The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (31 page)

       
Dad was waiting for us on the doorstep when we got back – reporting for duty for his Milan babysitting stint the next day. And Tim returned from Bangalore later in the evening – clearly not happy about me going ahead with the trip, but irritatingly still with no particular reason why. He just skulked about the flat, mumbling to himself and glued to his mobile, as usual.

       
And now, I have to be up at 3.30 a.m. in order to get to Heathrow for my flight (oh, the joys of low-cost air travel). Who needs sleep anyway – I should be used to it by now.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Shoe Are You?
 
Pristine SP
Immaculately groomed and usually a girlie girl. This princess adores shoes and uses them as the centrepiece of her fully coordinated wardrobe of clothes, handbags, jewellery and nail polish. Flowers, bows, ribbons and beading regularly adorn her shoes, which represent most colours of the rainbow.
 
Performing SP
Usually the younger shoe princess. She loves to wear platform soles, heelless thigh-high boots or any in-your-face shoes that will gain attention. She often has a great sense of fun and adventure. Most men will abhor her shoes, but she doesn’t care. Think ‘girl power’.
 
Pretty Woman SP
This princess is most likely sighted in Harley Street or Stringfellow’s wearing 4-inch ankle-tied perspex platforms and a mane of peroxide-blonde hair extensions. Movement of facial muscles is not generally visible and top lip resembles result of first-round fight with Lennox Lewis. Trots along like a fettered deer.
 
Platinum SP
Money is no object and expensive shoes are amongst the many fine possessions in her life. This princess loves having gazillions of shoes in her colour-coordinated designer wardrobe as a sign of her self-made success and financial independence. She’s often quoted as saying that she still has her feet on the ground – but just in more expensive shoes! (Think Oprah.)
 
...keep looking!

27. Footloose and Fancy Free

I dozily open my eyes and find myself confronted by Tim’s upside-down head.

       
‘I couldn’t sleep with all your tossing and turning,’ he says gruffly, while contorting his legs and arms into another improbable yoga asana.

       
The bedroom is shrouded in early-morning darkness and, as I turn on my lamp, a feeling of impending doom envelops me. A quick check of my alarm clock confirms my fears – it’s 4.15 a.m. (It looks like I set it for 3.30 a.m., and then forgot to turn it on.) The minicab’s due in fifteen minutes.

       
Damn, damn ... damn it! I throw my head back on to the pillow in despair. My
one
window of opportunity to visit Ars Arpel and I’ve
blown
it.

       
I blearily stare at the beautiful ruby butterfly-sequinned stiletto glistening from the chandelier above the bed. (I kicked it off in gay abandon some years back, and have never seen fit to move it!) It quickly reminds me of my mum shoes and all that I worked so hard for this summer.

       
Fifteen minutes, huh?

       
There’s clearly no choice to be made.

       
I jump out of bed and sprint down the hall, swishing past Dad on the way.

       
‘You not ready yet?’ he says. ‘Tally ho! Quick sticks.’

       
Near enough to fifteen minutes later, Tim’s standing in the hallway, staring at me incredulously as I stoop to put on my black, pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled ankle boots. (Either he’s just noticed that I’m distinctly less tubby or he’s still in a mood about me going to Milan – whichever way, I don’t have the time to care right now.) The boots, from Marco’s collection, were my reward for helping out with
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. I’ve been purposely saving them for today. Macro has a real flair for boots – and not only do they look sensational, but I’m supremely confident they’ll be comfortable too.

       
Tim is visibly startled when I stand up in front of him (aha, so he
has
noticed!) – eight centimetres taller, with a perfectly straight back and shoulders, and perky boobs. Smartly turned out in a fitted black dress and short grey swing coat (courtesy of Liz’s great connections). A smidge of make-up, shiny brushed hair and not a ponytail or hair-grip in sight.

       
I
really
should make an effort to get ‘properly dressed’ more often – I actually feel half decent!

       
And with not a second to spare, I peek my head into Millie’s bedroom and blow her a giant kiss; give Dad a hug (he knows the drill with Millie and will be more than fine); offer Tim a perfunctory peck on the cheek (while completely ignoring his tight-lipped instructions to go to the kitchen and grab some breakfast); and bolt straight out of the door to Javid and his ever Reliable Minicab.

       
As Fi always says in situations like these, ‘There’s not much that a double espresso and three sugars can’t fix!’

Before I know it, I’m mid-air and squished into a tiny budget airline seat in between Ben and Marco. And, if the truth be known, a little shaky – coming down from the adrenalin high of the mad dash to the airport and way too much caffeine on an empty stomach, no doubt.

       
Ben’s already got his map out and is excitedly showing me a ‘shoe appreciation’ tour route that he’s devised for our morning in Milan’s legendary Golden Quadrilateral – four streets of international-fashion nirvana. (He’s been there a number of times before and really knows his way around.)

       
‘Sounds like a morning in heaven!’ I say excitedly.

       
Marco peers up from the notes he’s reviewing for our class this afternoon, and counters Ben’s offer by insisting that I spend the morning with him – visiting suppliers and sitting in on meetings. He has got a point. If I’m serious about this shoe-making venture I really do need to get to grips with the business side of things. And to tag along with someone as well-connected and experienced as Marco would certainly be invaluable.

       
But then again, I can’t really face all the awkward silences of a morning with him, either. He’ll surely want to talk about Fi – who’s still got him ‘on hold’. And I won’t know what to say, other than the obvious: that she’s a complete fool for tossing back the best fish she’s ever hooked. And that I just hope he doesn’t get snapped up by someone in the meantime. (She’s playing a very dangerous game indeed.)

       
An air steward offering refreshments thankfully interrupts us, and it’s enough to fob off my reply to Marco for now.

       
I’m pondering Ben and Marco’s kind offers when I suddenly remember a slightly odd telephone conversation I had with Liz last night. After wishing me a wonderful time in Milan, she told me (in
very
hushed tones) to ‘be careful’, before hastily hanging up. The strange thing is that it wasn’t a jolly have-fun-but-beware-of-pickpockets sort of ‘be careful’. It was ever so solemn and filled with foreboding.

       
She couldn’t have meant to be careful with Marco and Ben, could she? (Although I guess she
was
the only one at shoe school to witness my little aberration with Marco.) Puh-lease – the pair of them are as harmless as each other. She really is very sweet but, I can confidently vouch, just a tad awash with hormones.

       
With Marco’s attentions back to his notes, I casually flick through his Italian
Vogue
– brushing up on my rusty language skills and falling in lust with the shoes (there really is no better magazine for shoespotting). At least it stops me from looking out of the window too often – overanalysing every
humm
and
whirr
and
dip
of the engines. I can’t believe I used to enjoy flying before Millie. I now find it completely unnerving, and valiantly resist the urge to sleep, as if keeping my eyes open somehow wills the plane to stay up in the air.

       
As I start to relax a little, Marco inadvertently intercepts my gaze. Our eyes lock fleetingly, and I can’t deny myself a small excited smile. I really am
very
fortunate to be in his company today.

       
‘Jane ...’ he says tenderly yet firmly. I feel the pulse in his warm palm as he cups it on my shoulder. My heart pounds. And my body jerks a little.

       
‘...Please ... excuse me ... but we ...’ I sense an urgency in his voice. And all at once, my worst fears are realised: no matter how expertly he thrusts and lunges with his deft sensual touch, there’s simply no way he can please me. His enormous foot-last will
never
fit into my dainty satin slipper.
I could weep
.

       
‘Jane ... we’ve landed. We have to get off the plane.’

       
What? ... Huh? ... Landed? ... Plane?

       
I groggily open my eyes to find Marco with his hand on my shoulder, gently trying to wake me.

       
OH BOLLOCKS.

       
I’ve dreamt about him
again
! (At least it was one of my tamer dreams – though I think Dr Freud might still have something interesting to say about it.)

       
I immediately close my gaping mouth and fumble to find something to wipe the dribble that’s run down my chin. My throat is so dry it takes some minutes of concerted swallowing to regain my composure.

       
Ben passes me my handbag and gives me one of Marco’s London business cards.

       
‘Marco wants us each to have one. In case we get lost,’ he winks.

       
I turn the card over to see Marco’s scribbled his local details. I mumble my thanks (still too coy to meet Marco in the eye for fear that he’s guessed what I was dreaming about) and we make our way off the plane – the last to leave.

I decide that I’m in love with Milan even before we leave the airport terminal. No doubt the huge Sergio Rossi poster of a magnificent solitary stiletto-heel greeting us at passport control helps a little.

       
I’m glad that Liz made me make an effort with my clothing too – as the women here are groomed to within an inch of their lives. And they’re
all
wearing sunglasses
inside
the airport – in October. Maybe this is where The Cat picked up her penchant for sunglasses. (And to think, if I still had my migraine I’d have fitted right in too.)

       
And were it not for my stiletto ankle boots I would most certainly feel like I was wandering around the
Jurassic Park
film set – as there are flocks of impossibly tall gazelles milling around. All becomes clear when Marco tells us that the spring/summer fashion shows are on at the moment. Though I shouldn’t think I’ll run into The Cat here, amongst the ‘commoners’. She’s probably taxiing down the runway this very minute in Valentino’s private jet.