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Clicking Her Heels
Lucy Hepburn
Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world…When Amy Marsh's boyfriend mistakenly believes she's two-timing him, he plots the ultimate revenge on a shoe-addict… and sells her prized collection on eBay.Amy embarks on a modern-day Cinderella quest to reclaim her pride and joy, travelling to New York, Ireland and Miami and meeting a whole host of unlikely characters - including some real-life ugly sisters and a very sexy Prince Charming…Amy begins to realise that her shoes aren't mere accessories - from her favourite killer heels to her late mother's beloved ballet slippers, each pair holds unforgettable memories.But as Amy is reunited with her most cherished possessions, she unearths secrets about her past - and a few home truths. Could it be that the important things in life don't always come boxed and gift-wrapped…?Kick up your heels with this romantic comedy with sole, for fans of Sophie Kinsella, The Devil Wears Prada and shoeholics everywhere….
Clicking Her Heels
LUCY HEPBURN
Copyright (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
A Paperback Original 2007
Copyright © Working Partners 2007
Lucy Hepburn asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007278893
Version: 2018-05-17
With special thanks to Erica Munro
The average person walks the equivalent of four anda half times round the earth in a lifetime.
They’re going to need a lot of shoes.
Contents
Title Page (#u9ad0443d-f3c2-5fc9-b497-d6949222c853)Copyright (#ub71dac86-b241-5a21-af9d-52b6d574f262)Dedication (#u9c799469-8503-5757-832e-811f9d06b3b0)Epigraph (#u2599dc09-3a22-59ae-ae7b-9eb5aa4c3d57)Prologue (#u1591af94-67d0-56e7-b6b4-ee0072d89f59)Chapter One (#u4457efd9-42a6-5c3a-a146-4252c7a47a70)Chapter Two (#ud8297d35-0daf-55c5-9294-6a26e120b53d)Chapter Three (#u6ea478d0-8909-578c-9153-7b94a720be48)Chapter Four (#u0eecd228-65c9-5cff-90f9-c42710215a20)Chapter Five (#u72b84302-f724-55ed-8fa6-0a9fb2ddb8cc)Chapter Six (#ueddfc9b7-a84c-5e7d-b9cb-3e5de8754ae9)Chapter Seven (#uad774323-d655-52fc-86e1-a44219c19d3a)Chapter Eight (#u5dbe0759-d0a7-5204-b443-8ff1b4ba98ab)Chapter Nine (#u43834e20-931c-57ac-b674-e58d8163dfd3)Chapter Ten (#ue8980d85-7794-54c2-be4e-1055b358d2df)Chapter Eleven (#u0be9c111-5259-5cea-8931-881112f7f4fb)Chapter Twelve (#u70bce067-f073-5ea2-af9d-5be447b8215a)Chapter Thirteen (#u25470a7a-e193-5188-98e3-802fb10bd03f)Chapter Fourteen (#ufa436a6e-6e7e-5fe5-ad0d-b24b4bd62f2e)Chapter Fifteen (#u064c8b89-3e39-5974-941e-e284103b5ac4)Chapter Sixteen (#u3bc25d4d-53c3-52ad-bf2b-01f9c5212df1)Chapter Seventeen (#uf0ce0d69-e807-55db-a5dc-6b0a56c443e1)Chapter Eighteen (#u14c0042e-89e4-5358-8495-60c23dc290cc)Chapter Nineteen (#u9c22a067-9b28-5d2d-9082-4acc2b886bf6)Chapter Twenty (#ue1eee9d7-412e-5a9a-8652-99fa284b746e)Chapter Twenty-One (#u0d26d8a6-9cb6-5058-8f7e-0408ba520f9f)Chapter Twenty-Two (#u15f54066-bf50-57a7-91d8-7a6a7332e1c5)Chapter Twenty-Three (#ub3371531-1e58-527b-97c2-ce3c41e68e7e)Chapter Twenty-Four (#ud1d4a1a9-5de1-589a-a67b-bd5b83dd8077)Chapter Twenty-Five (#u30222bd0-9632-5b44-b748-52c5418510b4)Chapter Twenty-Six (#u3a503430-1740-5ea3-8727-f325b97a7b0a)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u802aeb6b-3997-5fc3-8408-ac3477a67263)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u46b57fdb-9480-5fdb-84b7-c38607dcca22)Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u18f5a3b5-b3b5-5255-bbd4-87627630c07d)Chapter Thirty (#u36c44e0a-eb57-5c90-8194-ae5ad86f0d26)Chapter Thirty-One (#ub50aa3f0-1095-5d80-95a3-fb10924f5eaf)Chapter Thirty-Two (#u308bffca-0e4b-5ebf-9b8a-5f57758cd4d1)Chapter Thirty-Three (#u253addc4-0518-57b3-92c6-690a019a831e)Chapter Thirty-Four (#u79dfe3e4-db17-5346-82f5-c22774b55522)Chapter Thirty-Five (#u2676ab14-6e04-544c-b62f-8e13f9ceeffc)Epilogue (#uded77693-4d46-57aa-997f-f2996ea284b9)About the Author (#u75551777-7af1-5322-ad33-7346f4c3ee6d)About the Publisher (#u671b2758-60f0-5f07-a05d-3893bd20e1c6)
PROLOGUE (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f)
Saturday, early morning, and twenty-four-year-old Amy Marsh was running through her checklist, trying to keep a lid on her mounting excitement.
OK – purse, phone, Oyster Card – check.
A–Z – check.
Bus and tube maps – check.
Morning sunshine peeked in and winked at her through the slats of the wooden blinds in the third-floor flat she shared with her boyfriend, Justin.
Lip gloss – check.
Bottle of water – check.
Justin was still asleep, exhausted after larging it into the small hours at some hip PR party he’d organised for one of his new bands. Amy was glad. Had he been up he’d only tease her about how she got more excited about these missions than she ever did about going out on dates with him.
‘Huh, that’s not true,’ she’d murmured.
Sensible shoes – NO WAY!
She looked down at her feet and smiled.
‘Or is it?’
The blue denim Gucci wedges she’d bought for a song off the Internet a couple of months before looked stunning, as well as adding three much-needed inches to her five-foot-two frame. If she paced herself, they would easily carry her round the streets for a day. Well, at least they would if she took a bus or two along the way.
Then she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, studying the young woman who looked back at her with a quizzical shrug. Her dark brown hair swung glossily around her shoulders, her pale skin looked fresh and clear, and her hazel eyes glittered with anticipation.
Not bad, I guess.
Comb – check.
Eyeliner – check – no, forget that, I’m fine with justthe touch I’ve got on already.
She wore a crisp, sleeveless white top and her favourite skinny jeans, the pale blue bottom-hugging ones that flattered her figure. Then, as a final thought before skipping out of the Victorian apartment building to catch the tube, she pulled off the chunky wooden bangle that was knocking annoyingly against her watch.
After all, she smiled to herself, when it comes to shoe shopping, there’s no room for distractions …
Thirty minutes later she was standing in a gorgeous shoe shop in Covent Garden with Debbie and Jesminder, her best friends from aclickaway.com, the Internet travel company where they worked.
Amy dug Jesminder in the ribs. ‘Over there,’ she hissed. ‘Green snakeskin mules third shelf down.’
Jesminder looked and frowned. ‘Hmm, do you think? Aren’t they a bit flimsy?’
‘Flimsy?’ Amy echoed in disgust. ‘Outright drop-dead gorgeous, I think you mean.’
Jesminder tilted her head to one side, taking another long look. ‘Do I? Well, they just don’t look very easy to walk in, that’s all.’
Debbie, tall and curvy, her long blonde hair freshly highlighted and styled in a shaggy knot at the nape of her neck, called over her shoulder, ‘OK, where did you say you were off to tonight again?’
Amy coloured. ‘Um, well, actually, I didn’t …’
Now was the time to come clean, she guessed. It was bad enough keeping it a secret from Justin, but she should be able to tell her friends.
‘Jes, hello? It’s Amy we’re talking about here!’ said Debbie, not noticing Amy’s unease. ‘It’s flat shoes you want to be worrying about her walking in … well, hubba hubba! Good morning, curiously alluring stranger!’ She had a loud, carrying voice, the confident Geordie accent undiminished by her three years of working in London.
‘Pardon?’ Jesminder looked lost.
Debbie turned round, huge-eyed and grinning. ‘Over there, by the window – top-totty alert.’
A tall, well-built man dressed in baggy jeans and a donkey jacket was checking out patent leather boots by the exit.
Amy sidled over to Debbie, stood on tiptoe and put her mouth close to her friend’s ear. ‘Sorry, Debbie, but take another look. Top-totty girlfriend alert, moving in from stage right – funny how girlfriends can sense when their men are being ogled.’ A frighteningly skinny blonde woman had just joined the man and threaded her arm through his. She glowered briefly at Debbie.
Debbie tutted in disgust and tossed her head. ‘Ah, well – his loss! Onward and upwards. Plenty more where that came from.’
‘Now, Debbie,’ Amy said firmly, planting a hand on her friend’s shoulder, ‘will you please at least make some sort of pretence of being interested in today’s mission? I need to find new shoes for tonight, remember?’
‘No promises,’ Debbie replied sulkily. ‘But I’ll try, if you insist.’
‘That’s my girl. I do insist. Men and shoe shopping simply don’t mix, whichever way you look at it. Priorities!’
Debbie frowned, removing Amy’s hand. ‘You’ve been with the same man for too long, Amy Marsh. Some of us are still browsing.’
Amy quickly scanned Debbie’s face to see whether her feelings were hurt. They clearly weren’t. ‘Fair point,’ she said, ‘but might I just suggest that if you’re on the lookout for available straight men then there are better places to start your search than women’s shoe shops?’
Debbie shrugged, acknowledging the point before returning her attention to the shoes.
‘Men are very good in the field of sports shoe design,’ Jesminder put in thoughtfully and irrelevantly.
Both Amy and Debbie turned and gave her blank looks.
‘It’s true. Ergonomics, aerodynamics, moulded arch support. The technological advances have been unbelievable over the last few years.’
Amy and Debbie continued gazing at their super-fit friend, who ran triathlons for fun. Well, ran, swam and cycled, to be precise. Her lean, toned body was testament to a lifetime of fitness, yet she wore her athleticism lightly, referring to herself as ‘scrawny’ and ‘gristly’.
Jesminder continued, ‘You’ve no idea the foot-health benefits that can be obtained from a properly cushioned and supported sports shoe.’
‘Well,’ Amy said after a respectful moment, ‘thanks, Jes. I’ll certainly bear all that closely in mind. Right then, where were we? Ah, yes – stilettos!’
She never did get round to telling her friends where she was heading that night.
CHAPTER ONE (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f)
‘Salmon?’ Amy gasped, her heart plummeting at the sight that greeted her upon opening the washing-machine door later that day. ‘Who on earth wears salmon?’
From rescuing the very first pink garment from what ought to have been the whites (delicate) programme, she realised that Justin had done a ‘Spectacular’. Salmon pants, salmon gym socks, salmon bra, salmon satin slip, and, most heartbreakingly of all, the salmon Whistles blouse she had planned to wear that night. Snowy-white, it had been, just an hour before.
With a little wail, she delved deeper into the machine, eventually yanking out the culprit – Justin’s brand-new, dark pink Marc Jacobs shirt. She held it aloft in disgust, gesturing at the havoc it had wrought upon her precious white delicates, as though expecting it somehow to shrug and apologise. Honestly, why did Justin have to pick today to have a go at being domesticated?
Amy sighed, gathering up the ruined blouse and carrying it, along with the Marc Jacobs shirt, ceremoniously through to the sitting room.
Oblivious to her dramatic entrance, Justin stood with his back to her. He was facing the window with its views over Finchley and Muswell Hill, talking animatedly into his mobile and making emphatic, Italian-ish gestures with his free hand.
‘Yup … no problem. Absolutely, bring them along; it’d be great to meet them. About eight? Yup … yup … gig starts around nine thirty, so once I’ve sorted the meet and greet, and distributed the press releases, the boys’ll be good to go … yup, limo’s arranged … yup …’
Despite her anger about his laundry malfunction, Amy couldn’t stop the tiny smile that caught the side of her mouth at the sight of her boyfriend. Six years her senior, Justin Campbell, self-made rock-music PR whiz, was looking decidedly fit this evening. With his designer stubble, pretty-darned-perfect gym-toned body and short, dark brown hair, there was something of the Ashton Kutcher – or no, even better, something of the young George Clooney – about him. Impeccably dressed in his Armani shirt, Daks trousers and those sub-zero Moschino sneakers (the chocolate-brown, round-toed ones with the suede details that shrieked ‘fantastic taste!’ to anyone who knew the tiniest thing about footwear), he was obviously reeling in some new contact or other with his consummate communication skills and charm. Amy liked that about him; his easy confidence was the perfect foil to her more reserved temperament. But she had also come to know his vulnerable side, his need to be needed, for constant reassurance …
Whatever, he wasn’t going to Clooney his way out of this one. She cleared her throat, and Justin whipped round. When he saw her face, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and said under his breath, ‘Just a minute, Abe …’ He usually called her Abe, as an affectionate compromise between Amy and babe, and Amy had yet to decide whether or not it annoyed her. Right at this moment, it totally did. Cheeky git!
She responded by gesturing first to the salmon silk blouse, then to the Marc Jacobs shirt, slapping her palm against her forehead, tossing the garments onto the leather sofa and, finally, planting her hands on her hips. She knew Justin was unlikely to be unduly intimidated by the sight of his bathrobe-clad girlfriend in the early stages of a full-on strop but, still, he could consider himself warned.
‘Yup … twenty-eight thousand sold so far for the whole tour … yup, six and a half tonight … venue’s got a really good vibe …’
And on he went. He turned again to look at her, appraising the situation with brown eyes that were ever so slightly crinkly when he smiled. But then he ruined it all. He winked.
Despairing, Amy shook her head. Had she never told him that she didn’t trust winkers? Was he being deliberately provocative?
However, she was at a distinct disadvantage right now, barefoot and tiny, enveloped in her white fluffy bathrobe. She supposed she could let it drop to the floor and get his full attention that way, but given that he didn’t currently deserve that option (besides, there wasn’t time), she decided just to tut loudly, go and find something else to wear, and give him hell as soon as he deigned to get off his mobile and come to find out what was up.
‘Tomorrow,’ she muttered to herself as she stomped down the hall, ‘I shall show that prehistoric man how to sort a washing load. Honestly, what did Phyllis teach him when she was bringing him up?’
Just then their landline rang. Amy padded over to the hall table and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
As though summoned by mere thought, it was Phyllis, Justin’s mum. Of course, there was a good chance it’d be her as it must have been, oh, a full three hours since her last call.
‘Amy, is that you?’ came Phyllis’s thin, clear voice. Phyllis always asked Amy if it was her. Who else wouldit be? But still, Amy loved her. Having lost both her parents – her father in a car accident twelve years ago and her mother barely two years ago to breast cancer – Amy found that she often craved the older woman’s company, even though she could be a little exasperating at times. Amy glanced nervously at her watch. She really didn’t have a lot of time, but neither did she have the heart to make her excuses and hang up. So, crossing her fingers that the call would be brief, she smiled down the line and confirmed that yes, it was indeed she.
‘Can I come up, Amy dear?’
Phyllis lived in the lower-ground-floor flat in the same building, an arrangement that had come about when Phyllis announced out of the blue to Justin the year before that she was, to all intents and purposes, moving in. Amy could see why it would be lovely for her. Phyllis’s house in Kent was too big for her now she was on her own, and a number of her friends had either died or moved away. Yet it had been a bit daunting for Amy to imagine her living in the same building. But then, after the initial surprise had worn off and Amy started to think of the benefits of having Phyllis so close by – a shopping companion, a friend to chat with when Justin was away on tour, a babysitter (OK, this was thinking far too far ahead!) – she warmed to the idea and, in fact, things had turned out just fine.
‘Oh, Phyllis, I’m really sorry, but Justin and I are off out this evening,’ Amy replied. ‘Well, I mean, we’re off out separately, but whatever, we won’t be in. Can I maybe pop down and catch you tomorrow morning? Scrounge a coffee?’
Phyllis didn’t seem to hear. ‘Amy dear, you know those putty-coloured linen trousers I was telling you about a while ago?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Amy fibbed, furrowing her brow.
‘The ones in Next.’
‘Of course I do. You look great in them!’ I’m definitely busking it now, Amy thought guiltily.
