The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (33 page)

       
‘See you soon then,’ he winks.

       
I flinch as yet another pulse of sharp pain darts through my foot, and assure him that I
truly
can’t wait till we meet again. OH, the pain!

With my throbbing, burning feet resting up on a large ceramic plant pot, I sit in welcome solitude. Watching the very civilised world of Milan go by, my face warmed by a small pocket of sun that’s found its way in between the buildings. But of course solitude can be a dangerous thing, and I immediately slip into dizzying circles of do-I-don’t-I-Marco-foot-massage-whatever-I-want scenarios. When really, I know I should be thinking of Tim. (And Fi.)

       
As ever, Marco is my drug of choice. My escape. And I indulge some more, dipping my thoughts decadently into his tempting waters again and again.

       
I’m literally giddy on a cocktail of conflicting emotions when I check my watch and see to my surprise that it’s twenty minutes past our rendezvous time. Gosh. I’ve been sitting here so long I must have been in a trance.

       
Well, that’s it then – decided for me – it’s a no-show.

       
When I see Marco at 2 p.m. I’ll just have to act completely vague, as if I never found the note in the first place.

       
It’s probably the best outcome – for everyone.

       
As I sit staring into space, wondering what Marco’s doing and what he’s thinking right now, pondering what never was, I spy a flurry of models in the lane, with a photographer and stylists in tow.

       
They must be suffering from hypothermia. They’re in white PVC micro-miniskirts and barely-there bikini tops, with huge sprays of frizzed red hair poking out almost horizontally from motorcycle helmets. (Artistic licence and all that!) And on their stalk-like legs, they’re all wearing the same style of knee-high boots (with chunky platform glitter-encrusted heels) but in different colours.

       
I can’t take my eyes off one pair in particular – a sort of crimsony cerisey raspberry colour. The camera flash keeps bouncing off them, glinting at me from every angle. There’s something strangely familiar about them, and I can’t help but smile.

       
And to my total surprise, while I’m smiling, I catch the eye of someone next to the photographer, who smiles cheekily back at me ... Marco!

       
It can’t be?

       
I slide down in the chair, but it’s too late. He’s already sauntering over. Though his smile immediately evaporates when he sees my elevated feet and the grimace on my face.

       
‘Oh, I’m
so
sorry, Jane!’ he says, sounding genuinely remorseful. ‘I’m
so
thankful – to be running into you like this. It’s been a
crazy, crazy
day – I had to take my sister to hospital. All is OK now. I’m just running
so
late. Still, it is unforgivable of me. Come ...’ He suddenly leans forward, gathers my handbag and shopping bag, and expertly scoops me up in his capable arms, carrying me out of the courtyard. Calmly and purposefully.

       
‘...My car’s parked out the front.’ His face is so close, I can feel his breath.

       
Everyone’s watching. I barely know which way to look – so wantonly delicious is his smell.

       
He then gently stands me on the pavement while he opens the car door, and motions me to get in.

       
‘Let’s go to Ars Arpel. Pronto. I
insist
on making amends.’

       
I stand, frozen, at the open door in front of me. Marco’s muttering profusely in a sort of broken Italian/English, and all I can pick up is the odd word like ‘foot’, ‘pain’, ‘heels’, ‘shameful’ as he walks around the back of the car to the driver’s seat.

       
And then, there’s the little red devil sitting on my shoulder  ...

       
‘Well ... he
should
have warned you about the grates and cobblestones and the importance of heel selection
before
today. A little pay-back foot massage wouldn’t be
completely
out of order.

       
Nor would a little TLC.

       
Plus he
is
on a break from Fi.

       
And your husband
is
under the hex of an adulteress  ...’

       
I get into the car.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Bootylicious
 
I’m pleased that boots are so big of late. I love everything about them – their strength, protection from the elements, sexual energy and hard-wearing loyalty. But with such a variety of styles to choose from, it can be a little mind-boggling. Here’s a tip from SP of London that may help you  ...
 
Think Opposite
 
Tall SPs: Don’t necessarily go for the tight-fitting, long-legged or thigh-high boot. It can make one look like a drainpipe. Try the mid-calf to three-quarter-length boots, with no or low heels – very biker chic.
 
Short SPs: Likewise, don’t think that because you have short legs and wide calves you can’t do long boots. Try a long boot with a wide, loose-fitting top and a high, reasonably chunky heel for a surprisingly good look. If you go for the mid-calf or shorter boot with low heel, prepare to whistle while you work à la one of Snow White’s little dwarfs!
 
Point to Note
 
Buy pointed-toe shoes and boots a half to a full size bigger for a much more comfortable fit.

29. Teetering On the Edge

How does it happen, exactly? The distance. The gaping void that wedges itself between two previously intertwined lives. Two lives that created, in love, another life. A little person so complete and perfect that they sat staring at her in awestruck reverence – too scared to breathe loudly, for fear of waking her. United.

       
How can two such lives drift, in little more than a year? So stealthily. So brutally. So
far
apart.

       
I’m not sure what one’s supposed to think about as you drive to your very first adulterous liaison – sexy lingerie, kinky tricks? But that’s what I think about:
How on earth did it come to this?

       
In fact, I’m so nervous I haven’t spoken a single word to Marco the whole journey. My feet are
killing
me now too. (I actually feel slightly nauseous.)

       
Marco seems much more relaxed about the whole thing, though. Perhaps Rachel’s early misgivings were right, and he’s an old hand at it. He’s been chatting animatedly about the boots from the photo shoot. Telling me how he made them as a special commission for an up-and-coming fashion designer – and was desperate to drop by en route to Ars Arpel to see how they looked, not realising how late he was. It’s his first major fashion shoot for Italian
Vogue
. He’s over the moon.

       
I decide to satisfy my curiosity.

       
‘What colour would you call those crimsony cerisey raspberry boots?’

       
‘Ah!’ His eyes light up as he slides the car into a parking space at the Ars Arpel School and Hotel car park. ‘Peony. You’re going to be seeing a lot of it next summer.’

       
Marco gets out of the car and rummages around in the boot.

       
Peony. Of course!
My wedding flowers were peonies ... I made sure they
perfectly
matched my crimsony cerisey raspberry ... wedding shoes  ...

       
I break out in a cold sweat and begin to dig madly in my handbag for the stub of my boarding card.

       
I note the date.

       
Oh crap ... crap ... crap ... bloody crap.

       
It’s today. My wedding anniversary’s TODAY.

       
And all at once, everything makes sense....

       
Like Tim’s silent death stares this morning. And saying he couldn’t babysit Millie, even though he’d be in town. And when I repeatedly asked him for a concrete reason as to why I couldn’t go to Milan on
this particular day
, he just gritted his teeth and looked like a kettle about to come to the boil or made up those stupid work excuses. Indignant, no doubt, and too proud to have to spell it out to me. (That’s Tim all over.)

       
You see, today is the ONE day of the year we vowed (on our wedding night) always to spend together.
No matter what
. I’ve just been so distracted by my mum shoes and my whole reinvention-winning-Tim-back caper that I
completely
forgot about it.

       
Maybe this means Alex doesn’t have such a strong hold on him, after all.

       
In any case, I’m in deep, deep trouble. As our anniversary is also the ONE day of the year that Tim prepares a special breakfast for me. He always lays it out on the kitchen table the night before. But of course, I didn’t sample it this morning, did I? No. Because I refused even to set foot in the kitchen.

       
I feel tears welling. And my heart is racing. I’m all of a sudden burning hot, and rip off my cloche and gloves and scarf.

       
I immediately call an end to my misadventures in Milan and leap from the car.

       
‘Jane! Jane!’ I hear a bemused Marco calling after me, as I run out of the car park in a flood of hot, salty tears. And in a desperate bid to rid myself of excruciating pain (and all future evidence of my near-miss with adultery) I unzip the offending ankle boots and hurl them into the nearest rubbish bin, along with the page from
Vogue
.

       
I can’t bear to turn round. I just run and run – oblivious to the incredulous stares of the Milanese (who most likely consider it a certifiable offence to be seen in public without designer shoes). The cobblestones are sharp, lumpy and freezing underfoot, and the wind is biting in my face.

       
But I don’t feel a thing; other than the
urgent
need to be with Tim and Millie.

I don’t remember much about getting to the airport.

       
But I’m here. With newly purchased Benetton trainers (I’ve always said I wouldn’t be seen dead in trendy trainers – ha!) and racoon eyes from crying. Unable to get an early flight back to London, I’ve had no choice but to sit. And think.

       
And with every hour that passes I feel even more horrid – about what I contemplated doing with Marco and, of course, the scene that awaits me at home.