the other models watched her quietly, making her feel like an animal in the zoo. Will life ever be any different? Coco wondered while she sipped the champagne, willing herself not to bolt down the whole glass.
Like the painkillers, the alcohol worked quickly on her thin frame, easing the tension in her neck and shoulders as its warmth spread through her. I’m not scared, Coco thought as she listened to the chaos around her. On the other side of the wall hundreds of people were taking their seats. I’m not scared, Coco thought again when the music began to swell with the low vibrating pulse of bass followed by a throbbing metallic sound Coco could describe only as European techno. Clearing her face of all emotion Coco stepped up to the curtain as the designer adjusted the fold of her gown, sending her out with a simple, “Go.”
Afterward, Coco remembered what happened as a sort of dream. She had walked out into the light, her long legs solidly under her while the room fell to a hush except for the pulsing music. Sweeping her hips right she swung the train of fabric behind her and took that first step down the catwalk, her face a mask of emotionless beauty, her stride over a foot longer than normal as she moved to the end of the walk and turned, her hand rising to her hip as again she swung the long train of fabric back behind her. Applause filled the air accompanied by snatches of murmured conversation. “She’s Magdalena’s daughter,” Coco heard one woman say. “She looks just like her mother.” Other voices welled up through the music, fading into noise while Coco moved toward the safety of backstage and the next piece she would wear in the collection.
It’s amazing how short fashion shows are, Coco thought. Though the design team spent months in preparation the show itself was little more than twenty minutes long. Coco moved back out into the light for the fifth time, this time in a black and white floor-length sarong cut from geometric fabric, her hair piled high on her head with solid silver chopsticks. Coco prepared to walk out alone, but the designer stepped forward and took her hand. Like a precious bird, Coco, the last model of the evening, was led out into the light with the designer who bowed and blew kisses to a standing ovation. Cameras flashed and someone called out N.V., but the quiet passive mask she had mastered never slipped from her face.
Away from the applauding crowd, through camera flashes and reflected light, Coco moved back to the well-lit security of the changing area where half-naked models walked, stripped, and dressed in clusters around her, their own clothes rediscovered in preparation for the after party. Silent as a shadow, the assistant was there beside her, unclasping the back of the sarong, sliding it from around her neck before helping Coco step naked from the gown. Before she could raise her eyes to the silent man, she found herself alone in a crowded room, the assistant disappearing with the gown while her own clothes lay closeted somewhere near the place where the stylist had done her hair and makeup.
“You didn’t fall off,” she heard Tom say. Coco turned to where he stood beside a beautiful man, whose silver and black hair sparkled in the light. The man appraised her with the eye of an expert, unembarrassed by her body, clothed only in the nude colored thong and stacked clear plastic heels.
“Tom, I would like to dress before I meet your friend.” Coco turned to hide her embarrassment. She walked to the place where she had last seen her clothes. Tom ignored her, talking instead about how vibrant the show was.
Coco found the small black A-line dress she had worn that evening, slipping it quickly but carefully over the silver chopsticks in her hair. When her fingers felt for the zipper, the stranger stepped forward and slid the tiny zipper up her back, sparking a pleasant shiver of surprise through her. She caught his eye, her placid expression giving away none of her curiosity.
“This is Paolo,” Tom said, once Coco was dressed. “He owns several big labels here in Europe. He has wanted to meet you for some time.”
“And now he has.” Coco offered her hand, but instead of the customary shake he took her hand in his, holding it as Rob had the first time they’d met.
The gesture possessed the same confident grace exhibited in his appraising glance and the management of her zipper. He knew his attractions, knew that a girl could get lost in the quiet depth of his dark eyes – Italian-brown, so rich and beautiful that only a self-assured man could possess them. Coco broke from his gaze, turning a smile on Tom before she took Paolo’s arm and led him through the doors to the reception area. She had no plan, just a sudden desire to leave Tom behind. The moment she entered the hall she was hit by the flashing lights of dozens of photographers.
“Isn’t this a bore?” Paolo said, his hand coming supportively between her shoulder blades while he smiled for the photographers. Coco felt momentarily panicked, her eyes scanning her surroundings for the door to the reception room. There was no escape. The crowd was too thick. Coco was forced to stand and smile.
No sooner had Coco adjusted to the scene than she felt Paolo leading her from the cameras, through the crowd, and into the chandelier-lit party room. Paolo’s presence comforted Coco in a way she could not describe. Just when she began to feel truly comfortable Tom resurfaced at the far end of the room, moving toward them with three flutes of champagne. Coco’s heart sank the moment she saw him. The glint in his eye told her the night was just beginning, and it would be all about business. Smiling brightly Tom took Coco’s arm, drawing her politely away from Paolo into the party, introducing her to everyone who mattered. The crowd thickened and Paolo disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Two pills lay in Coco’s hand. She rolled the pills toward her fingers, watching their white coated sides roll smoothly back and forth across her palm. She hadn’t felt pain in three days, yet today she was shaken, tired, and scheduled for a lingerie shoot she didn’t want to do. The pills were such a comfort. She liked the way they numbed her fears, dulled her hunger, and softened the world. She stared at them, studied their shape, aware that she no longer physically needed them, but that she wanted them more than she wanted to go home. They were rest and comfort wrapped up in shiny white coats.
