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‘What?’ Phyllis queried. ‘But I haven’t bought them yet. Maybe I told you they were cream, not putty? Well, more a biscuity beige, veering into a kind of taupe?’
‘Ri-ight?’
‘I’ve hidden them!’
‘You haven’t!’ Amy grimaced and rubbed her forehead. No, please – not another attempt to beat the retail system. Only last week Phyllis had scored a replacement sweater in Marks & Spencer after accidentally snipping a hole in the original one when she was cutting the label off, then distressing the hole so that it looked like it had unravelled of its own accord. ‘Phyllis, you’ll get caught one of these days!’
‘I have! They’ve only got one size twelve left, so I’ve stashed it behind the eighteens! Smaller ladies never rake that far back in those long rails, trust me.’
‘Too right they don’t,’ Amy agreed, recalling the times shop assistants had pointed her towards the petites in disdain when she dared to touch some gorgeous item of clothing in the grown-up section. ‘But why didn’t you just, well, buy them?’ she queried. Phyllis was, after all, comfortably off, having run her own bookkeeping business for over twenty years before she retired.
‘Because they’ll be in the sale next week, of course. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten? I thought the two of us could go and have a look on the first day when the shop opens at seven? Mmm? Before work? They’ll be half price!’ Then, in a lower, conspiratorial tone: ‘You can borrow them for work sometimes, if you like – oh, but then I don’t suppose we’re the same size. Hmm, well, if you wear a belt and heels, maybe?’
Amy played with the end of her dressing gown cord and murmured, ‘That’s a lovely idea, thank you.’
Phyllis’s world hadn’t always been small. It caught Amy in a deep, melancholy way that now it consisted mainly of searching for bargains, searching for her wayward cat with its prodigious vagabonding habit, and searching for reasons to ring up her only son, four floors above. And Amy, with precious few links to anyone else of Phyllis’s generation, didn’t really mind.
Justin, in the sitting room, was at last wrapping up his call. A wave of ‘yup … great … yup …’ assailed Amy’s subconscious as Phyllis talked on.
These days Phyllis wore sensible shoes. Comfortable shoes. Footgloves, nubuck loafers, Clarks easy-fit sandals, and flat pumps for her fortnightly trips to play bridge in a decaying hotel in Greenwich. Once, Amy mused, Phyllis might have worn scandalous shoes. Dancing shoes. But not now. Today, Phyllis’s shoes took her round the shops, and home again. Amy’s passion for mapping people’s lives according to their shoes had a habit of being spookily accurate.
‘Phyllis, you’re a star,’ she said. ‘I’d love to come to the Next sale with you next week. Seven o’clock it is. Uh-oh, we’ll need to be up before six.’ Amy realised that she didn’t even know which branch of Next Phyllis was talking about and, flushing with guilt, resolved to spend more time with her in future. ‘Those trousers have obviously got your name on them, and we’ll make sure you get them.’
More than anything, Amy silently wished that she were talking about shopping trips with her own mother right now, rather than dear, lonely Phyllis, as lovely as she was. But there wasn’t time to get all emotional.
‘Tell you what,’ Amy chirped, after a longish interval, ‘I’ll borrow those trousers for work if you wear my turquoise Christian Louboutin wedges on Christmas Day. OK? Deal or no deal?’
Phyllis chuckled on the other end of the line, just as Justin emerged into the hall, pocketing his mobile. He sought Amy out, sliding his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzling his face into her collarbone.
‘I’ve never known such a girl for shoes!’ Phyllis laughed down the line. ‘High heels? Do you want to send me to my grave?’
Both women felt the full force of the dreadful pause that followed. Unwelcome tears pricked Amy’s eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ Phyllis said after a few moments. ‘How clumsy of me.’
‘It’s fine, really,’ Amy gulped as Justin, listening in, hugged her tight.
‘Anyway, you have a lovely night, all right?’ Phyllis went on.
‘I will,’ Amy whispered. ‘Thanks.’
‘And tell that son of mine he must be working far too hard if he’s leaving you to go out on your own rather than taking you somewhere nice.’
‘I hear you, Ma,’ Justin mumbled, from deep in the hollow above Amy’s collarbone.
‘Bye, Phyllis,’ Amy said, not trusting herself to say more.
‘Goodbye, dear.’
Replacing the receiver, Amy wriggled out of Justin’s embrace and turned to face him. She clasped his shoulders, took a deep breath, and eased him into an upright position, fixing him with the sternest glower she could muster. Justin couldn’t help giving a little snort of laughter, which he unsuccessfully tried to disguise as a coughing fit. He smelled nice, though. Luckily for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he spluttered after a few moments, ‘but you are even cuter when you’re cross.’
Amy drew back further, narrowed her eyes and raised a single eyebrow. An old trick, to be sure, but an absolute killer when it came to all things Justin.
‘I appear to be in the doghouse,’ he ventured. ‘Don’t tell me the colour’s run on the Marc Jacobs?’
Amy nodded.
‘Sheez, I hope it hasn’t faded out too much …’ He stopped when Amy whacked him. ‘Ooyah! OK, I apologise. I’m sorry I turned your shirt pink. I shall never go near the washing machine again.’
‘That’s not the solution I had in mind,’ Amy replied primly, stroking the fabric of her newly salmoned blouse. His flippancy was beginning to grate. ‘This blouse is ruined and I wanted to wear it this evening. Not to mention my knickers.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Justin smirked. ‘I was just about to mention those.’
‘Could you please at least pretend you’re concentrating on my crisis?’ Amy complained, capturing Justin’s wrists just as his hands began to travel down her body.
‘Spoilsport. OK, well, the blouse, let me think. Maybe I could dunk it in some bleach?’
It was impossible to tell if he was serious or not. ‘I’m sorry?’ Amy exclaimed. ‘Justin Campbell, did you just say the word “dunk” within twenty yards of my beautiful clothes? Would you ever dunk your precious threads in a bucket of Domestos?’
Bingo. An arrow to the heart. She may as well have asked: ‘Would you please jump off the balcony onto the concrete thirty feet below?’
Finally, he looked abashed. He freed his hands from her grip and laid them on her shoulders. ‘Come on, gorgeous, let me help you find something else to wear tonight. Tell you what, you can put on a fashion show, and I’ll be Simon Cowell …’
Amy awarded him a filthy look.
‘OK then, I’ll be Simon Cowell without the rude comments and dodgy strides.’ He led her through to the rumpled tranquillity of their bedroom, and flung open Amy’s double wardrobe doors.
It concealed an impressive collection. Not that much of it was particularly flash – Amy’s salary was definitely more High Street than Bond Street – but she’d made some impressive finds in Camden Market and Portobello Road over the past few years, and was secretly very proud of her bargain-hunting prowess. Justin, on the other hand, who could afford designer clothes a little more regularly than Amy’s once-in-a-blue-moon splurges, owned an immaculate capsule collection of casual work wear, which, for a straight bloke, was scarily tasteful.
‘Where is it you’re off to tonight again?’ he asked, stroking his stubble.
Amy turned and made a show of riffling through the rail. ‘Erm, just to the pub. With Jes. Shouldn’t be too late back.’ Slowly, guiltily, she risked a glance round. Thank goodness he wasn’t scrutinising her face; wasn’t aware of her lie.
Justin nodded. ‘OK, so no fancy gear, then?’
Colouring further, Amy breathed, ‘No, erm, I guess not. Nothing fancy.’
Before long she had tried on, and rejected, about seven different outfits. Silently she cursed her small frame. Come on! she snarled at the rail. I need elegant!Womanly! A bit of a chest! Nothing was right and Justin by now was lounging on the bed, unhelpful, mentally co-ordinating his own big night and paying little attention to her travails. Which should have been a blessing but, still, Amy found herself stung that he wasn’t being a bit more contrite, having just wrecked an entire drumful of her clothing.
‘Thanks, Justin, I’d never manage to get ready without you,’ she muttered sarcastically, tossing an Indian silk scarf towards the pile of discarded clothing and ‘missing’, draping it over Justin’s face instead.
‘Sorry, Abe, I was miles away.’ He leaped up and surged over to her clothing rail. ‘OK, pub night, yeah?’ He twisted his face. ‘Well, that’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?’ He plunged a hand into the wardrobe and pulled out her bootleg Miss Sixtys in triumph. ‘These!’ he beamed. Then he surged into the rail once more. ‘With this!’
Amy was aghast. Now he was holding out her old black polo-neck jumper.
‘And some trainers!’ he went on. ‘You’ve got some reasonably clean trainers in that shoe emporium of yours, haven’t you? Job done!’
‘I …’ Stumped, Amy did not know how to respond.
‘Well, what else would you wear to the pub?’ Justin went on. ‘You don’t want your fancy stuff coming back stinking of beer, do you?’
Amy had to concede his logic, even though she knew that his subtext was: ‘You, Amy Marsh, will go out tonight in the equivalent of a burka, and nobody will hit on you …’ however little he was prepared to admit it.
Still, in a last-minute save, she had her answer. ‘Justin, don’t be daft. I can’t go out in jeans and a jumper in June! I’ll melt into a puddle.’
‘But—’
‘Listen, you,’ Amy went on, firmly. ‘I am not Natasha, OK?’ She eased him towards her. ‘OK?’ she repeated, pulling him closer still. She experienced a momentary twinge of guilt – but really she was doing nothing wrong, not really.
‘I know,’ he mumbled, stooping and burying his face in her shoulder again.
‘I will not cheat on you, have you got that?’
‘Goddit,’ came from somewhere around her clavicle.
‘I’m going to wear something nice and cool, and when I come home, you can help me to take it off, OK?’
She felt his body relax. ‘Man, you make me do everything round here, don’t you?’ he growled, not unsexily.
Released, Amy swiftly slipped into her coral silk vest, and pulled the matching sheer chiffon blouse on top. The only thing to team with that was the chocolate suede Zara pencil skirt – despite the heat outside – so on it went, leaving only one more decision to be made.
The shoes.
CHAPTER TWO (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f)
Shoes entailed a short trip to the walk-in closet in the hall, the one most normal people use for suitcases and vacuum cleaners and ironing boards.
But this one was, as Justin had said, an emporium, a grotto, a shrine, a veritable sanctuary, a private working museum of all things footwear. It was Amy’s mother ship.
Amy collected shoes like other people collected photographs, or bundles of letters, or life lessons. Each pair had been chosen with care, with love, with reason, with style – and almost every pair could pinpoint something special in her past, her present, and maybe, just maybe, might hold out the promise of something in her future.
For these weren’t just shoe boxes for Amy; they were little treasure chests. Thirty-four of them to be precise. Yes, they contained wonderful leather smells, intricate stitching, supple straps, glorious heels … but the real treasure was the emotions, the memories, the turning-points that had somehow attached themselves to these tangible objects, making them such a vital part of Amy’s life.
Each box meticulously displayed either a digital printout picture or a glossy Polaroid photograph of its contents. There, look! There were the black Prada slingbacks – if only the suede skirt had been black, not brown, those would have been perfect for tonight! And there, the knee-length Gucci boots, bargain of the century from that nice Greek man in Portobello Road – briefly Amy longed for the evening to be cooler so that she could wear them …
A galaxy of beautiful colours and styles was showcased on these pictures, boasting of the treasure within each box. From pale peppermint to Moroccan amber, there was no footwear emergency that couldn’t be catered for by a visit to Amy’s shoe closet – provided, of course, that the circumstances permitted the wearing of high heels.
Amy paused, allowing the closet door to half close with her inside, switched on the light and breathed deeply, seizing a moment of sanctuary to try to calm her jangled nerves.
Cautiously, almost timidly, she traced her hand down the tiers of shoe boxes, scanning the photographs. There were the little espadrilles she bought in Majorca on that last holiday with her mother. And there – the gorgeous bronze Gina mules, practically the only pair of shoes she’d ever paid full price for, but worth every hard-earned, beans-on-toast-for-weeks-after penny. Oh! The red pumps – her ruby slippers! The photo of these showed not just the shoes, but Amy, four years ago, spinning round at a party chanting ‘There’s no place like home’ over and over; Justin would think it totally childish but she smiled at the memory.
And there – in the middle tier, halfway down, was the little blank box that would make her cry if she so much as touched it.
She stretched out her hand.
‘You reached Narnia yet?’ came Justin’s voice from just outside the door, making her jump back to reality and jerking her into a decision. Those Michael Kors brown slingback sandals would be absolutely fine – balancing the heavy suede of the skirt and adding just a tiny sparkle with the diamanté buckles. The heels were less than three inches, which wasn’t ideal, but they’d at least give some extra height without arousing Justin’s suspicions. Sorted.
Briefly, regretfully, she glanced at the box containing the newest addition to her collection: today’s purchase, the fabulous green snakeskin mules she’d spied when she’d walked into that first shoe shop with Debbie and Jesminder. Usually she couldn’t wait to wear new shoes the moment she got them home, but tonight, alas, if Justin saw her teetering out of the apartment on four inches of green snakeskin sexiness, he’d smell a rat for sure.
She touched the lid of the box. Not tonight, mypretties …
‘Will I do?’ she asked a little nervously, twirling in front of Justin, who was shrugging on his jacket and getting ready to leave as well.
‘You look great,’ he answered, letting his eyes move all the way down her body and back up again. ‘Be careful out there. And … em … have a nice time. Shame we’re going in opposite directions so we can’t share a cab.’
‘Mmm,’ Amy replied, trying to sound as though she agreed.
‘See you in bed,’ he whispered as he passed.
‘Yup. Hope it goes well for you tonight,’ she replied over her shoulder.
‘Always does, Abe, always does,’ came, ever fainter, from the stairwell.
Once he was gone, Amy breathed deeply to try to dissipate the deep crimson colour in her cheeks. After a few moments her hands had stopped shaking enough to allow her to apply some Juicy Tube gloss in Marshmallow, and, after a last quick, guilty check in the mirror, she was done.
Hmm, not bad for a twenty-four-year-old fibber, she thought, as her mobile bleeped, signalling that her taxi was waiting downstairs.
The fact was that these evenings, these covert, deceitful evenings, were what had really put the spring back in Amy’s step since the death of her mother, and as the taxi pulled away towards the West End Amy’s guilt gave way to mounting anticipation. Life wasn’t bad on the whole, but, Amy mused, as the city glided by outside, it was definitely a bit short on spark these days. She’d held the same job since leaving uni, and whilst she enjoyed it most of the time, well, surely the world of work held greater challenges?
Amy’s nerves at the evening ahead grew as the taxi idled in a long queue at traffic lights.
And what of Justin – how could anyone not find Justin Campbell exciting? This handsome, clever man with the best taste in shoes of any man Amy had ever known, this man she’d met only a year and a half ago …
She’d been standing in the packed auditorium halfway through the warm-up band’s set. Pushing her way through the gyrating crowd to the back doors, she felt as if her head was about to implode from the drilling sound of electric guitar. Crashing through the doors into the cool bar area, she collided with the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen. And he smelled great too. ‘Hey, steady on, missy! Is something the matter?’
‘Oh, sorry, but it’s so hot in there, and the band’s so loud, I need to clear my head … oh …’
‘Careful, now – here, let me help. You nearly fainted.’
‘No, no, just stumbled. I’ll be fine after some fresh …’
‘Come on, you’re coming with me … Excuse me, guys, got a bit of a damsel/distress/shining-armour situation brewing here. Mind if I abandon you to the hordes? Cheers. Right, let’s go upstairs.’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Yup, VIP suite. Got air conditioning, lots of space, and some great big sofas.’
‘Em … the VIP suite?’
‘For you to recover. Oh, don’t worry; I’ll kick Bono off the sofa. That got you smiling! Must be a good sign.’
‘You’re being very kind, thank you … ?’
‘Justin.’
‘Thank you, Justin.’
