Clicking Her Heels

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 (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) 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. ‘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 diamant? 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.’ ‘You’re welcome … ?’ ‘Amy.’ Now, glancing at her watch, it was touch and go whether she’d make it on time. Amy closed her eyes as the taxi pushed its way towards Covent Garden. She hated lying to Justin. At last, the taxi drew up outside the Royal Opera House. Amy searched the sea of beautiful faces, trying to pick him out, as a doorman bustled forwards to open the cab door for her. Stepping out, Amy felt like a movie star. She forgot all about Justin. The foyer was filled with flowers and chatter. And there, there he was. Sergei. CHAPTER THREE (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) ‘Well, what do you think so far?’ Sergei asked as he led her out of the auditorium during the interval. Americanised, his voice still carried the richness and depth of his beloved Russia. They hadn’t had time to talk properly since dashing in to catch the first act. ‘Oh, I can hardly speak!’ Amy breathed. ‘It’s so perfect! Those costumes! The music, it’s so full of joy, don’t you think? And isn’t Darcey Bussell just a genius? She makes it look as though she isn’t really trying; she just dances, doesn’t she?’ Then, catching herself, she glanced up at Sergei. ‘I mean, that’s what it looks like to me – I forgot I was talking to a mega-genius world-famous choreographer for a moment. What’s your verdict, Sergei? Thumbs up or down?’ Finally she stopped and bit her lip. For someone who could hardly speak, she seemed to have just had something of a breakthrough. Sergei waved away the compliment, then thrust his arms out and planted both thumbs firmly up. ‘I think it is an extremely good production so far,’ he replied. ‘Excellent, in fact. I am so glad you think so too. Shall we have a drink?’ The bar was already crowded, noisy, hot and swimming with a potent mix of expensive perfumes, and a heady theatrical buzz. Beautiful, confident people mingled with even more beautiful, even more confident people, and Amy shrank back a little as she moved towards the bar, clutching Sergei’s arm. It felt firm and strong under her hand. When would she ever feel that she belonged at places like this, as these people obviously did? So sure of themselves – so ‘solid in their shoes’, as her mother used to say. Sergei always seemed to cause a stir at the ballet, Amy mused, as all around them people nodded greetings in his direction and hustled out of their path. He was still very handsome, with his strong ex-dancer’s body, and his dark hair only lightly flecked with silver, and more than once Amy had to stifle an immature giggle as the words ‘Baron’, ‘Von’ and ‘Trapp’ swam in and out of her brain when she looked up at him. She reckoned he was about forty-four, and he had gorgeous, twinkly eyes and a special brand of transatlantic exuberance that was hard to describe but delicious to experience. And his effect on women was nothing short of remarkable. Most of the females in the place seemed to greet him with such full-on, kissy-kissy enthusiasm that in a strange way Amy quite enjoyed the cold looks they bestowed upon her moments later. ‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the glass of cool white wine. ‘So,’ Sergei began, ‘how have you been? I have missed you.’ ‘Great, thanks,’ Amy replied. ‘Bit of a nightmare getting out of the flat tonight …’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Well, it was nothing, really, just a bit of a disaster with the washing machine, nothing important.’ She could have kicked herself. Here she was, standing in the Royal Opera House with the most distinguished-looking man in the place, whom she hadn’t seen for ages, talking about her sodding washing machine! She shot a glance round the room. Honestly, why am I sucha moron? But Sergei, ever the gentleman, replied, ‘Oh dear, how inconvenient for you. But I am so glad you are here.’ Amy felt the beginnings of a blush creeping around her hairline. ‘So, how long are you in London for?’ she asked quickly. ‘Not so long, I am afraid,’ he replied as they ascended the stairs. ‘I go to China tomorrow. Just for a short while and then I return to the States in a few weeks.’ Amy nodded. ‘Well, it’s lovely of you to make time to see me,’ she said, giving his arm a squeeze. He gave her a strange look. ‘How could I not?’ he asked, his eyes flashing, before covering the look with a smile of heart-melting warmth. A pause followed, and Amy took a large gulp from her wine glass. She was grateful for the extra height afforded by her shoes, knowing from past experience that flat shoes in a noisy crowded room, for a small person, meant only two things: instant deafness, and a sore neck from craning upwards all the time. Plus, as ever, her beloved heels imparted an injection of confidence that just might get her through the evening without her making a complete idiot of herself. ‘I’m off to the Isle of Wight Festival at the weekend,’ she announced, suddenly inspired with the thought that she could ratchet up her self-esteem by nailing ‘music’ and ‘travel’ in a single sentence. ‘Really?’ Sergei replied. ‘With whom?’ Is that a slight edge to his voice? Amy wondered, before immediately dismissing the thought. ‘Oh, with my two best mates, Debbie and Jes – should be brilliant!’ ‘Any chance that I might know any of the bands that will be there?’ he asked. Amy bit her lip. ‘Um, well, I’m not sure – how about Foo Fighters?’ Sergei shook his head. ‘Coldplay?’ ‘Is that a name, or are you asking me a question?’ ‘The Kooks?’ ‘Kooks? With a K? As in, David Bowie?’ He seemed chuffed to have made a connection. Amy frowned. ‘David Bowie? Not sure, could be – I think they named themselves after some song from years and years ago.’ ‘It has to be! David Bowie, Hunky Dory – “Kooks” is one of the best tracks on it! Nineteen seventy-one!’ He punched the air, looking as though he was about to launch into the song, only to elbow a passing waiter, narrowly avoiding knocking the wine tray from his hands while upending his own wine glass all down his front in the process. Amy gasped. ‘Oh, I am – what do you call it? – a klutz,’ he muttered, shaking wine droplets from his trouser leg. ‘Let me help,’ Amy flustered, grabbing a bunch of paper napkins from a nearby tray and dabbing furiously at Sergei. ‘Lucky it wasn’t red!’ ‘Thank you, really, it’s fine, there’s no need …’ ‘No, really, I’ll fix you in no time. Here, hold still.’ And he did. He stood stock-still, if a little embarrassedly, as she rubbed furiously at his sleeve, the front of his shirt, even his trouser leg, before the wine had a chance to sink in. She could feel his eyes on the top of her head, and given that she was in the process of rubbing his leg, she realised she had to find something else to say. Something normal. Like, now. ‘Actually, that’s a Coldplay song title, did you know that?’ she chirped, from somewhere around his knee level. ‘What, “Hold Still”?’ ‘No! “Fix You” – have you heard it?’ ‘I’m afraid my pop music tastes date back to prehistoric times, Amy.’ ‘Oh? For example?’ She straightened up and looked at him with interest. ‘Kraftwerk? OMD? Erasure?’ Amy raised an eyebrow. He was grinning sheepishly. ‘I’m not particularly proud of my electro-past,’ he whispered, ‘but that’s what we all listened to in Russia.’ ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sergei, but there must be organisations that can offer help …’ Sergei hooted with laughter. ‘That’s just the sort of comment your mother would make!’ Amy looked up sharply. This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. Sergei was her link to the past – and a side of her mother she was hungry to know about. Her mother – Hannah Powell – the most perfect Odette in Swan Lake that this country had ever produced, or so the reviews of the time had exuberantly claimed. ‘Do you know, once in my dancing days when I was about to go on stage, I spilled orange juice over my costume. Your mother did exactly as you have done tonight – she was always looking after me, like a mother hen.’ ‘I can imagine,’ Amy said, clutching a clump of damp napkins in her hand, with nowhere to put them. ‘She mothered everyone.’ Glancing round the room, she couldn’t spot a single woman who looked like she’d allow herself to get into this sort of predicament. They probably all could have summoned up a member of staff to help out with a click of their perfectly manicured fingers. ‘I once dyed my hair orange to try and look like Bowie in his Aladdin Sane period, you know.’ Sergei was like that. He could put a coiled spring at ease. ‘Really?’ Amy laughed, relieved. Sergei nodded. ‘I think that was just before I had it cut very short – it was just before my Yellow Magic Orchestra fixation. Oh, and there was the Sparks weekend …’ As Sergei launched into a somewhat baffling reverie about his seventies and eighties musical journey, Amy tried, she really, really tried, to keep up with his encyclopaedic knowledge of synthesiser pop, but within minutes she felt herself drifting off into another place – a fantasy world, or a reality check, she couldn’t decide which … Sergei Mishkov. What on earth am I doing here yetagain? And yet, how could I have stayed away? It’s because of Mum, that’s why. This place, this isMum’s world, and Sergei was Mum’s friend from anothertime – pre-me, pre-Dad, pre-retiring from ballet to bringme up … I owe Mum this, to live in her world now andagain, to try and feel what she felt, with people she caredabout. That way I guess she can live on in me as a wholeperson, rather than just as my mum … ‘Ah, Ultravox, now that was a conundrum. Did they truly fit the genre … ?’ Sergei was in full flow, waving his arms to emphasise the finer points of the Vienna album … And they’re not half bad, really, these evenings, eventhough I feel like a kid in a crowd of adults. Sergei’s great,the dancing’s great, the music’s a bit iffy sometimes butI’m working on it. I just wish … oh, I wish I’d told Justinfrom the start. Why the heck didn’t I? She knew the answer perfectly well. When Justin had first met Sergei – what, a year ago? – he’d made his feelings perfectly clear. He didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. ‘Amy? The bells?’ Sergei had stooped to look directly at her. ‘Pardon?’ ‘I think I lost you somewhere between The Human League and Fad Gadget, did I not? I apologise.’ ‘Oh! I’m sorry!’ The theatre bells rang again. ‘No need to be sorry!’ He waved his arms energetically. ‘But we must go back in: time for the second act!’ CHAPTER FOUR (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) Monday morning, over a week later, and Amy rolled over in the otherwise empty bed, pushed the duvet covers away and forced herself to get up and pad over to the bathroom. I am never going to go to the Isle of Wight Festivalever again as long as I live. I am never going out withDebbie and Jesminder ever again as long as I live. Amy had just caught sight of her bleary, hungover face in her bathroom mirror. Well, not until next year, anyway. She shook her head painfully at the sorry reflection, and forced a dry-lipped smile. Thank goodness Justin had left yesterday to catch up with one of his bands in Manchester. Besides, he’d been a bit moody and preoccupied for most of the past week – the break from routine was bound to do him good. Now, all she had to do was drink lots of water, swallow some aspirin and get ready for work. It was scorching outside, so after choosing the H&M wrap dress in shades of turquoise and lime green that looked, from a decent distance, not unlike a Pucci original – a sure-fire hangover-buster if ever there was one – Amy walked slowly and carefully to her shoe closet to pull out the Christian Louboutin wedges. They’d be perfect. Thank goodness for my impeccable filing system, she thought to herself, pinpointing the Louboutin box immediately, thanks to the jazzy Polaroid on the outside. But the box was empty. Amy frowned. Had she kicked them under the bed one drunken evening? No, Amy was never, ever untidy where her shoes were concerned. Then, she remembered: perhaps Phyllis borrowed them after all. Still, she didn’t have time to ring her now. The white canvas mules from Russell & Bromley’s autumn sale would have to do instead. But that box was empty as well. Crying out in dismay, Amy picked out box after box after box. They were all empty. Her shoes were gone. For a few moments Amy couldn’t process the information her hands and eyes were relaying to her brain. Now she was fighting for breath. She felt as though she might be sick, and she turned dizzily towards the bathroom. But the sensation passed and she swayed instead into the sitting room, where she sank onto the sofa and gave out a little wail. Then panic lent wings to her bleary feet and she shot up and raced back to the closet. Take 2: My Hangover is Causing Hallucinations andMy Shoes Will Be Here This Time. They weren’t. She had been robbed. It was the only explanation. Terrified, she lunged for the phone. ‘Justin?’ she sobbed into the receiver. ‘We’ve been burgled.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. Shock, probably. ‘Justin, are you there? Can you hear me?’ Then, at last, ‘I can hear you.’ ‘My shoes are gone. Somebody’s taken them. Every single pair …’ ‘I know.’ ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but the boxes are all empty, and I’ve checked all round the flat and your stuff’s OK and it doesn’t seem like anything else has gone but I can’t be certain— What do you mean, you know?’ ‘Abe, did you really think I wouldn’t find out?’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘I know everything.’ ‘Wh … what do you mean?’ ‘About your affair.’ ‘My what?’ The phone reception wasn’t particularly brilliant. She must be hearing things. Amy pressed the receiver so close to her ear it hurt. ‘Remember Steve Roberts, my friend the arts journalist?’ ‘Who?’ ‘No, well, of course you wouldn’t, otherwise you might have been more careful last weekend at the Royal Opera House, mightn’t you? He saw everything, Abe.’ Now Amy really did feel that she was about to be sick. ‘You made quite a spectacle of yourself, by the sound of things.’ ‘Oh, Justin, I—’ ‘Don’t bother. Christ, you were seen groping the guy’sleg!’ ‘What? Oh!’ With horror, Amy recalled her vigorous rubbing of Sergei’s thigh to get the wine off … ‘Yes, but no, but listen, that’s ridic—’ ‘Save it, Abe. I rang Jesminder.’ Panic-stricken, Amy sank back onto the sofa. She may have told Justin that she was going to the pub with Jes that night, but she would never have dreamed of asking her friend to lie for her. Jes would have been baffled by a call from Justin, out of the blue. ‘She wasn’t half surprised to hear from me, given that she’d been out speed-dating that night, and not in the pub with you at all.’ ‘I’m—’ ‘Don’t worry, I covered for you. Made up some stupid story about a friend who was interested in going along and hung up. Then I went online and read all your emails.’ ‘You did what?’ Now his anger was fizzing down the line. Amy didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that they weren’t doing this face to face. Glad, probably. ‘How?’ Then she heard him sigh. ‘Took me, oh, a whole minute and a half to guess your password. Maybe two? I started with “Manolo” and worked my way through every flaming shoe designer you’d ever mentioned until I hit on “Gina”. Bingo.’ ‘Oh. Very good.’ ‘Sergei, huh? I really should have known after that evening he came round for dinner that there was more to it than friendship.’ He spat the last word as though it tasted unpleasant. ‘Yes, but—’ ‘I thought I was a bit on the old side for you but obviously that’s the way you like ’em.’ Amy began to cry. ‘Justin, will you stop? I am not having an affair!’ ‘Sure, Abe, sure,’ Justin sneered. ‘Your emails to Sergei really show that, don’t they?’ He launched into an impersonation of a Russian accent: ‘Oh, my dear, I cannot waituntil Saturday … meet me in the usual place … I’ve beenthinking about you … For heaven’s sake!’ ‘Justin, stop!’ ‘I want you out, Amy.’ ‘Listen to me!’ ‘No!’ ‘Justin, please!’ ‘Just get out of my life, Amy. I want you out of the apartment by tonight, is that clear? And I never want to see you again.’ ‘Justin, are you going to let me explain?’ Amy sobbed. ‘Those emails are all the explanation I need. And to think, I sat at the table and ate dinner with you two! Honestly, Amy, was it all a lie? All that “Oh, I’ll never cheat on you, I’m not Natasha” bull?’ ‘No!’ Amy wailed. ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘You have to, it’s true!’ ‘I’m going now; I’ve got a gig to sort out. Don’t call back.’ ‘Justin, wait!’ ‘Goodbye, Amy.’ She thought he’d gone. She held her breath, waiting for the click on the other end of the line. Instead, this: ‘Oh, and, Amy, your shoes?’ She had temporarily forgotten all about her shoes. ‘Y … yes?’ ‘I sold them.’ What? It may have been a dodgy phone line, but had she just heard that correctly? ‘I sold the lot on eBay while you were away in the Isle of Wight. Or, come to think of it, while you were away who-knows-where. Could’ve been the Isle of Wight, could’ve been Moscow, for all I—’ ‘YOU SOLD MY SHOES?’ Amy had never shrieked so loudly in her entire life. ‘Yup,’ came the calm reply. ‘You didn’t even notice that I’d been beavering away on my computer most of last week, did you?’ ‘But—’ ‘Huh, you were probably too busy dreaming about Sergei. Sheez, what a name! But yes, the bidding went on all last week. It was very decent of you to have stored a photo of each pair on your hard drive – made my job a whole lot easier.’ ‘You utter—’ ‘And thanks, as well, for going away at the weekend, to wherever it was you actually went to – and giving me peace to parcel them all up and get them posted out.’ Then, after a pause, ‘And to arrange to get the locks changed later this morning.’ ‘You know how much they meant to me,’ Amy breathed, not knowing or caring if her words were audible or not. There was the merest pause at the other end of the line. Then Justin replied, ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ Now, at last, Amy was beaten. Robbed of words, of responses, even of anger. She closed her eyes and let the hot tears course down her cheeks. ‘They’ve all gone, Amy, to the four corners of the earth.’ ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Goodbye, Amy. Have a nice life.’ CHAPTER FIVE (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) ‘Isle of Wight wellies again, Amy?’ Jesminder said, raising an elegant eyebrow as she glanced beneath Amy’s desk later that morning. Amy was on autopilot. She’d almost not come in to work at all – not having any shoes to wear playing only a small part of that decision. But then in a pocket-sized flash of defiance she’d pulled on the wellies she’d worn all weekend at the sodden festival and trudged in to the office. Besides, the four walls of the lonely apartment were suffocating her. And work would be a distraction. She could immerse herself in the cyberworld of Internet travel – and life at aclickaway.com was always busy – then before she knew it the horrible, horrible day would be over. Plus, she’d be able to talk to Jesminder and Debbie. Hopefully get some advice. Then, when she got back to the apartment, it would all have been a horrible mistake. Justin would give her time to explain everything, and he would apologise, and so would she, and her shoes would be safely back in her cupboard where they belonged, not on their way all around the world, as though blasted from a scattergun. Jesminder drifted away, frowning, as Amy remained silent. She worked in finance on the floor above Amy, not far from Debbie, who was in the sales section. It was impossible to concentrate. Amy found herself veering between wanting to howl with anguish, or else leap to her feet in fury, go to track Justin down, in her wellies, and force him to see sense. But putting aside her wounded feelings about Justin, she was full of a kind of bewildered wonder at how badly the loss of her shoes was affecting her. They were only shoes, for heaven’s sake – she could easily put in an insurance claim and buy more! But somehow that missed the point. Rightly or wrongly, Amy loved her shoe collection; depended on it, even. No longer having her shoe collection was like losing a personal diary that one had been keeping faithfully year after year, recording the events, the people, the emotions of the time. They were her private history, the blocks on which her memories were built. Remove them and she was in danger of collapse. Worse had been to follow. It hadn’t dawned on Amy until an hour or so after her discovery of the missing shoes that Justin had even gone so far as to get rid of her most precious possession of all – her mother’s ballet shoes. The only pair Amy owned, stored in that plain little box, the one without a photo on the outside. And Justin, the snake, wasn’t answering his phone now, so she couldn’t find out where he’d sent them. But anyway, who would bid for an old pair of dancing shoes? Then Amy’s heart sank as the answer thumped right back out at her. The Internet was crawling with souvenir hunters. There would be ballet aficionados all over the world who would jet? at the chance to pick up a small piece of Royal Ballet history – the shoes once worn by Hannah Powell, Britain’s most beautiful Odette. And meanwhile, as the shoes winged their way to some nameless, faceless, thoughtless, tactless, blameless buyer, there was a young woman, wearing yellow wellington boots that smelled faintly of beer-soaked mud, sitting distraught behind a desk at aclickaway.com, trying to make sense of her monthly target sheet, who had just been robbed of her most precious link to her dead mother. Just then, on her screen, her Instant Messenger sprang into life. It was Jesminder, from upstairs: Jes: U ok, Amy? Then, from the other end of the building: Debs: Jes tells me ur wearing ur wellies to work. Have u finally flipped? Amy forced half a grin, and tapped her response: Amy: How long have u got? Debs: How long is the so-called ‘working’ day? Jes: Only tell us if u want to, Amy, we don’t want to pry. Debs: Speak for urself, matey. Amy took a deep breath, and began to type. Amy: Justin has accused me of having an affair. He wants me out of the flat and he’s changed the locks. And he’s sold all my shoes on eBay when I was away with you guys at the weekend. He’s up north and won’t answer the phone. It’s over. Debs: Ur having a laugh. Jes: Unbelievable! Amy: I know. Debs: What a total creep. Jes: Are u going to go? Amy: I don’t know. Debs: So is it true? Jes: Debs, leave it. Amy: Is what true? Debs: R u having an affair? Jes: Foot in mouth again, Deb. Amy: Course not. Jes: See? Amy: Well, not like u think anyway. Deb: Here we go. Jes: Anyone free for lunch? Amy: Not hungry. Debs: All your shoes? Every last pair? Amy: Xept the wellies. I had them on, remember? Debs: That is almost funny, sorry, my pet. Jes: Debs, will u leave it? Amy: He sold my mother’s dancing shoes. There was a pause. Jes: Oh. Debs: Ah. Amy: I don’t know what to do. Jes: Well, first you need to eat. Shall we see you at 12? Debs: And then we need to get the girl some shoes. Our treat, right? Jes: Right. Amy: Thanks, you guys. Shortly after twelve Debbie and Jesminder ducked off to the cashpoint and left Amy to have a preliminary browse around Shooz, the little Camden shoe shop that lay just around the corner from their office. It wasn’t Amy’s normal shoe haven, but desperate times called for desperate measures and there was absolutely no way she was going to grace any high street stores in Day-Glo yellow wellington boots, despite Debbie insisting that all she needed was to put on a bit of an attitude and soon every style-conscious girl in Camden would be heading for the outdoor shops to get a pair of her own. It wasn’t really enough of a shoe shop to lift Amy’s mood. No leathery smell, no edgy lighting, just Dullsville shoes on racks. Still, something inside Amy told her that this sort of shop was no more than she deserved, not today. As if she could face a designer shop – or even one of her favourite market stalls – in wellies, with puffy eyes and a faintly deranged expression. No, what she needed was to be taken in hand by a nice, matronly shoe retailer who would sit her down and bring tissue-filled boxes full of unchallenging shoes for her to ease her feet into, backed up with some nice chat, some gentle encouragement to try different pairs in different colours, and lots of use of the word ‘comfortable’ … There were three shop assistants standing right at the back behind the counter, chewing gum. Each looked no more than about sixteen, and not one was displaying any eagerness to come near her. Amy sighed, left them to their chat, and began to browse the racks. It wasn’t until she dislodged a shoddily displayed rack of sandals that one of the girls finally rolled her eyes and looked in her direction. She jolted visibly when she caught sight of what Amy was wearing on her feet. ‘Look!’ the girl squeaked at her companions, gesturing at the wellies. The ensuing splutter of laughter sounded like they had all just exploded. Amy, scrabbling on the floor trying to pick up the fallen sandals, wanted to cry. ‘Didn’t realise it was milking time!’ the largest of the girls stage-whispered to her companions. ‘I’d have thought knowing when it was milking time would be second nature to you three,’ came a loud, Geordie voice from the door. Big, blonde, fabulous Debbie stood at the shop entrance, glaring at the three girls. She had heard every word. Behind her, Jesminder clapped a hand to her forehead but couldn’t resist a smile. ‘I used to giggle like an idiot when I was twelve as well,’ Debbie went on, ‘but you three are employed for a reason so I suggest you do what shop assistants are meant to do and get over here and assist.’ Put simply, Debbie didn’t take any nonsense from anybody. Her self-confidence when it came to standing up for what was right belied her twenty-four years. Amy couldn’t imagine having a more loyal, or a more fun friend. Crammed with big-hearted sexiness, everyone loved Debbie – apart, perhaps, from the grumbling ringleader of the shop assistants, who was making her way sullenly towards Amy and mumbling something that may very well have been ‘Can I help you?’ but could just as easily have been ‘Fnerganelpoo?’ Jesminder, still by the door, was trying not to giggle. She was cut from altogether different cloth. Calm, caring, you could trust her with your life. While Debbie was a gale that swept away all in her path, Jes was more a steady breeze, caressing and warm, but still with a strength of her own. She, above everyone, had spent most time with Amy since the death of her mother, and it was she, on their way to the shoe shop, who had offered Amy a place to stay until she sorted herself out. Amy could feel their stares of incredulity when, after trying on only two pairs of shoes, she settled for the flat, beige canvas pumps. ‘I’ll take these,’ she said, not even looking up. ‘And, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep them on.’ ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ smirked the assistant. ‘Careful,’ Debbie warned. ‘They’re lovely,’ Jesminder lied. Amy glanced up at her and giggled for the first time that day. ‘No they’re not, they’re Guilty Conscience shoes,’ Debbie decided, as she and Jesminder paid for the shoes. ‘Right, you, we’re going to the sandwich bar and you’re going to do some explaining.’ Amy trudged beside her friends to Squishy’s on the corner, loathing the practical, silent footfalls made by her new shoes. Now, on top of ‘miserable’ and ‘furious’, she could safely add ‘frumpy’ to her portfolio for the afternoon. Maybe ‘invisible’ as well. It’s not only height that you get from high heels, she remembered. Ten minutes later, she was staring down the thick end of a tuna mayo baguette and wondering if she’d ever feel like eating again. ‘OK, shoot,’ Debbie mumbled through a mouthful of chicken tikka wrap. ‘Debbie!’ Jesminder scolded. ‘Give Amy time!’ Debbie gave Jesminder a withering look. ‘It’s for her own good, Jes. She said herself there was another bloke …’ ‘OK!’ Amy held up her hand. ‘Listen, I appreciate you being here for me and you’re both wonderful, but I have just been dumped – at least, I think I’ve been dumped …’ ‘You think you’ve been dumped?’ Jesminder queried. ‘Was there some scope for doubt in what Justin said?’ ‘“Get out by tonight” doesn’t sound like a playful warning shot to me,’ Debbie concurred. ‘I know,’ Amy nodded. ‘But he just wouldn’t listen to me! He’d got himself worked up into a real state. He literally did not give me a moment to tell him the truth. Look, once he gets back I’ll be able to sit him down and explain everything, and he’ll be … fine.’ Amy knew this was unlikely even before she’d finished the sentence. After all, he hadn’t answered her calls all morning. ‘Well, if you say so,’ said Jesminder, doubtfully. ‘It’s worth a try.’ ‘Worth a try?’ Debbie spluttered, slamming her Diet Coke down on the table. ‘Why should he get away with being a one-man judge and jury, and evil seller of shoes, without hearing Amy’s side of the story?’ Debbie sat back and folded her arms indignantly. Then, her face softened and she leaned towards Amy, wrinkling her brow. ‘Amy, what exactly is your side of the story?’ CHAPTER SIX (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) ‘OK,’ Amy began, ‘here goes. I’ve been seeing a man for about a year now.’ ‘You’re a dark horse,’ Debbie breathed. ‘But it’s not like that at all!’ Amy protested. ‘He’s just a friend!’ ‘I take it you didn’t tell Justin?’ Jesminder asked gently. Amy shook her head. ‘Why not? Does he know him?’ ‘His name is Sergei Mishkov, he’s maybe forty-four, he used to be a dancer, and he was one of my mother’s best friends. I think I may have even mentioned him a while back …’ ‘Ah,’ said Jesminder and Debbie simultaneously. ‘Now he’s a choreographer – he’s very famous in the ballet world, lives in the States, mainly, but he tours a lot, and often visits the UK. He’s wonderful.’ ‘Fit?’ Debbie asked playfully. Jesminder dug her in the ribs. Amy ignored her. ‘He got in touch a year ago, about a year after Mum died – they’d been dancing partners for a while, though Mum was quite a bit older than him – and I invited him round for dinner.’ ‘As you would,’ affirmed Jesminder. ‘Quite right too.’ ‘Well, I thought so, but Justin didn’t take to him at all, which upset me at the time.’ ‘Pig,’ Debbie spat. ‘Sorry. That slipped out.’ ‘Well, Justin said he didn’t like the way Sergei looked at me, and he said he felt excluded from the conversation all evening, like Sergei and I had made some sort of connection, so …’ Amy tailed off, and shrugged. ‘Did you like him?’ Jesminder asked, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. ‘Oh, yes, I really enjoy his company, he’s so different, so grown-up and charming, but he’s funny too,’ Amy said fervently. Maybe Justin’s jealousy was understandable after all. ‘Anyhow, after Sergei left, Justin and I had this huge row. I was mad at him for behaving so stroppily in front of my friend, and he accused me of flirting with him the whole night.’ ‘I don’t like the sound of that possessive streak of Justin’s,’ Debbie mused. ‘It’s not possessive, as such,’ Amy said defensively, groping for the right words. ‘He’s, well, he is afraid of being cheated on, though. I must have told you that his last girlfriend, Natasha, cheated on him with his best friend?’ ‘You did,’ Jesminder affirmed quietly. ‘So it’s not surprising he’s wary.’ ‘Hmm.’ Debbie wasn’t convinced. ‘Anyway, not long after that Sergei rang up and asked me to go to the ballet with him.’ ‘And you didn’t tell Justin?’ Jesminder guessed. Amy nodded. ‘It seemed easier. Justin’s not interested in ballet. Oh, he’d go with me if I begged him, but there was something really, really nice about going with Sergei. He’s so passionate about it, and he’s such lovely company, and he knew my mother …’ ‘Was it only once?’ Jesminder pressed. ‘No. That’s the trouble. Last week was the fourth time. I’m afraid I used you as an alibi, Jes. I’m sorry.’ Understanding spread over Jesminder’s face. ‘Aha, that would explain why Justin rang me up last week to find out how my evening had gone.’ ‘I told him I was going to the pub with you,’ Amy mumbled, touching Jesminder’s arm. ‘I’m really, really sorry for involving you. What a mess! No wonder he’s changing the locks.’ ‘Outstanding. He was checking up on you,’ Debbie growled. ‘He had good reason, don’t you think?’ Amy replied. ‘So you do fancy this Sergei, then?’ said Debbie. ‘No! I don’t! It’s just … well … he’s a link to my mother – to both of my parents, really – and we have the same things in common, and he’s charming, and interesting, and fun …’ ‘Can I have him, then, if you don’t want him?’ Debbie teased. ‘I’m coming over a bit Anna Karenina all of a sudden …’ ‘Have you tried calling Justin today?’ diverted Jesminder, rolling her eyes in Debbie’s direction. Amy nodded her head, and tears began to well up for the umpteenth time. ‘He won’t answer his mobile. I’ve tried about twenty times.’ ‘Did he really sell all of your shoes?’ Jesminder asked, unwrapping a chocolate chip muffin and cutting it neatly into four. Without asking, Debbie helped herself to a quarter. ‘He did. At least, I think he did. He says he did, and there’s no sign of them, and I really loved them, and he knew that and … do you know what?’ ‘What?’ came in chocolatey chorus. ‘I don’t think he could have done anything more hurtful if he’d planned it for a thousand years. Mum’s ballet slippers … they were the only pair of her shoes that I had.’ ‘We’ll need to get them back,’ said Jesminder. ‘Some people keep diaries or photographs to remind them of special times …’ A tear ran down Amy’s cheek and plopped onto the paper plate in front of her. ‘Too right we will,’ agreed Debbie, thrusting her paper napkin under Amy’s nose. ‘Most people my age can talk about old times with their parents, but I can’t …’ Amy wasn’t really aware of the other two any more as she sank deeper into moroseness. ‘And I think I know how we can do it.’ Jesminder was smiling conspiratorially at Debbie. ‘I can tell you ten, twenty stories about each pair …’ ‘I’m all ears,’ smirked Debbie. ‘… where I was, what I did, who was there – it’s mad, I know, but … sorry, what did you say?’ ‘I said,’ Jesminder repeated patiently, ‘that I know how to get the shoes back.’ ‘How?’ ‘Go and retrieve them from the buyers, of course.’ ‘Road trip!’ Debbie yelled, to the alarm of the old lady at the table in front of them who dropped her umbrella on the floor, triggering the automatic opening mechanism so that the brolly exploded into a fan of pink and white roses with a loud pop. ‘Yeah, right. How will we even track them down? Besides, I can’t even get into the apartment without Justin’s mother’s say-so. That’ll really work. But thanks, guys.’ Jesminder’s beautiful, almond-shaped black-brown eyes had narrowed. ‘We’ll see, Amy, we’ll see.’ It was almost half-past eight that evening by the time Amy plucked up the courage to ring her own doorbell. Phyllis’s thin voice answered. ‘Yes?’ ‘It’s Amy. May I come in?’ There was a pause and then a buzzing sound. Amy’s knees felt decidedly wobbly as she mounted the stairs. Phyllis was standing at the open doorway to meet her. Her face was filled with pained disappointment. ‘Phyllis,’ Amy began, ‘this is all a terrible misunderstanding—’ ‘I’ve already put most of your things into boxes,’ Phyllis cut in, although there was no anger in her voice. ‘You can get the rest some other time.’ ‘Truly, Phyllis, I haven’t—’ ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I really am, but Justin is so hurt, and so am I.’ Amy walked past Phyllis, into the flat, as though drugged. Why wasn’t she being believed? It all seemed so surreal. And so unfair. But nothing prepared her for the sight that greeted her in the sitting room. A neat stack of large cardboard boxes stood in the centre of the room, immaculately labelled ‘Clothes’, ‘Books’, ‘Bags’, ‘Toiletries’, ‘Paperwork’, ‘Kitchen Equipment’, ‘Miscellaneous’ and, as a final insult, ‘Shoe Boxes’. It must have taken Phyllis all day. Phyllis followed her into the room and handed her an envelope. ‘What’s that?’ Amy asked, her voice utterly flat. ‘It’s a cheque. From Justin,’ Phyllis replied. ‘The proceeds of the sale of the shoes. I don’t necessarily approve of my son’s action, but I know one thing: he is not a thief.’ Amy took the envelope. She didn’t know what else to do. But just as her mouth was about to form the heartfelt ‘Oh, yes he is,’ a piercing, deafening noise made both women jump. ‘The fire alarm!’ Phyllis shouted, as they covered their ears. ‘It’s probably another false alarm, but you can never be too careful. Quick, can you smell smoke?’ Amy couldn’t, but she followed the older lady to the door. The fire alarm had gone off twice in the last month and both times had been false alarms. Amy knew for a fact that the Turkish couple in the apartment opposite were fond of smoking shisha. ‘Oh, no! Mrs Tompkiss!’ Phyllis exclaimed. ‘Be careful!’ Amy shouted above the din, as the older woman hurried downstairs to find Mrs Tompkiss, her precious cat. There were still no signs of smoke or flames. People were beginning to emerge onto the staircase above and below, and clatter downstairs to the fire assembly point. But not Amy. Seizing her chance, she glanced from side to side and slipped back into the now empty flat, sitting down in front of Justin’s home computer. Loud voices told her that the landing was busy, and she shook all over as she waited for the machine to boot up. It seemed to take for ever – Phyllis could return at any moment – but at last it sprang into life and Amy began to navigate her way to Justin’s eBay account. She was dizzy with anticipation: two more minutes, and she’d have all of the buyers’ details … Only he had changed his password. Amy typed in the familiar ‘moshpit’ password four times before forcing herself to accept the obvious – he’d won. Stunned, Amy sat back, wanting to wail with anguish. So close! How was she going to get the information now? Justin sure as heck wasn’t going to email the details to her, however nicely she asked. She knew he wouldn’t back down. He was such a stickler for seeing a job through, doing things thoroughly … Aha – light-bulb moment! At once, Amy had her solution. Justin was such a stickler, wasn’t he? He was bound to have done proper printed address labels on his computer, wasn’t he? There was no way he would do anything as time-consuming as writing on the parcels with a pen if there was a technological and cunning way of doing it! Excitedly, and ignoring the panicked voices outside, Amy opened Justin’s Word documents. There it was. A file carefully titled ‘Shoe Labels’. Quickly, Amy printed it off, shut down the computer and was about to run downstairs when she remembered the letter. The night before, unable to sleep, she had taken out her writing pad and poured everything out in a letter: all about Sergei, and why she hadn’t told Justin about their meetings. She hadn’t been sure whether she would ever let Justin read it, as it ended up tear-stained and far, far too emotional, but now, with all her senses jangling, she thought, oh, what the heck, and laid it down beside the computer for Justin to read – or not – when he eventually came home. She made it downstairs to the fire assembly point just a minute before Phyllis, who arrived clutching Mrs Tompkiss, relief spread all over her face. Neighbours were milling around chatting. Since the fire alarm had started malfunctioning, the neighbours had actually got round to knowing each other by name rather than just flat number. ‘Looked everywhere for her. Finally found her hiding in the laundry basket.’ Phyllis beamed at Amy, before obviously remembering that they were no longer supposed to be close, and sidling awkwardly off to talk to someone else. It cut Amy to the core. A moment later, Jesminder crept up and stood by Amy’s side. ‘My goodness, someone really needs to see to that smoke alarm. Anyone could wander in off the street and set it off, oh, say, by waving a lighter underneath it.’ Jesminder winked. ‘Thanks, Jes. I owe you. Did you have any troubles?’ Amy hissed out of the corner of her mouth. ‘None at all. It was scarily easy – I could get used to the criminal life,’ came the euphoric reply. ‘Success?’ Amy frowned. ‘Kind of. I think I’ve got all the addresses, but no phone numbers, unfortunately.’ ‘Worth doing, though?’ ‘Definitely!’ They basked in a momentary enjoyment of an illicit job well done before Amy sighed and turned to her friend. ‘Well, guess we’d better start loading our cars with all my surviving worldly goods. Thanks again for letting me use your spare room.’ Jesminder nodded and gave her a hug, and Amy walked sadly over to Phyllis, to seek her permission to return, briefly, to clear her things out of the apartment. Two hours later, after the girls had done lugging all Amy’s stuff out of their cars and into Jesminder’s tiny South London basement flat, the thrill of their successful mission had thoroughly worn off. Instead Amy felt the beginnings of a numbing blankness. Ithad actually happened – Justin had kicked her out. And Phyllis had helped. Oh, Phyllis’s sadness over the situation had been as plain as day, but it had been obvious where her loyalties lay. ‘Poor Phyllis,’ Amy sighed as at last she sank down on the carpet in front of Jesminder’s gas fire. ‘This must be awful for her.’ ‘Pardon?’ Jesminder poked her head round the kitchen door. ‘Poor Phyllis?’ Amy nodded. ‘Yes, it can’t be nice for her, thinking her son’s girlfriend is a cheap shagabout, can it?’ ‘She knows you’re not that!’ exclaimed Jesminder. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ ‘Does she, though?’ Amy pressed. ‘Why shouldn’t she believe her own son? He obviously believes I’m a cheap shagabout, doesn’t he?’ ‘Stop it!’ Jesminder made a show of covering her ears. ‘Stop using that word! And you’re not! In fact, you deserve a medal for feeling sorry for anyone other than yourself right now. Glass of wine? Beer?’ Amy gazed at the photo of Jes with her beaming parents on graduation day. She was very, very tired. ‘Please may I just have a great big mug of tea?’ ‘Of course you can, sweetheart. Then you and I must begin plotting.’ Jesminder ducked back into the kitchen and Amy heard the splishing sound of the kettle being filled. ‘Stick some music on, why don’t you?’ ‘Sure.’ Amy crawled on all fours over to Jesminder’s CD collection – with its Punjabi MCs, Rishi Rich and, horror of horrors, Justin Timberlake – which was housed in an unsteady wicker tower beside her stereo and portable TV in the corner of the room. ‘Got any new stuff from the festival? I could do with something cheerful.’ ‘’Fraid not. I downloaded all the festival stuff last night. Put on Justin Timberlake, there’s a pal.’ ‘Must I?’ Amy whined. ‘I’ve had about all I can take of Justins for today.’ ‘Ah – sorry. You choose, then. Want a biscuit?’ ‘No, thanks. Actually, Jes, do you mind if we don’t listen to anything?’ ‘Sure.’ Amy sat back and closed her eyes. She felt too flat for tears – that would have involved dramatic emotion and she’d had enough of that for one day. But nor did she want to go to bed. She knew with certainty that sleep would be in short supply. Her brain was repeatedly turning over the events of the day. Where was Justin? He could even be in the apartmentright now … reading my letter … reaching for thephone, racked with guilt … ‘… just the way you like it, not too strong, just a touch of milk.’ ‘Jes, you are an angel. I’m so grateful.’ Jesminder sat on the sofa and curled her long legs underneath her. She shook her head. ‘It’s fine, Amy, truly. I know you’d do it for me.’ ‘Course I would,’ Amy replied. ‘But we need to make a plan, don’t we? You’re going to have to hit the road and get your shoes back. You have to.’ Amy sniggered. ‘What’s so funny?’ Jesminder asked. ‘Sorry, but I notice you’re not kicking off with a plan for getting my man back. Priorities, huh? You been listening to Debs all afternoon?’ She grinned as she spoke. ‘No!’ Jesminder aimed a cushion at her. ‘But you’ve got to see this through, right? Besides, this’ll be good for you. It’ll keep your mind occupied and, most importantly, get you your mum’s dancing slippers back. Now, where’s that list of addresses?’ Amy stretched towards her Karen Millen bag and pulled out the list, checking her phone as she did so for the umpteenth time to see if Justin had sent her a text. ‘OK.’ Jesminder gently prised the list from her hand and scanned the details. ‘Ah. Quite an itinerary for you. Wow, Japan!’ She read further. ‘And the USA! Ireland! Newcastle!’ ‘But I can’t go all round the world knocking on doors asking for my shoes back,’ Amy moaned. ‘Why not?’ Jesminder actually looked serious. ‘Oh, come on. I’ve been thinking about it. Hacking into Justin’s computer to find out where they’ve all gone to is one thing, but setting off round the world to ask for them back? People will think I’m a bizarre shoe fetishist if I turn up on their doorsteps and start asking about their shoes.’ ‘Your shoes, Amy,’ Jesminder corrected. ‘And you are a bizarre shoe fetishist. Get over it, as Debs would undoubtedly say if she were here. Right, how long can you take off work?’ ‘Two weeks max,’ Amy replied instantly before checking herself. ‘I mean, no. I didn’t mean that. No time off work. Drop everything and circle the globe, not knowing if the people will even be there or what I will find? It’s bonkers. Who on earth would do a thing like that?’ ‘Someone with nothing to lose?’ Jesminder said quietly. Amy opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead she turned her head and gazed out the basement window to the shoes of pedestrians passing by on the street outside. Is Jes right? Do I really have nothing to lose? She shook her head, panicked by the notion, and rounded on her friend. ‘Since when was I defined by my boyfriend and my shoes?’ she said, far more sharply than she meant. ‘I’m me! I’ve got a life! And a job! And friends! And … and …’ Jesminder slid down from the sofa and sat silently by her side. Now both of them gazed outside with glittery, tear-filled eyes. The only sounds were the faint hum of traffic outside and occasional slurps as they gulped their tea. ‘Do you know something?’ Amy said, after a long, long time. ‘Not yet,’ Jesminder replied. ‘I miss them. I miss my shoes. But I don’t miss Justin – not yet. I’m too angry with him to miss him and that’s not going to change until he believes my “side of the story”, as Debs put it – huh, cheek! That makes it sound like there are two sides, doesn’t it? But there aren’t. There never were. I’m not cheating on him – there is no so-called other side. And if he won’t believe me, well – y’know, I’m starting to think that even if he does believe me now, I can’t imagine just jumping back into his bed tomorrow as though all this never happened. I didn’t know he had such a vindictive streak in him, Jes, I really didn’t.’ Jesminder nodded. ‘Sounds like it’s going to take time, sorting that lot out in your head. You know you’re welcome here for as long as it takes.’ Amy reached over and hugged her friend. When she drew back, her eyes were like saucers. She’d made it. Out of the blue, she had made a decision. ‘That’s the key, isn’t it?’ she cried, leaping to her feet. ‘Time!’ ‘Erm …’ ‘Time. It’s like, time is showing me the way.’ ‘Is that a song?’ Plainly Jesminder thought Amy had flipped. ‘No. Well, probably, but anyhow, listen, Jes. Justin needs time to read my letter, calm down and come to his senses, correct?’ ‘Definitely.’ ‘And I need time to work out how I feel about him not being prepared to face me like a man and hear me out. Correct?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘But on the other hand – or at least, on the other foot – with the shoes, there’s no time to lose, is there? I need to get them back in as short a time as possible so that their owners don’t become too attached to them and wear them to death and forget where they bought them from.’ ‘Bingo,’ Jesminder agreed. ‘And if I don’t go and find them, then in time I’ll forget them and that would be horrible.’ ‘Bingo again.’ ‘And even if it’s impossible to find them I’ll be getting away and giving myself time to think things over.’ ‘Bingo times three.’ ‘And I’m due some holiday, having finished that big Morocco contract last Thursday ahead of time, so work might just about manage to stay afloat without me if I took off now.’ ‘Uh-huh, we’ll muddle through somehow,’ Jesminder nodded, her voice full of mock-doubt. ‘Debbie and I will pull every string in the business and get you some disgustingly cheap flights, have no fear.’ Amy was circling the room, her hands fidgety. ‘The time is right!’ ‘Is that really a decision?’ Jesminder asked. ‘You’re going to get your shoes back?’ ‘I am. It’s show time!’ Amy gulped, flinging her arms out wide and feeling better than she had done in hours. ‘Don’t you mean shoe time?’ Laughing, Jesminder ducked to avoid the cushion that flew in her direction. CHAPTER SEVEN (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) For the most part Amy was grateful to have Debbie, a Newcastle native, in the passenger seat of the crumbling 2CV as they negotiated their way into the city centre on a stuffy Friday evening. Debbie had swiftly arranged a weekend trip north to see her family, so that she could keep Amy company on the first of her shoe-finding missions, brushing off Amy’s gratitude with a gruff, ‘No, no, if it wasn’t for you I’d never get off my arse and come to see the old folks at all.’ Which was untrue, but deeply touching all the same. The car hadn’t enjoyed the long journey all the way to the north-east of England, and the girls had had to make three unscheduled stops to give it rest time and allow it to cool down. Now, though, on the final stretch of the journey, stopping and starting at traffic lights, it wasn’t just the car that was overheating. They were trying to find Delsey’s Gym, the first address on the hit list, and Debbie had spent a lot of motorway time bragging about her thorough knowledge of Newcastle city centre. Amy, her eyes and head aching from concentrating on the road for hours, was growing irritated at Debbie, whose skills as a navigator seemed to depend entirely upon the existence of familiar shops and nightclubs in the immediate vicinity. ‘Gottit!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘Go that way! There! Past the building that used to be TK Maxx!’ ‘Used to be?’ Amy echoed, indicating right and turning the car into a bothersomely narrow side street. ‘Since when was that a help?’ ‘You know my orange cashmere tank top? Fourteen quid? That was from in there – you had to go on a Tuesday, that’s when all the new stuff – Careful! You’ve gone too far. That was the next turning back there; you should have hung left into the lane that’s got Harley’s nightclub at the end! Look, there’s a garage with its door open. You can turn there.’ ‘Oh, goody,’ Amy deadpanned, jamming the brakes on far too hard. The 2CV coughed its disgust. ‘There, look, on the left – Delsey’s Gym. Told you I’d find it. There’s an underground car park round the corner. We made it, kiddo.’ ‘Thank goodness,’ Amy breathed, as the 2CV bumped down the ramp into the underlit car park. ‘My will to live was seeping away.’ ‘You’re welcome,’ Debbie teased. ‘Sorry.’ Yawning and stretching, they sat still for a few minutes, summoning the strength to heave themselves out and make a start on their mission. Amy’s brain was buzzing. ‘Do you know what’s really weird about this whole trip, Debs?’ ‘Um, the fact that neither of us have discussed this year’s Big Brother yet?’ ‘No, not that …’ ‘No? What about my unusual good manners in not using the words “Justin” and “bastard” in the same sentence since, oh, first thing this morning?’ Amy smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that one – yes, but the other weird thing about this trip is having no idea which pair of shoes went to which address.’ ‘What? I hadn’t realised that!’ Debbie exclaimed. ‘All I’ve got are the buyers’ addresses, but no information on what they actually bought, so in here, for instance, could be my Jimmy Choos, or my walking boots, who knows?’ Debbie frowned. ‘Or could it be an old tin of toy soldiers Justin decided to sell while he was busy flogging stuff on eBay anyway?’ ‘No way!’ Amy’s heart lurched. Was this a flaw in the plan? Swiftly she tried to push the notion away. ‘If Justin was selling toy soldiers on eBay he’d have a label file on his computer titled “Toy Soldier Addresses”. I’m certain of it.’ ‘What a bundle of laughs life with that man must be,’ Debbie said – in such a low voice Amy wasn’t sure she picked her up properly. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do.’ They clambered stiffly up a bright yellow-painted stairwell, four steep flights to the door marked ‘Reception’. ‘I feel fitter already,’ Debbie panted. ‘Come on, let’s do it.’ Amy, bracing herself, pushed open the swing door and the girls entered the gym. Here goes: Operation ‘Best Foot Forward’ commencesright now … The dark-haired receptionist, who was talking on the phone in a language Amy didn’t recognise, briefly pressed the receiver to her chest and glanced at them. ‘Ah, hello! So nice to see you back again!’ Achingly tall. Beautiful. Foreign. Insincere. She lobbed them a toothy smile, omitting to involve her eyes in the gesture, before returning to the telephone conversation from which they had so thoughtlessly deflected her. Behind the reception desk, a frosted glass door decreed ‘Private – Staff Only’, and to the left a sign pointed to the saunas and steam room. On the right a corridor led to the male and female changing rooms and the ladies’ and gents’ toilets, then beyond those the gym. Amy could hear the thrum of running machines from behind the double doors and, briefly, she thought of Justin. He loved his four-times-a-week workouts. Huh, if the staff at his gym look like this specimenhere, then no wonder – just look at that girl! You justcan’t compete with Eastern European bone structure,and no mistake … ‘Aha!’ said Debbie, gesturing down the corridor. ‘Bathroom break! I’m bursting – won’t be a tick.’ And she bounded off towards the ladies’ room. Amy stood and chewed her lip, feeling awkward, wishing Debbie hadn’t gone, trying to conjure up the mantra used by Jesminder in situations like this: ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent!’ But this receptionist was so glacial, her cheekbones so sharp and her disregard of Amy so total that it was hard not to just apologise and run out. Oh, for heaven’s sake – have a word with yourself,Marsh! Amy was wondering where in Eastern Europe the ice-queen receptionist was from – could she even be Marta Kowalski, the very woman she was looking for? – when her eye fell upon a gigantic poster that took up the whole of the staff pinboard behind the desk. NEWCASTLE POLISH SOCIETY ANNUAL BALL AT THE MARBURY HOTEL THIS SATURDAY FORMAL DRESS CARRIAGES 3 A.M. DANCING TO THE ALFONS ALEKSANDER SWING BAND TICKETS FROM POLISH CENTRE OR MARTA OR IWONA KOWALSKI, DELSEY’S GYM, LOMBARD LANE, NEWCASTLE She was close then. Excited, Amy took a step forward, only for the door to open behind her, and for Adonis to walk in. At least, if you asked a hundred women to describe their version of Adonis, then pooled all the images into a single big, blond, beefy hunk of love, it’s highly likely this is what you’d end up with. Amy gawped. She’d never seen such a ludicrously perfect specimen of muscly manhood and for some reason had to stifle an urge to bark with laughter. Not my type at all, but if ever I need a wall built … On seeing the man’s arrival, though, the receptionist hurled the phone down as though it had caught fire, and rushed across to fawn over him, practically knocking Amy over in her flight. They triple-kissed enthusiastically, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, exchanging greetings in Polish, but then, drawing apart, Adonis somehow found a moment to flick a brief, appraising glance in Amy’s direction. ‘So, then, beautiful, have you had a busy day?’ he asked the receptionist in heavily accented English. Then brazenly, he shot another, longer look at Amy before once again returning his full attention to the woman under his nose. Amy’s skin prickled uncomfortably. Huh, I know when I’ve been mentally undressed. AndI bet he’s only speaking English to keep his options open. ‘As always,’ oozed the reply. ‘There is never time to … relax in this place; you know what I’m saying?’ She flicked her ponytail with her fingertips, then lasciviously licked her lips, laid a hand on her hip and bang! The right side of her body dropped until she stood in a provocative, thrusting pose that owed nothing to subtlety and absolutely everything to Marilyn Monroe. Amy watched, anxiously chewing her fingernail, yet entranced by the display. I am receiving an award-winning lesson in shameless flirting – even Debbie wouldstruggle to match this pair. Outstanding! Just when Amy thought the heat couldn’t rise any higher, the staffroom door flew open, and an Amazonian blonde shot out and hurled herself over to where the other two stood. Practically pulling the receptionist off the man, she rubbed her hand provocatively down his arm and purred, in the same foreign accent, ‘Well, hallo, stranger!’ Adonis was loving it, Amy could tell. Both women had fit, athletic builds – it was clear that any spare time they had left after flirting was taken up working out in the gym. ‘So, what can I be doing for you this evening?’ the blonde woman lisped, her mouth about two inches from the man’s ear. ‘Come to arrange a little personal training, hmm?’ ‘Hey!’ the receptionist barked. ‘It is me who is in charge tonight!’ She wriggled between the blonde and Adonis. ‘So! How can I help?’ Adonis took a moment, probably to savour the hedonistic delight of having two women squabble over him so blatantly. He looked first at the blonde, then at the brunette, and sighed, ‘Ah, ladies, I need to buy two tickets for the ball, naturally. I can get them here, yes?’ Immediately the women fell away from him, trying to disguise looks of crushed disappointment. ‘Oh?’ The receptionist’s striking face snapped back into an impassive mask. ‘Well, you must wait. I must see if there are any tickets left.’ ‘Who is lucky lady?’ the blonde hissed, trying to appear uninterested when her eyes shrieked the opposite. Adonis shrugged his massive shoulders, and treated the two to a smouldering look. ‘I have not decided yet …’ The receptionist whipped round. ‘Plenty of tickets! I have just remembered!’ Amy, by now fully blended into the background, was slightly annoyed at being ignored, although another part of her was quite enjoying the pantomime being played out before her. Debs, hurry back – you’d love this. ‘Hmm. Excellent.’ He was still appraising the women, like a tiger who’d accidentally caught two gazelles at once. ‘I would not want to come between sisters, however. Catch you, as they say, later.’ And with that, he tore himself away, swaggering down the corridor towards the gym. You could crack nuts with those, Amy thought, inwardly giggling at his pert departure. The receptionist and her blonde sister were standing bickering in the same spot where Adonis had stood between them. Amy spoke up. ‘Erm, excuse me?’ It was now or never. The women turned to glare at her. Amy raised a hand in a self-conscious little wave. ‘Yes? Oh, it is you – you are still there.’ Taking a deep breath, Amy said, as confidently as she could, ‘Yes, I am still here. I’m sorry to bother you, I can see you’re very busy, but I believe you have a Marta Kowalski working here?’ The sisters exchanged looks. Then the receptionist, narrowing her eyes, replied, ‘And you are?’ ‘My name is Amy Marsh, but Marta doesn’t know me. I need to speak to her about a mix-up over a pair of shoes she bought on eBay.’ There was a silence. Amy was certain she felt a crackle of recognition pass between the two, though their faces remained impassive. ‘Oh, yes?’ ‘Yes. I … I sold them by mistake, and I was wondering whether I could possibly get them back. Buy them back, I mean, obviously …’ ‘We don’t know what you are meaning. Do we, Iwona?’ Iwona? This must mean that the receptionist is Marta. The receptionist glowered at her sister, then hissed something to her in Polish. Iwona responded sharply, her sister snapped back, and soon, gesturing and glowering, they were on course for another quarrel. Stumped, Amy let them get on with it for a few minutes, wondering what to do. Come on, this is mad! Debbie would have joined inby now, Jesminder would have us all sitting round a tablediscussing things rationally and here I am, standing likea lemon in the middle. That is just, like, totally … pants! She took a step forward and held up her hands. ‘Excuse me!’ How she longed for a bit more gravitas, some higher heels, a deeper voice, a pair of cymbals, anything! But somehow it worked – sort of. Gradually the row simmered down, and the dark-haired receptionist turned to face her. ‘OK. I am Marta.’ Hurrah! At last, she was getting somewhere, although could they have been any more difficult? I may regret tempting fate with that thought – thesetwo are dynamite … Iwona, the blonde, cut in, ‘You want to know about shoes? eBay shoes?’ She stormed over to the side of the reception area where a row of lockers sat beneath an array of heavily laden coat hooks. Pulling a set of keys from her belt, she stabbed one of them into the lock as though trying to kill it, pulled open the door and yanked out a pair of shoes. ‘These shoes?’ Amy caught her breath. There, being slapped onto the reception desk like a pair of wet fish, were her black patent Ferragamo court shoes, the ones with the three-inch pale wooden heels, tiny heart-shaped peep-toe and wide, grosgrain ribbon ankle tie; the ones she’d bartered as though her life depended on it from the man on the stall in Spitalfields two years ago: the ones that meant the world to her. Just looking at them, Amy was assailed by a raft of nostalgic memories. Now she realised that her shoe quest wasn’t only worthwhile, it was essential. But seeing them was one thing, getting them back from this pair was going to be entirely another. ‘Thank you for nothing,’ Marta snapped, grabbing the shoes. Iwona growled something earthy in Polish, as her sister made a face. ‘Hey!’ Amy cried. ‘You been making friends here?’ To Amy’s relief, Debbie had finally returned from the ladies. ‘You tell her,’ Marta mumbled, jabbing the heel of one of the shoes at her sister and turning her back. CHAPTER EIGHT (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) ‘You know,’ Debbie growled in Amy’s ear fifteen minutes later, ‘there’s a version of Cinderella that has one of the Ugly Sisters chopping her big toe off so that she can fit into the glass slipper.’ ‘You what?’ Amy was only half listening, transfixed in horrified fascination by the sisters who sat before them, trying, as though their lives depended on it, to fit into her precious shoes. ‘Straight up,’ Debbie went on. ‘She saws her big toe off, then crams the shoe onto what’s left of her foot, and then the quite frankly not-all-there Prince sweeps her away on the back of his horse. It’s only when he spots the blood flowing from the shoe as they gallop off into the sunset that he realises he’s been suckered.’ ‘Cinderella never was like that!’ Amy cried, elbowing her in the ribs. ‘Was where I come from! We like our fairy tales hardcore up north.’ ‘Sicko. Oh, careful!’ Amy made to lunge forward as one of her shoes flew to the ground, hurled by an increasingly desperate Iwona. Meanwhile Marta was sitting with her back to them, dusting her feet with talcum powder in readiness for another attempt to get the other one onto her wide, resistant foot. ‘It’s no use!’ she snarled. ‘It will not fit!’ ‘Hacksaw, anyone?’ Debbie chirped. Earlier, interspersed with gesticulations and corrections from Marta, Iwona had explained why the sisters were at war over the shoes. They had spotted them on eBay when they were surfing the Net together, couldn’t agree who would bid for them, so agreed to share if their upper price limit of thirty-five pounds was accepted. But Marta had upped her bid to forty at the last moment, thus securing the shoes for herself. This infuriated Iwona who, on seeing the parcel containing the shoes arrive at the gym, stashed it in her locker before Marta could get her hands on it, and had been holding the shoes hostage since. Now, as Amy and Debbie looked nervously on, they were trying the shoes on for the first time, peeling off their trainers to reveal feet as wide as planks. ‘Didn’t they check the size before bidding?’ Debbie hissed with a frown. ‘They’ll need a fairy godmother with a wand to stand a hope in hell of getting ’em on, surely?’ ‘It is because of the sweat,’ Marta wheezed. ‘What?’ Amy cried. ‘The feet in the trainers all day, they sweat, they get bigger.’ ‘No way!’ Iwona retorted. ‘Your feet have always been half a size bigger than mine.’ ‘Wait … one moment … oh!’ Marta, with one final tug, slid off the bench and clattered onto the floor, panting and defeated, as the shoe rolled to one side. Amy stifled an urge to yell, ‘Come to Mama!’ and launch herself towards it. ‘Ten out of ten for effort, over there,’ Debbie whispered. ‘You’ve got to hand it to her.’ ‘Shh!’ Now it was just Iwona. Surreptitiously kneading at the patent leather to try to soften it, she bent down for a final, valiant attempt to get the shoe on her foot. But it was clearly useless. Even from where Amy stood a few feet away, she could see that no more than her toes and the bridge of her foot had made it into the shoe. Iwona sat up, folding her arms on her lap. Then, exhaling deeply, she cast a longing look in the direction of the poster advertising the Polish Ball. Amy made a lightning-fast deduction. She must be hoping to wear them to the ball – withthat big beefy bloke! ‘To be honest,’ she began, tentatively, ‘the shoes are murder to dance in.’ Iwona’s gaze dropped to the shoe in front of her. Then she held it aloft, examining the heel and sole. ‘I only wore them the once,’ Amy went on, ‘and they nearly killed me. Those wooden heels are very unforgiving. I was limping for days afterwards.’ ‘So why you want them back?’ Iwona shot back. Good point, Sherlock. What on earth do I say now?Well, I guess when all else fails, how about the truth? ‘Because they have very special memories for me. I love them.’ ‘She really does,’ Debbie put in. ‘She’s a funny one, is our Amy.’ A silence followed, the first since Amy had pushed open the door of the gym, approximately three lifetimes ago. ‘So,’ Marta said eventually, not meeting Amy’s eyes, ‘you want them back, these shoes that do not fit you either?’ Amy nodded slowly. ‘Would you mind? I’m so sorry to have caused all this trouble.’ Then, after a few more moments of indecision, Marta finally heaved herself to her feet and placed the left shoe on the reception desk. And after still more agonising moments, a scowling Iwona followed suit with the right. ‘I will need my forty pounds back, of course,’ Marta said in a low voice. ‘Forty!’ Iwona spat. ‘You should only get thirty-five! The traitor must pay!’ ‘Thief!’ ‘Ladies! Still looking hot hot hot tonight, I see.’ Adonis swaggered by, heading for the saunas, winking suggestively. It was as though the sight of him wiped the previous fifteen minutes entirely out of their consciousness. Marta and Iwona shot off after him, Iwona pausing only to grab what looked like two ball tickets from under the reception desk. Once again the reception area became spookily calm. The black shoes sat on the reception desk. Amy stared at them. Then, without a word, she fished forty pounds out of her handbag and slapped the money behind the desk. Debbie grabbed the shoes. ‘Come on, Buttons, let’s leg it,’ Amy giggled, ‘before the car turns into a pumpkin!’ ‘Right behind ya, Cinders,’ Debbie called back as they made a dash for the stairs. It took several minutes for the girls to compose themselves enough so that Amy could start the engine and persuade the grumbling 2CV to leave the underground car park. ‘Take a left at the end,’ Debbie ordered. Amy obeyed. ‘Wow, what a palaver for a pair of shoes I’ll never wear again!’ she giggled. ‘They nearly crippled me the one time I wore them.’ ‘I thought you were making that bit up. Oh, turn right here, then left again at the lights.’ ‘First gig I ever went to with Justin. I didn’t want him to know straight away what a midget I am, and I’d just got them, and you know how, whenever you get new shoes, you just have to wear them straight away? Like, that very night?’ Debbie nodded. ‘Or else the Shoe Goblin comes and casts an evil spell on you? Left again at Millets.’ ‘That’s the one. So, the gig was brilliant, and we were dancing, and I knew after only about half an hour that if I didn’t take the shoes off I’d have to saw my legs off to get some relief from the excruciating pain and I didn’t fancy doing that …’ ‘Right after Accessorize, which is round the corner!’ ‘So I took them off.’ ‘Your legs?’ ‘The shoes, you muppet. And danced barefoot, staring at his chest. Y’know, he can rest his chin on the top of my head – it’s kind of nice.’ Or, at least, it usedto be kind of nice. ‘And nobody stood on you? Straight on here, but look out for an opticians on the left, then go right.’ ‘He’s got a really smooth chest, Debs. And that night it smelled of cocoa butter …’ ‘Amy, pet, I think you’re over-sharing a bit now. Since when did a bloke smell of cocoa butter?’ ‘It was nice! And he carried me out of the tent – did I say, the gig was in a marquee in the grounds of this fantastic stately home?’ ‘No, you – Left at the Vodaphone shop, no, wait – did I say left? I meant right at the Vodaphone shop. Oops! Orange shop! Since when did the Vodaphone shop become the Orange shop? Or maybe it was always the Orange shop and I just forgot …’ ‘Whatever, so there’s me, barefoot, being carried across this lush wet grass towards Justin’s car, dangling the shoes from my fingers – I thought he was going to drive me back to the flat I lived in at the time but he asked me if I wanted to go back to his place instead …’ ‘And, oh, let me take a wild guess. You said, “Certainly not, sire. I’m a good girl, I am. Take me home this instant, or my governess will be most anxious!” Yup, straight along here, past the Good Luck Chinese – fantastic foo yung in there, by the way.’ Amy grinned. ‘Something like that. Anyway, I moved in with him the very next day.’ Debbie was silent for a few moments. Amy sensed that she was wrestling with herself, probably dying to unleash a pithy ‘That was your first mistake’ type of comment but, for once, veered away from the killer one-liner. ‘Ah. Nice,’ was all she said in the end. ‘So where are we going now? This isn’t the way we came in, is it?’ Amy asked. ‘I thought you’d never ask!’ Debbie smirked. ‘Here, yes, left here, into the car park.’ Amy indicated to the left. ‘Wow, this looks like some size of a shopping mall!’ Debbie nodded. ‘And tonight it’s open till eight, as well.’ ‘Oh?’ Amy pulled a ticket from the machine and the barrier lifted. ‘What is it you need to buy? Something to take to your folks?’ ‘Don’t be daft,’ Debbie snorted. ‘They’d think I was either pregnant or wanting to tap them for cash if I arrived home with presents. No, I, er, need to buy a dress, actually. And while we’re at it, you could probably do with buying a couple of pairs of shoes for your trip. Those torture shoes aren’t going to get you very far.’ ‘Fair point, but why tonight? What’s the rush? And what’s the mystery item?’ Debbie coloured. ‘A ball dress.’ Amy blinked. ‘Pardon? You’re going to a … Debbie! Not the Polish Ball?’ ‘Yep, tomorrow night! Shame you won’t still be around to drive me there in this old pumpkin,’ she giggled, patting the 2CV’s dashboard. It was just as well the car park was nearly empty, as Amy couldn’t concentrate on manoeuvring the car into one of the spaces, and ended up straddling two. ‘But how on earth … ? Debbie! I let you out of my sight for five, count them, five minutes back in that place and you manage to pull?’ ‘Correct. Don’t look so surprised, kiddo. I can work fast when I have to.’ Debbie pulled out her handbag mirror and licked her lips provocatively. ‘So tell me all about this brave – sorry, I mean lucky, obviously – bloke, then? Was he hiding in the ladies?’ ‘Don’t you remember him?’ Debbie looked surprised. ‘Big feller, fair hair, foreign, Rambo pecs – and the rest…’ ‘The Polish guy?’ Amy shrieked. ‘Mr Nutcracker-Butt?’ ‘Oh, Polish, is he? Yes, that would sort of make sense, wouldn’t it, considering it’s a Polish Society Ball – yes, that’s him.’ ‘How, for Pete’s sake?’ ‘Got talking to him at the water cooler just inside the gym – I peeked in to eye up the talent and what do you know? Talent appeared.’ ‘So how did you move from introducing yourself to blagging an invitation to a ball in less than five minutes?’ Debbie was reapplying gloss to her mouth, pouting into her metallic pink handbag mirror. ‘I just asked him where a girl has to go to have a good time around here, that’s all, and he invited me there and then – It was like taking candy off a kid. Don’t you think he’s just … edible?’ Amy couldn’t imagine ever being that hungry. But she nodded all the same. ‘Tell you one thing, though, Debs, you’d better keep out of Iwona and Marta’s way. I think they thought they had him all wrapped up for themselves.’ Debbie spread her palm out and gestured at her face. ‘See this face? Does it look bovvered?’ Amy laughed. ‘Come on then, you big hussy – you shall go to the ball. And I’m picking the shoes!’ CHAPTER NINE (#u915d57d6-089d-501d-8652-bbc8b267aa9f) It had been twelve years since Amy had last been in Berkshire, even though the county lay only a short distance to the west of London. It had been in winter; her parents took her to Windsor Castle as a Christmas holiday treat. She had been thrilled to be told she was going to see the Queen’s ‘real’ home and, according to her mother (although she couldn’t remember this), had spent the entire trip trying to peer through windows to see if she could spot Her Majesty watching telly. She’d even asked if the Queen would be wearing slippers, and when she got home that evening, had made an elaborate drawing of what Royal Slippers might look like. Tassels and diamonds had featured heavily. Now, the day after her success at Delsey’s Gym, Amy was once again in Berkshire, only this time, alone. She’d said goodbye to Debbie in Newcastle that morning, wishing her luck for the Polish Ball before setting off early to track down the second address on the shoe list. As the 2CV roared past Windsor, Amy tried not to glance at the castle looming on the horizon: pangs of nostalgia were making it hard enough to concentrate on the unfamiliar road as it was. She had had so few family outings – not many that she could remember, anyhow. But the Windsor Castle trip had been a truly golden day. She remembered the strawberry ice cream her dad had bought her, which melted all the way down the front of her navy-blue duffel coat and onto her fur-lined silver plastic boots – her Spice Girls boots. Remembering these brought a smile to her lips for the first time that day. She’d worn them until they fell to bits, and had been heartbroken when her mother finally threw them out. And only a few weeks after the Windsor Castle trip, her father was dead: killed in a car accident driving home from work late one icy night. She shook her head violently, trying physically to wrench the sad thoughts from her mind. Her mission was hard enough without inviting in more painful memories. Thatcham, Winterbourne, Chieveley, Peasemore. Amy drove past signs to towns and villages that sounded impossibly pretty, wishing she had Debbie or Jesminder with her to keep her company. Or Justin. Where the heck was Justin? At last, after two stops to check her road map, she arrived at the village on the list – Brightwalton. Her heart quickened as she navigated her way past the church, over the canal, and finally pulled up outside a pretty, red-brick terraced cottage. Number three. She was there. Putting off the moment, she pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and punched Justin’s number on speed-dial. She jumped when an automated voice announced: ‘The number you have called has not been recognised. Please check the number and try again.’ He had disconnected his phone. He. Had. Disconnected. His. Phone. On autopilot, Amy hung up and looked around her, the phone falling from her hands into the footwell. She had never felt so alone in her life. Dully, she checked her reflection in her handbag mirror. Dark shadows circled her eyes and her forehead sported twin vertical frown lines just above her nose. They hadn’t been there a week ago. I look like shit. With a sigh, she locked the car, made her way up the cobbled path to the green-painted front door, and rang the bell. Now her heart began to dance a brutal tango in her chest. ‘I’ll get it!’ came a small voice from inside. ‘Oh!’ Amy exclaimed, as a little girl of around eight or nine greeted her, wearing a pale pink ballet tutu, complete with net skirt and ribboned ballet shoes. ‘Hello!’ Immediately, the tango in her heart upped its tempo. I don’t believe it! This has to be where Mum’s dancingslippers are! It just has to be! ‘You look pretty!’ Amy twittered. ‘Is your mummy at home, please?’ ‘Who is it, Miranda?’ came a woman’s voice from the kitchen. Without waiting for a reply, the girl’s mother appeared. Short, flustered, barefoot, pretty in a dishevelled sort of way and very, very pregnant. ‘Hello, you’re early, aren’t you?’ Her voice was friendly enough, but Amy could tell straight away that the woman was exhausted. It showed in every move she made, in every trying-to-be-polite word she spoke, the dark circles under her eyes even more impressive than Amy’s. Amy opened her mouth to speak. ‘Sophie?’ A man’s voice called through from the back of the house, ‘any chance I could get that kettle now, please? Bit of an emergency out back…’ The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Coming.’ She grimaced apologetically at Amy. ‘Come in, please. My husband’s doing something completely vital to the onion plants – won’t be a sec.’ She bustled back towards the kitchen and Amy, unsure of the correct course of action, followed. The kitchen was a sea of family clutter: ironing, toys, crockery and a paint-laden child’s easel filled every available space. It had a warm, homely feel yet still Amy’s heart went out to the woman who was yanking the kettle from its socket and handing it to the lanky, apologetic-looking man standing in the back doorway. ‘And Tim? Don’t get mud on it,’ she sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘I won’t, darling,’ he replied. His voice was soft and patient. He too looked exhausted. Something’s not quite right here … ‘Thanks.’ Amy heard the faintly contrite tone in Sophie’s voice, but her husband was already gone, shoulders slightly stooped, back towards the canes and nets of a vegetable patch that lay beyond the child’s swing set. ‘Sorry about that,’ the woman said, smiling weakly at Amy. ‘So, you must be the lady who rang up about needing volunteers for the Community Council?’ Eh? Yikes … ‘Me?’ Amy pointed at herself with her thumb. ‘No, not exactly. I’m sorry to trouble you, but well, my name’s Amy Marsh and there’s been a mix-up over some shoes I sold on eBay and I thought I’d better come in person to try and sort it out.’ Sophie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Shoes? You’re here about shoes? Oh, silly me! Well, that’s much more fun than discussing bric-a-brac committees for the Autumn Bazaar! I love shoes!’ Then immediately her face darkened again. ‘Most of the time, anyhow.’ She turned her head and shot a malevolent look towards the garden. ‘Look, I’m sure if there’s been a mix-up we can sort it out. Miranda!’ The little girl skipped through from the sitting room. ‘Put this on your bed, then go and finish your practice outside. Take Peter with you. Daddy can look after him for a while – for once. Please.’ She handed her daughter a freshly ironed summer frock. Miranda took it and danced upstairs. ‘It’s stupid, really,’ Amy mumbled, ‘but, well, I didn’t mean to sell this particular pair, and I was passing, so I just thought I’d pop in …’ she tailed off, feeling wretched, hating the half-truth. It seemed so out of place in the safe, family environment into which she had been invited. ‘Don’t worry,’ Sophie replied, ‘I do that sort of thing all the time.’ Then she frowned. ‘No, actually I don’t – but I have got some new eBay shoes upstairs. Why don’t you come up and take a look?’ ‘Are you sure?’ Amy glanced guiltily at Sophie’s impressive bump, the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. ‘You’re not too tired?’ ‘Course not.’ Sophie smiled. ‘Come on.’ They met Miranda again on the upstairs landing. She was pulling her small brother, who was engrossed by his Game Boy, out of his bedroom. ‘Come on, Petey, Mummy said NOW! And Mummy’s very tired, and Daddy says we’ve got to do what Mummy says until she has the baby!’ Sophie smiled at this. ‘And every day after that for the rest of your lives, darlings,’ she reminded them as they descended the stairs and went out the back. ‘At least that’s one thing he’s got right lately,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, my name’s Sophie – you’re Amy, isn’t that what you said?’ She walked into her bedroom and crossed to where a huge antique pine double wardrobe stood against the far wall. ‘That’s right. And I’m really sorry …’ ‘No more apologies! Right, you want shoes? Ta-da!Shoes!’ As Sophie flung open the double doors, Amy gasped. Dozens upon dozens of pairs of beautiful shoes – a collection to rival her own, easily. ‘Can’t you just smell the leather?’ Sophie inhaled, her eyes closed. An expression of pure bliss flashed over her face, just for a moment. Amy grinned. ‘Are you my long-lost sister, by any chance? That’s what I feel like when I open my shoe cupboard!’ Sophie smiled back. ‘Do you sometimes touch them, you know, just to feel their shape – not like you’re going to wear them or anything … ? Oh, my Lord, you must think you’ve been kidnapped by a shoe-psycho.’ ‘Nope,’ Amy assured her, ‘I’m right with you on that one. What a fabulous collection!’ She was scanning the racks of perfectly stacked shoes, unboxed, though each pair was neatly pigeonholed in a contraption that resembled an oversized wine rack. But although the shoes were lovely, and just her style, Amy saw straight away that not one single pair was familiar. And there definitely weren’t any ballet slippers. ‘I could look at them all day.’ Sophie snorted. ‘Huh, that’s all I’m managing to do these days, look at them. It’s doing my head in. See these?’ She gestured down to her feet. Amy peered politely down below the loose cotton shift dress Sophie was wearing. ‘Oh, you poor thing!’ Sophie’s ankles were terribly swollen and her bare feet looked so puffy that Amy couldn’t help thinking that her toes resembled fat little sausages. She couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Hideous, aren’t they?’ Sophie said. ‘I haven’t been able to wear any of my shoes for weeks; been flapping around in flip-flops half the time.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t you think flip-flops are the worst invention known to man? They’re the black sheep of the shoe family, aren’t they?’ Amy agreed. ‘Mmm – and such a horrible name! Flip-flops!’ ‘I always used to think that life as I knew it would be officially over the day I started wearing flip-flops anywhere other than on the beach. And here I am! Flipping and flopping like an old walrus!’ ‘You’re not an old walrus, don’t be daft,’ Amy soothed. ‘But, well, you do have my sympathy.’ ‘Thanks.’ Sophie turned and walked over to the window. She gazed down onto the back garden where rasping spade sounds mixed with Miranda’s singing and the tinny music from Peter’s Game Boy. ‘See that man out there?’ Sophie jerked her head towards her husband, who was trying to get Peter to turn the Game Boy off and kick a football. ‘Do you know what he did?’ ‘Um, no?’ Sophie sank down onto her bed and sighed, rubbing the small of her back. ‘Two weeks ago,’ she began, ‘was our wedding anniversary. Eleven years.’ ‘Congratulations.’ Amy faltered, sensing that the next part wasn’t going to be pretty. ‘Huh, thanks. Anyway, Tim said he’d got a surprise for me – great, huh?’ ‘Usually …’ ‘Precisely. Usually we’d go for dinner, or on a mini-break, or to the theatre, or somewhere. I knew he had something special planned because he’d arranged for Miranda and Peter to go to his parents’ for the night. You know what?’ ‘Tell me.’ Amy held her breath. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lucy-hepburn/clicking-her-heels/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.