The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (16 page)

       
But we always seem to be busy. And I always seem to be in a permanent state of exhaustion. (We haven’t fully cracked the night-time sleep thing yet.) I sometimes think that it’s the constant second-guessing that frazzles my brain the most: is it teething (isn’t it always?); too much sleep; not enough sleep; dairy; immunisations; hungry; thirsty; too hot; too cold? I thought by now, at least, I’d have a grip on this mothering business. But it’s proving to be a little more slippery than that. What with the relentless pace of growth and change in this first year, I no sooner think I’ve got the hang of things and the goal-posts move again.

       
Mum and Dad are busier than ever, and only manage to pop down to London now and then. And Kate’s taken up a new philosophy course on Saturdays, so she doesn’t see as much of Millie as she used to either.

       
I also haven’t seen much of the girls since the shoe-making weekend back in March. When Fi’s not busy with work she’s surgically attached to Marco – they both seem very happy (an all-time record). I never did take Marco up on his kind offer to use his studio to make my mum shoes – though I think about it often. (The story of my life at the moment.) Liz’s gone underground – maybe starting another round of IVF? Not sure and not game to ask. And Rachel’s still slinking off to the stationery cupboard with her work lover – yet another record.

       
Oh, yes, and Tim. My husband. He’s also kind of deserted us. He phones daily when he’s in Bangalore (still three weeks out of four) and has set up a webcam on the computer for Millie. Poor little sweetheart, she’s gone from thinking her father’s a ‘bonding board’ to an interactive computer game. I do miss him terribly, but the sad thing is, we’re quite set in our own little routines now and actually getting quite used to it.

       
But that doesn’t mean we haven’t made some new friends too. There’s Florence, my ninety-two-year-old neighbour – a true local, who was born in her tiny terraced house and went on to raise six children there. I can’t believe I’d lived here for three years and barely said hello to her before now. Florence is always good for a pot of tea and a chat. As well as a gentle reminder of the layer of privilege that encompasses modern-day life, which is brought forcefully home when she recounts stories of far too many babies and relatives lost to disease and war.

       
And then, lest I forget, that wonderful world of daytime TV, where my home-makeover obsession is now in fierce competition with
The Wiggles
, which Millie adores. (I must admit the tunes are quite catchy.) And then there’s
Brunch with Britain
– bursting at the seams with bickering and subliminal power-plays between the deliciously vacuous (and quite handsome) Gavin and the perma-tanned, perma-surprised (Botox-overdosed?) Tamsin. Live theatre at its best! Sophie used to call them our daily G & T – sufficiently mind-numbing, yet pleasantly addictive.

       
Thankfully, I’ve still got my faithful royal web family – the Shoe Princess and Trash Queenz. Florence can’t quite get her head around me needing to talk to women in cyberspace, especially when she had her entire extended family living within a one-mile radius. But they truly are a lifeline.

       
As is Mary the health visitor, I have to say. Ever since she found out about Tim being away so much, she’s made a concerted effort to pop in and say hello when she’s on her morning rounds. She’ll often call in to us at the end of her clinic days too and stop for a proper chat. I hadn’t realised just how much I looked forward to her visits until she took a few days off recently – I really missed her smiling face and genuine concern for our well-being. And, of course, Millie adores her.

       
So, what does all of this add up to? Well, that largely depends upon which day and which hour of that day the question’s asked: Lucky. Suffocated. Awestruck. Invisible. Proud. Bittersweet. Happy. Tired. Lonely. Content. Bored. Humble. Guilty. Challenged. Loved. Very, very loved. And in love. With Millie.

‘Jane, pick up the phone. It’s Fi. You have to be home. It’s 9.30 a.m. Friday morning. Please tell me you’re not at a baby group. Well, if you are, you’re becoming a ... a ... playgroup junkie. It can’t be good for Millie – all this Mozart whatsamathingy. Goodness knows, all we used to do was crawl around our mothers’ legs and play with pegs while she hung out the washing – and we turned out all right. Oh, come on. Pick. Up. The. Phone.’

       
‘Fi, hi. Lovely to hear from you. Where are you?’

       
‘I’m in the car. On my way back into London – I’ve had a week away with client meetings and –’

       
‘Great,’ I cut in. ‘You won’t believe what we’re watching? G & T got the big interview with The Cat.’ The nation’s been holding its collective breath over her ‘alleged’ split from Jeremy Jones, the football hero turned celebrity chef. (And incidentally, not Happy Sunshine’s father.)

       
‘Ohmy god. Even the Trash Queenz couldn’t scoop this. Do tell,’ Fi says excitedly.

       
‘Tamsin’s asking all the probing questions. And wait for it ... Blimey, yes, they’ve officially split. She says, “The single-mother life is best for me.” And while she can’t “confirm or deny” any rumours, she is “loving life” and looking forward to “juggling full-time motherhood” with her “business career”.’

       
‘Wow. He
did
sleep with her nanny!’ Fi can hardly contain her excitement. ‘And they were only crowned the new It couple last week.’ The curse of
Hello!
rides again.

       
‘The minx!’ I yelp. ‘She’s plonked Happy Sunshine on to Gavin’s lap and is now giving a pole-dancing demonstration. Coincidentally, a DVD called
Cat-a-Pole the Pounds Away: From Mummy to Scrummy in Three Easy Weeks
will be in the shops tomorrow.’

       
Damn, she’s good too.

       
‘And she’s wearing that bloody cat-suit again. It’s borderline soft porn. Gavin’s hyperventilating. Maybe I should turn it off – for Millie’s sake.’

       
‘Noooooo! She won’t remember it when she’s older. And if she does, I’ll pay for her psychotherapy.’

       
‘Oh, Fi. MAJOR Cat-astrophe. Happy Sunshine’s wriggled off Gavin’s lap on to the floor, picked up his half-finished mug of cold coffee, and tipped it
all over
Tamsin’s cream suede Manolos. I can’t watch.’

       
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Poor Tamsin.

       
‘Euuw. Is she absolutely throttling Gavin?’

       
‘No. Not only has she picked up Happy Sunshine and placed him on
her
lap, but she’s kept smiling as if
nothing
happened. What a pro!’

       
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to be in Gavin’s size 10s after the show today.’

       
‘Nor would I. Not in a million years.’

       
After The Cat slinks out of the studio and we’ve calmed down, Fi eventually tells me that she’s phoned to coerce Millie and me into going to a shoe exhibition with her and Marco today. It’s at a hip warehouse down by Tate Modern, and is being staged by one of Marco’s old classmates from the Ars Arpel Shoe School in Milan.

       
‘But shouldn’t you be at work?’

       
‘Oh, don’t worry – I can afford to take the rest of the day off. I’m the new golden girl – thanks to all the income I’ve been generating on the Jolie Naturelle account.’ I feel a pang as I remember that Richard was certainly good like that – never a clock-watcher. ‘... Sorry, sweetie, for mentioning Jolie Naturelle,’ Fi says awkwardly.

       
‘Don’t be silly. I’m OK. Really.’ Well, sort of. I still have the occasional moment of regret when I see Fi glowing with success. (Particularly if I’m up to my elbows in poo!) But the harsh reality that, if I was on the Jolie Naturelle account, I’d never be able to care for Millie (let alone know or understand her as well as I do) is enough to put on hold any fanciful notions of smart shoes and PowerPoint presentations. For now.

       
‘And in any case, Alison can cover. She’s been doing some unbelievable work for Jolie Naturelle lately. They adore her.’

       
Oh, bollocks, she’s still there. Still stretched like elastic, no doubt. Still tolerating the banal antics of men and the childless, fertility-controlled females (the old me). Still very good at her job, it seems. And
still
without an apology from me.

       
‘And don’t worry about money either, it’s Aunt Fi’s shout.’ Fi’s well aware of my new pauper status.

       
She also tells me that an email-alert came through this morning on Shoe Princess, saying that a portion of the entrance fees will be donated to charity – as long as we’re wearing red shoes. So we have to go.

       
‘And I know you’ve got at least forty pairs of red shoes to choose from, Jane Meadows. And so has Millie, for that matter. It will be good for her see the creative toils of a living genius for a change.’

       
I mumble something about sleeps and routine, but Fi’s having none of it.

       
‘We’ll drop by your place around midday.’

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Gain Without Pain
 
If your days of dancing till dawn in stilettos are fading fast, yet you want a statement-making high heel for a special occasion, go for a stiletto with a small platform sole. It makes for a much more comfortable ride.
 
Most designers from the high street to Chanel have embraced the platform sole this season, so there is an abundance of style variations to choose from. They work particularly well with round toes and peep-toes, in satin for the evening. And a strappy sandal with a full-wedge platform sole is great for summer sundresses.
 
But beware, SPs, if you’re over 35 years old the platform sole must not be higher than 1–1.5 cm to achieve the desired elegant silhouette. Any higher and we’re teetering into pole-dancing territory! Quite literally, given the propensity of PVC and perspex platforms on the shelves at the moment.
 
Only younger SPs can get away with the glam, ridiculously high platform wedges with a bit more attitude – think purple luminescent Miu Miu party shoes!
 
Pump Up the Volume
 
A SP can never have too many pairs of shoes. The more you have, the longer they’ll last. Remember the three golden rules of shoe wearing: rotation, rotation, rotation.

15. Heel Heaven

Something’s been bothering me about Fi since we arrived at the exhibition. And when she lifts her trousers to present her red ballet pumps to the ticket attendant (who indeed gives us a special Shoe Princess ticket, emblazoned with the name of a charity) it hits me: she’s wearing
flat
shoes.

       
I haven’t seen her in flat shoes since about 1985. It’s almost unnerving. She was adamant that she wasn’t going to succumb to the fad, too. And at least Rachel has the legs of a giraffe to carry them off, whereas Fi simply looks like me now – plain, short old Jane.

       
‘So,’ I quiz, ‘what’s with the shoes?’