The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (30 page)

       
‘...team here at
Brunch with Britain
sincerely wish her, Happy Sunshine and Strawberry Blossom well,’ he finishes, with a close-up of his furrowed brow and winsome blue eyes.

       
As the camera pans back out, and just as it cuts across to the news desk for an update, I’m
positive
that I see Tamsin (with a dagger-thin stiletto heel in each hand) lunging towards Gavin’s head  ...

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Shoe Shopping Is Better Than  ...
 
Clothes shopping, because
:
You don’t have to strip down to your bare thighs, bulging tummy and flabby arms to try shoes on.
And they can instantly update your wardrobe at a fraction of the cost of a new outfit (especially if you wear a lot of classic black clothing).
 
Cosmetics shopping, because
:
You don’t have a snooty shop assistant peering 3mm from your face and telling you that you have large pores, acne scars and blackheads.
 
Going to the gym, because
:
You can enjoy yourself, burn calories AND look good.
 
Buying perfume, because
:
You can delight in your shoes for ever.
And they won’t give you headaches (and goodness knows what else) from all the artificial fragrances and additives.
 
Kiss My Feet
 
A respected medical journal reported that stiletto heels placed LESS pressure on the knees than wider (and supposedly more comfortable) high heels. Ha!

26. Stitched Up

The front pages of the next day’s newspapers are all emblazoned with headlines like ‘Blue
Brunch
Babe!’ above photos of a
very
subdued-looking Tamsin. It’s obviously a slow news day, as it’s all the nation can talk about. Someone downloaded her ‘blue outburst’ on to YouTube and it’s broken all viewing records.

       
But of course we saw it unfold live – and it was superb! It happened just after Tamsin’s big lunge towards Gavin (which was, luckily for Gavin, heroically intercepted by Dr Pemberton, who jumped at the chance to rugby-tackle Tamsin and hold her in a prolonged embrace on the floor).

       
Tamsin let loose with a scathing Gordon Ramsay-style tirade, ‘...* off, with this * job, and my * vain as * arse * sidekick and his * halitosis and foot * odour. I have a * First in * English Lit and Political * Science from * Oxford, and was promised I’d be on the * foreign * correspondents’ * desk not the * freak * entertainer for every bored as * pensioner and jobless * tracksuit wearing * layabout  ...’

       
A little harsh, I will concede. But she was clearly having an off day.

       
She’s issued a national apology, on behalf of the network, for what was essentially a ‘personal discussion’ between her and her production team, during what she thought was a ‘segment break’. The network refuses to comment on the conspiracy theory circulating on the Net that Gavin orchestrated the whole slip in order to further his own career.

       
Anyway, the real masterstroke to this whole affair is that down in the left-hand corner of page three of
every
newspaper today is a teeny, tiny close-up photo of gorgeous little Allegra’s face, and a small article about Mary and the closure of the mother-and-baby clinic. Victoria’s PR pals pulled some strings and got the article placed. She’s one well-connected mamma! Her phone’s been running hot ever since.

One week later  ...

From:        Sophie (work)

To:                Jane (home)

Subject:        RE: Save Mary

Jane

       
You MUST go over to Victoria’s with a bottle of bubbly – now!

       
Am in meetings all afternoon, but wanted to let you know ASAP that have just heard from the other side’s legal team in response to our submission. They’ve ceded on ALL points. We’ve won! It will be announced formally tomorrow.

       
Between you and me, the chief exec of the local hospital moving into one of the big houses overlooking Queen’s Park (with a wife due to give birth to triplets any day) may have had a teensy bit to do with it. Who says living in a gentrifying area doesn’t have its advantages? Not to mention having a PR guru in your mums’ group!

       
Oh, and with all of the work on the stats and the gaping holes in the contracts and finances, Mary will start work again on Monday with the budget for two extra nurses and an admin assistant; and will be keeping the new kitchen and lift that they’ve already installed (hoorah).

       
Have a toast for me, won’t you! S xx

Unbelievably fantastic, utterly BRILLIANT news!

       
‘Come on, Millie. We’ve got some visiting to do.’

I’ve long held the sneaking suspicion that I’ve fumbled my way through this past year in a sort of haze. And that, one day very soon, the fog will lift and the old me will reappear again – bright, confident and in control.

       
But absolutely
nothing
could have prepared me for the smokescreen Victoria’s been hiding behind. And no matter how hard I try, I just can’t shake thoughts of her from my mind. It’s 2.30 a.m. and I doubt I’ve slept a wink all night.

       
I just keep mulling over and over again my chance meeting with Mary outside Victoria’s house yesterday. A lucky coincidence that, in theory, should have led to a cork-popping celebration.

       
But it wasn’t.

       
It was shocking. And unsettling. And yet, in a weird way, calming too. And I’m not particularly proud of this but, all at once, my rival spectacularly imploded. Victoria was no longer the ultra-perfect-selfless-stay-at-home-mum; but a raw, vulnerable woman just like the rest of us.

       
If only she’d talked to me – about everything – maybe she wouldn’t be where she is today?

       
You see, Mary was most anxious that we didn’t go in and see Victoria, and instead strongly suggested we go for a stroll around the park. I immediately knew by the seriousness of her tone that she was not to be questioned. But at the same time, I was completely flummoxed.

       
As we walked, Mary slowly told me – in as polite and veiled a way as she possibly could (and in
complete
confidence) – Victoria’s story: How she had (unbelievably) been wanting to return to work ever since Allegra was about six months old. But her husband, a devout believer that a woman’s place was in the home, refused to let her. Not even for the two days a week Victoria had been offered by the PR company.

       
All of a sudden, the enigma that was Victoria started to make sense to me. She obviously responded to her predicament by throwing her considerable talents into her new ‘mum job’. All the while overcompensating for her lack of control over her own life by being the ultra-bossy know-it-all with us mums and nannies on the park circuit. (I can’t tell you how much of a relief it is to understand, at least, her motives.)

       
But then, Mary said, things started to get a little sticky for Victoria. With each week that she remained at home alone with Allegra (she had no girlfriends with babies; and no extended family in London) she became deeply anxious. About everything – from global warming and pesticide residues in vegetables to parking congestion around Queen’s Park and al-Qa’ida attacks on London’s water supply. (Which neatly explains why I had to help her lug several hundred bottles of spring water down to her cellar.)

       
But most of all, she became overwhelmed by the enormous responsibility of being Allegra’s sole carer on this earth. (And there was no doubt that she loved Allegra more than life itself.) She
genuinely
feared for who would look after Allegra if she wasn’t able to – through illness or, God forbid, death. (Her husband is not hands-on in the slightest.) Victoria’s worries magnified to such an extent that she started having anxiety attacks whenever she left the house. (It was around this time, I note now, that we stopped going to Mary’s new-mothers’ group and she upped the ante on her educational baby groups at home.)

       
And when I thought about it some more, Clara (one of the mums from our mothers’ group) told me that she’d been cutting Victoria’s and Allegra’s hair at home for the past six months. This did surprise me – but certainly not enough to make anything of it. As Clara’s a freelance hairdresser at a number of upmarket Mayfair salons, I’d simply assumed that Victoria had deemed her suitable enough to cut Allegra’s precious first locks.

       
I’d also stopped bumping into Victoria at the park. And at baby clinic – simply putting it down to timing (I’m always late). But of course, she’d stopped going. And then there was her no-show for my afternoon-tea invite. And so it went  ...

       
The home gym she’d had installed in her loft and the fortress playground in the back garden weren’t the vulgar trophy-home adornments we all thought they were. Likewise, her Internet and catalogue home-deliveries. Victoria had, in her inimitable fashion, discreetly and methodically managed to avoid leaving the house.
Ever
.

       
Except, of course, when she was forced to come over and ask for my help with the save-Mary-and-the-mother-and-baby-clinic campaign. Mary said that this particular visit for Victoria would have been the equivalent of me climbing a skyscraper without ropes or supports. Little wonder she was so agitated.

       
Poor thing – I had absolutely NO idea
.

       
Mary hadn’t thought it appropriate for us to go in and see Victoria because she’d just had a particularly difficult session with her – Victoria was in quite a state. (Mary visits her three times a week – hence, I guess, Victoria’s vested interest in keeping her employed.) Apparently, Victoria’s husband just can’t accept that her desire to ‘work’ is not about abandoning her responsibilities towards Allegra. But more about a need to use her intellect and skills outside of child- and home-centred tasks; to feel more like an active player in the world and less like a passive observer; and, in a small way, to be less financially dependent on him too. Mary’s tried to get Victoria and her husband to seek more appropriate professional counselling – but so far, he’s refused.

       
After doing all these visits with Mary, I also can’t help but wonder about the myriad other ‘mum secrets’ she must be carrying around on her capable shoulders. Confirmation, if ever I needed it, of just how important her job is.

So after our walk, I – very much in shock – took Millie home. And immediately ordered a giant bunch of congratulatory flowers to be delivered to Victoria. It was the least I could do. As the victory was
entirely
hers for the taking.