The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (26 page)

My only regret about this incredibly hectic summer of shoe-making is that I haven’t seen as much of Mary as I normally do. And bar the odd friendly greeting across the street, I haven’t spoken to her at all. As one of us was always in a mad rush. But I know she’ll understand, especially when I tell her about this exciting new direction I’ve found with shoes – which, I must say, feels
wonderful
.

       
In fact, I’m so inspired by the success of my mum shoes sales that I rekindle the idea of going to Milan with Marco in October and visiting the Ars Arpel Shoe School – given that it coincides with when Tim’s due to be in London. He can look after Millie for one day, surely?

       
The minute I sound this idea out with Ben, he insists that I go. Even saying that he’d like to join us, as there’s a new interior design store he’d like to visit. And in the light of Fi’s neuroses about Marco (and indeed Marco’s appearances in my own little err ... subconscious wanderings) it seems like the perfect plan. Ben can be my chaperone. (Or vice versa, seeing as though I’m practically old enough to be his mother.) That’s it sorted then: two students off to Milan for the day, with their teacher. Superb!

       
Except that I don’t have any money left from my mum shoes sales to pay for the air fare.

       
Unbelievably, Ben offers to pay for my easyJet ticket now – saying that I can pay him back as soon as I make my next batch of shoes. I waver, throwing all kinds of excuses his way about Millie needing me, and my shoe-making skills perhaps not being quite good enough to warrant a spot in an Ars Arpel class. But he’s insistent, and books the tickets anyway.

       
I’m immediately hugely indebted to him. But with Dad about to go home, I’m also only too aware that I won’t be able to make another big batch of mum shoes any time soon.

       
What to do?

       
Of course, it’s so obvious: It’s time for the shoe pimp to broaden her clientele beyond SP bloggers and move into the
big
league.

       
I do a gigantic clean-out of all my what-on-earth-was-I-thinking-of-at-the-time shoes plus my pre-Millie-not-a-chance-in-hell-of-fitting-me-ever-again shoes that are still in good condition, collecting about fifty pairs.

       
And now for a computer lesson on all things eBay. From the addict herself, Liz.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Shoe Are You?
 
Claytons SP
This princess, usually a lawyer or senior executive, protests that she’s not into shoes for fear of chinking her feminist armour. But she has very strong views on what shoes she will (sensible, high-quality Italian leather work shoes with a low to medium heel) and won’t (stilettos or any shoe with ribboned adornment or colour other than black and brown) wear. She detests it when the inner on her shoes goes all wrinkly and smelly and out of shape.
 
Trendy Trainer SP
A close relative of the Claytons SP. She likes to think that she is no frivolous fashionista, but does have very strict views on what brand, shape, colour and style of trainer she will be seen in. Often has many, many pairs of trainers.
 
Practical SP
Will only wear comfortable shoes with no or low heels. Is not the least bit concerned with fashion trends, fabric, brand or quality of shoes. A close cousin to her is the White Trainer SP – usually the SP who has completely given in to comfort over style. The most extreme form of the Practical SP is the Anti-SP, who sees feet merely as the bothersome yet necessary means of transport, and completely undeserving of embellishment. She would happily do away with shoes altogether if the pavements were not so littered with dog poo.
 
Shoe Queen
Usually the octogenarian granny who genuinely adores shoes and has a lifetime of happy ‘shoe memories’ to her credit. She constantly complains about the lack of comfortable yet stylish shoes available for women of her age. Genuinely enjoys keeping up to date with her granddaughter’s shoe collection, and viewing the fashion spreads in newspapers and magazines.
 
Still haven’t found yourself? Keep looking!

23. Goody Two Shoes

It’s Sunday, and the last day of Dad’s summer stay. Millie’s having her afternoon sleep, Dad’s in the garden shed packing away his computers, jumble of experiments and half-finished repair projects (that were supposed to have been done days age), and Liz and I are in the study getting me set up on eBay. She’s just returned from her and Harry’s summer holiday in Menorca and kindly answered my SOS as soon as she got it (eBay being just a smidge out of Dad’s computer-skills league).

       
‘My! You’ve certainly been super busy, haven’t you?’ Liz is clicking through the photos of my mum shoes on my digital camera. ‘They’re divine!’ She pauses and then ventures a little hesitantly, ‘Can I put in an order for a pair – even if I’m not a fully-fledged mum,
just
yet?’

       
I immediately stop what I’m doing and swing round to look her in the eye. She’s crying. And smiling.

       
‘I’m fourteen weeks today,’ she manages to say.

       
‘Oh, Liz! This is the
best
news. Ever!’ I say, hugging her. And then, of course, I start crying too. ‘How are you? How have you been feeling?’

       
‘Good. So far, so good,’ she says amidst the tears, and then stands up proudly to show off her bump. Which is, I have to say, only barely visible and rather cleverly concealed under her foho chic Liberty print smock top.

       
‘I’m just sooooo pleased for you and Harry!’ We’re both practically sobbing now.

       
‘But I have been
hideously
ill.’ Liz pulls a funny face and tries to lighten the mood a little. ‘I only stopped vomiting a few days ago.’

       
‘Don’t worry, hopefully that’s the end of it – and you’ll soon be basking in the radiant glow of the second trimester,’ I reassure her, as I too try to pull myself together. ‘I was
exactly
the same with Millie.’ Though oddly enough, as I think about it now, I can barely remember that awful feeling of all-day sea-sickness that I was certain would be etched on my brain for ever. It’s a bit like the birth – a rather distant, fuzzy recollection now. (And without doubt Mother Nature’s sneaky little way of making sure we go back for more.)

       
‘Great. I very much like the sound of
glowing
– a lot,’ she says. ‘Actually, Menorca was just what the doctor ordered: magical weather and beaches. All very relaxing. Oh, and you would have
loved
the shoe shopping.’

       
‘I know – ever since I saw the SP Holiday Hot Spot recommendation I’ve been daydreaming about how I can get there. I’m so jealous.’

       
‘I did a deal with Harry, and we drove to the Jaime Mascaró shoe-factory outlet in exchange for him doing a whole day of golf. The new range of ballet flats are to die for, by the way. I’m now a convert – and have an excess-baggage fine to prove it!’ She gently rubs her belly and then glances at the computer screen. ‘And of course, I’ve already furnished my whole nursery from eBay.’

When we’re finally finished, some two hours later, and I’ve taken down all the details I need for Liz’s mum shoes (I will delight in making them for her as a pregnancy gift), she heads home. Millie wakes up soon after, and she and Dad and I settle in the garden for our last-afternoon tea together. An occasion tinged with much sadness (at seeing him go), fondness (at having got to know him better) but most of all gratitude. As he’s undoubtedly helped me turn my life around this past month – in so many ways. And for that, I will
always
be truly grateful. I bring out some cupcakes that Millie and I made this morning especially for him, as a small token of our appreciation.

       
Dad and I are happily discussing the meaning of life and the existence of anti-matter when the doorbell rings. Dad picks Millie up (who’s squealing with delight – as she thinks it’s Florence) and goes to the front door.

       
He returns with a rather anxious look. I hope nothing’s happened to Florence. I do worry about her, wandering about that terraced house all by herself. ‘It’s a young lady with a baby about the same age as Millie – I didn’t quite catch her name. She seems a little out of sorts  ...’

       
I’m intrigued, and make my way to the front door.

       
‘Jane, hi,’ says Victoria.

       
What in the name of Manolo Blahnik is
she
doing here? Victoria’s never shown a scrap of interest in visiting us. (And the one time I invited her over, she didn’t even make the effort to come.) She has quite a cheek, turning up during our special farewell garden party.

       
‘Can we come in?’ she says, pushing her Bugaboo into the hallway before I have a chance to reply.

       
We squeeze past it back down to the garden. Allegra immediately crawls over to a very excited Millie, who’s playing in the muddy quagmire that used to be our lawn (thanks to all the rain this summer) with Pierre (her furry best friend).

       
‘Your phone line’s
always
engaged – I had no choice but to come over in person.’ Victoria seems visibly irritated. ‘And your emails keep getting returned.’

       
‘Oh, sorry.’ I explain about my new hotmail address. (Dad helped me set it up.) ‘We’ve also only got one phone line and Dad’s
always
tracking a tornado or tsunami or some such thing in real time.’ I shoot a disapproving stare at Dad, who seems to have developed selective deafness.

       
‘Victoria, can I introduce you to my dad, Bert? He’s been staying with us this past month – for his sins!’ I wink at Dad while saying Victoria’s name with
just
enough emphasis so that I can see the penny drop. I’m often bemoaning her and her bloody know-it-all homilies on mothering. Though in some ways, I truly wish I could be more like her. As she seems to be completely content at home. Whenever we’re over at her house, she’s always up ladders changing curtains, cleaning light fittings, cooking a casserole, mending socks, hosting her educational groups – she may as well put a crèche sign on the front door.

       
‘You haven’t been to Bambini Yogalini for weeks,’ Victoria reprimands. ‘I don’t know how you
ever
expect Millie to sleep through the night without it.’ The afternoon sun catches tiny beads of sweat spotting her forehead – and when I peer closer I notice she’s in a lather of sweat. (Probably just been on her daily three-mile run, knowing her.) ‘And what happened to Tumble Tots, Alpha Beta Rocket Reader, Super Signing, Mini Maths and Musical Maestros?’ she says in her usual bossy manner.

       
‘I’ve been busy,’ I say vaguely, and smile politely towards Dad as he disappears into the garden shed.

       
Victoria’s clearly unimpressed by my lack of diligence. She takes a sip of the iced water I fetch her, and falters a little, before I hear the most peculiar utterance emerge from her mouth.