The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (27 page)

       
‘Umm ... I ... err ... need ... your help.’

       
I feel like asking her to repeat it, to make sure that I heard her correctly, only she looks as if she’s just had to swallow a live mouse. I’m equally tempted to do a small double take and turn round to see if there’s someone standing behind me that perchance knows the League Table Results for London Primary Schools, or the Ofsted Reports, by heart.

       
‘Yeees ...’ I say tentatively.

       
‘It’s Mary. And the mother-and-baby clinic,’ she says gravely.

       
I frown.

       
‘Have you been there lately?’ She again fixes her unnerving gaze on me.

       
‘Umm ...’ Oh, blow it, what’s another black mark against my name? ‘Not really. No.’

       
‘It’s closed down. You’ll now have to go across to the next borough – it’s not even in our parking zone.’

       
‘But that’s crazy ...’ I know I haven’t spoken to Mary lately, but even so, she would have come and told me about it. Wouldn’t she? It doesn’t make sense. At all.

       
‘That’s so sneaky of them to do it in the holidays – while no one’s around. What’s with all the builders down there, then?’

       
‘Aha, well ... I’ve done some phoning around,’ says Victoria. ‘It appears that it’s being turned into a state-of-the-art document-storage facility for Health Service medico-legal files. Fully climate-controlled and alarmed, no less! Oh, and with a new kitchen, a lift
and
an office staff of three.’

       
‘You’re having me on, aren’t you?’

       
Unfortunately, she’s deadly serious and she goes on to tell me that Mary was given notice four weeks ago, too. Heck, I feel awful. I’ve been so engrossed in my mum shoes world and obsessing over making myself glam for Tim’s return that the whole event seems to have passed me by.

       
Apparently, Mary did not meet any of her new ‘patient targets’, in particular the ‘breast-feeding targets’. Which is, of course, absurd. I doubt there’s a maternity-nurse more dedicated than Mary. I, for one, have benefited from the fact that she’s always doing home visits above and beyond the call of duty – especially in those early days to help with breast-feeding.

       
And boy, has she had her work cut out! The past year has seen a phenomenal baby boom around here. What with all the forty-plus career women and their double and triple buggies bulging with gorgeous IVF bubs. Plus we thirty-something mums following closely behind. And not to forget the teen mums who swell Mary’s flock.

       
And then I remember the form that Mary ripped up on my first visit to the new-mothers’ group. Oh, no. Her dignity and respect for her patients has been repaid by the bureaucrats giving her the boot. She must be devastated.

       
Victoria’s obviously pretty annoyed by the whole situation too – she’s all of a sudden jittery and flushed, and can’t seem to sit still. And then she stops in her tracks.

       
‘Can you smell something?’ she says, sniffing the air like a rabbit.

       
‘Oh, it’s probably a barbecue – the Australians across the back are always at it.’

       
‘No – it smells more like  ...’

       
And then we see it. BLOODY HELL. A small lick of flame peeks up above the garden-shed windowsill. And Dad runs out. One of his laptops is on fire!

       
And here I was worrying that he’d blow up the kitchen or bathroom with one of his physics experiments – not burn my garden shed down with a rogue bloody laptop. This is
so
not happening.

       
Dad frantically darts around the garden, looking for something to dampen the flames, while Victoria and I grab the girls and Pierre and leg it straight inside. In the heart-stopping panic, I have a flash of inspiration. I fetch the fire blanket Tim gave me for Christmas and sprint back out to the shed and throw it on the laptop. It smothers the flames instantly. (Won’t Harry and Tim be thrilled!)

       
A very close call indeed.

       
My heart is still pounding (about three inches outside my body) when Victoria comes to inspect the ruins, but my attention is caught by her gasp of blatant surprise. And it’s not the charred remains of the laptop she’s looking at.

       
‘Oh. That’s my Cat-a-Pole,’ I admit sheepishly, as Victoria glares at the pole in the corner of the shed. I feel obliged to mutter something about how I needed to lose weight (though I don’t go into the whole marriage-crisis-makeover thing) and how Dad and I had to be ‘resourceful’ in finding a cheap alternative to a gym membership.

       
You see, Millie spied The Cat’s DVD,
Cat-a-Pole the Pounds Away: From Mummy to Scrummy in Three Easy Weeks
, on the council dump pile during one of her morning jaunts with Dad, and insisted that she bring it home to me. She recognised the photo of The Cat on its cover. (I think we need to do some more reading of
Peter Rabbit
and a little less of
Hello!
) Dad was highly impressed by Millie’s intelligence in identifying The Cat. But not more than me, when Dad assured me that he could rig up a pole in the shed from some old scaffolding that he’d found, and set up our small TV/DVD player so that I could do my exercises up there – in private. And completely for free!

       
I confess to Victoria that Millie
loves
to watch my Cat-a-Pole routine – as all the moves are done to the primal beats of the Pussycat Dolls (not quite Mozart, I know). And along with my sprints to and from Marco’s studio, I think my activity levels have multiplied a hundredfold and my metabolism with it. So my new jeans were necessary not only on the fashion front, but the size front too, as I’ve managed to lose quite a bit of weight. (Yippee!) I really can’t wait to see Tim’s reaction when he returns tomorrow.

       
Victoria pauses thoughtfully and then says matter-of-factly, ‘Yes. You do look different. Good for you. Keep it up.’

       
And at that, she turns and leaves as quickly as she came. But not before getting my new email address and telling me that she will send through her plan to ‘save Mary and the mother-and-baby clinic’ to me tonight.

       
I eagerly await my instructions.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Capsule Shoe Wardrobe
 
A little something to help you build your shoe collection around  ...
 
Falling-in-love Shoes
– classic high-heeled court shoes to show off legs, with a peep-toe and/or toe cleavage to hint of things to come.
Night-on-the-town-with-the-girls Shoes
– must be able to dance in these shoes, so go for medium to high heels (depending on your heel endurance) with a T-bar or ankle strap. Patent leather is always good for withstanding busy bar areas. Never wear peep-toes or open toes – you’ll get trodden on.
Hot-date Shoes
– definitely high-heeled mules – for ease of kicking off in a hurry.
Shopping Shoes
– when comfort and flexibility need to take a front seat, opt for a classic loafer or sturdy ballet flat.
Holiday Shoes
– should always be sparkly slides for the summer. And low to medium boots for winter sightseeing.
Work Shoes
– leave your black stiletto thigh-high boots at home. (Unless you work in a funky ad agency, in which case may I suggest leopardprint dominatrix platforms.) Only do seriously high heels at work if you’re extremely confident in them – otherwise senior male colleagues will wipe the floor with you. Best to stick with polished, reliable shoes with a sneak of attitude, like a mid-height heel (demi-wedges work well), slingback or court.
Airport Shoes
– must be able to run in these, plus slip them on/off easily and cope with slight swelling after long-haul flights. Flat mules are best or a loose-fitting ballet pump.
Pram Shoes
– best to avoid points, heels and anything that can’t withstand puddles. To maintain some semblance of pre-baby fashion cred, try an adult version of the Mary Jane for a pretty yet practical solution.
 
Top Tip
 
Any shoe with a Velcro fastening should remain the sole preserve of those with milk teeth or ten thumbs. Velcro straps are the clothing equivalent of T-shirts. So please make an effort princesses.
 
Think about it.

24. Backtracking

From:        Tim (Bangalore)

To:                Jane (home)

Subject:        RE: Millie’s Birthday

To My Darling Little Millie

       
Unfortunately, Daddy has to stay at work one week longer in Bangalore, and won’t be able to be with you on your first birthday. But I look forward to giving you the biggest hug ever, very soon.

       
Your loving Daddy xo

I stare at the email, completely dumbfounded. It’s the eve of Tim’s long-planned-for return home. He
cannot
possibly be serious.

       
I’ve been so consumed by my big transformation and having him here for Millie’s birthday that I don’t know what to think, or how to respond. And not so much as a brief phone call to apologise or explain, either. Yet another Oscar-winning performance in his well-rehearsed role of avoiding-the-hard-questions-from-the-nagging-wife, it seems.

       
The more I think about it, the more I’m positive that Alex is behind it too. Why else would he be so cowardly?

       
A wild mix of emotions – anger, sadness, confusion, rejection – whirl within me, eventually coming together in a stabbing migraine. I breathe deeply, trying to remain calm and, dare I say, positive. For when Tim finally does come home next week, I sincerely hope that there is a marriage worth saving. As personally, I’m beginning to think that the emotional baggage under our rug (with the label ‘Alex’) is getting a little bit too lumpy underfoot to ignore very much longer.

       
I’m just thankful that Victoria has me working on the save-Mary-and-the-mother-and-baby-clinic crusade all this week (otherwise I’m sure I’d be a gibbering, nervous wreck). And there is no doubt that Victoria is in her element. Churchill’s war bunker has nothing on the campaign headquarters in her basement Shaker kitchen – where she, Mary and I are assembled for our first meeting today (tissue box at the ready for Mary).

       
Poor Mary is bereft. This job has been the essence of her existence for her entire working life. She was literally in shock at being given notice, and had accepted her fate reluctantly and dutifully. And, as it turns out, silently.