The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (34 page)

       
The sea of tired travellers in the departures hall abruptly lurches to one side as a gaggle of Eurotrash-meets-American-cruise-liner women merrily barge their way through – resplendent in diamanté-encrusted Versace sunglasses, fur stoles, coiffed hair, red lipstick, metallic-silver trainers and enormous matching silver backpacks. Leaving a wake of gawping mouths behind them.

       
I openly cringe as they head straight for my departure lounge. And when they stop right next to me, I literally can’t believe my eyes.

       
‘Mum! What are
you
doing here?’ Of all the times to have her delayed mid-life crisis, she has to choose NOW.

       
My day’s just got a whole lot worse.

       
She takes off her sunglasses and hugs me.

       
‘Oh sweetheart, I hoped we’d run into you! Look, Betty, it’s Jane!’

       
Betty Malthouse scampers over and greets me. I feel like I’ve just been air-kissed by a squirrel wearing tartan tights and a twin set. (Betty’s one of the few people I know who’s shorter than me.)

       
It turns out that Mum, with one errant click of her Silver Surfers mouse, booked the entire quilting group easyJet e-tickets to Malpensa Airport instead of Marseilles Airport. By all accounts, they’ve had an absolute hoot of a time in Milan this past week – escorted around by two university students they befriended at their budget hotel. They’ve done tours of designer factory-outlet malls on the outskirts of town, seen plays, sampled fine cuisine, viewed
The Last Supper
and numerous art galleries, and been down the catacombs of the Duomo. They’re buzzing like a swarm of bees high on nectar.

       
But as soon as Mum asks me how my day’s been, and in particular my visit to Ars Arpel, I spontaneously burst into tears. Sobbing and shaking, I blurt out the whole pathetic story of my life this past year, culminating in today’s events. She holds me close in the unconditional embrace of mother-love, while Betty and the gang protectively gather round – fetching cups of tea and biscuits, and offering anecdotes from numerous marriages, divorces, affairs, reconciliations and the like.

       
I feel eerily cosseted in the womb of their life experience. And finally, buoyed by their support, I vow to face Tim when I get home – for better, or for worse.

About an hour later, I spy Marco heading towards our departure gate for the late flight we were all scheduled to return on. I’ve been
dreading
this happening, almost as much as facing Tim.

       
If
only
I’d stuck with Ben, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Mini-Me Survey
 
I’m sure there’s many a SP with a photo tucked away in a 1970s family album, where all female members are dressed in exactly the same outfit. Whether it be sundresses lovingly sewn from Mum’s old bedroom curtains; or chocolate-brown ponchos and flares. And, of course, identical flower-trim denim platforms.
 
The Cat and her adopted three-year-old daughter were recently papped in Sloane Street wearing matching outfits: zebra-print ponyskin boots with tassel fringing, metallic minidresses and oversized sunglasses. Which begs the SP survey question for this month: In the new millennium, is mini-me dressing neat or naff? Or just plain scary?
 
Tittle Tattle
 
SP shop assistant at an upmarket Milanese department store says that some of her more affluent (and seemingly competitive) SPs regularly buy all four pairs of their size in a high-end designer shoe (usually a new season’s signature piece), so that no one else can have it.
 
Of course, one mustn’t be too quick to judge – she could have four wardrobes, each in a different country ... it does happen!
 
All in the Mind
 
Full marks to student SPs of Helsinki, who assure me they only study and sit for exams in high heels. As they can’t think straight in flats!

30. Wrong-footed

Despite my best efforts at shrinking behind the fur stoles and glitz, Marco spots me and makes his way over, looking rather awkward.

       
I hold tight to Mum’s arm for support and suddenly notice that Marco is holding equally tight the arm of a pretty young blonde model-type. As they approach he pulls her close and kisses her fondly on the cheek.
Has he no shame?
It certainly didn’t take him long to find a replacement. I’m
such
a fool.

       
Marco introduces his youngest sister, Francesca, to us.

       
Oh.

       
The sister that he spent the morning ferrying in and out of hospital, with what turned out to be a false case of suspected appendicitis. (Now that I look at her closely, she does seem a little washed-out.) She lives here in Milan with their mum, and is a trainee journalist with a fashion magazine. Her English is impeccable.

       
Marco sidles up to talk to me, while Francesca captivates Mum and the gang with the promise of gossip from the fashion shows this afternoon. She’s quite delightful – and so gregarious and outgoing compared to Marco. Apparently, there’s been some high drama. And as much as I’d love to listen in, I’ve got more than enough of my own dramas to concentrate on right now.

       
‘Are you all right, Jane? I’ve been concerned for you. I tried calling you on your mobile, but it kept going to your message bank – which is full, by the way.’

       
Oh, no! I must have forgotten to turn my phone on this morning. No wonder I haven’t had any calls. That stupid bloody note really has tainted my whole day. What if something’s happened to Millie? Or Tim? Ashamed by my self-absorption, I vow to turn on my phone as soon as I get rid of Marco.

       
‘I’m fine. Really, I am.’ Let’s just leave it at that.
Please, please, just go away and don’t ask any more questions
.

       
‘Here, you left these in my car.’ He hands me a bag with my cloche, scarf, gloves and bustier, and then leans in a little closer and says, ‘I can’t apologise enough. I should
never
have put you in that position.’

       
Hell, we’re both as guilty as each other. Especially with Fi in the loop. I don’t know why he’s being so noble. But I guess at least he’s seen the error of his ways – attempting to seduce a married woman and all.
As if I didn’t feel bad enough already
.

       
Marco’s momentarily distracted by an incoming text message.

       
‘Ah. It’s Ben.’ He smiles into his phone. ‘He’s staying on in Milan tonight. Wise move.’ He gestures to the overcrowded lounge.

       
‘Oh, that reminds me, Ben said to give these to you.’ Marco hands me the paracetamol – I could swallow the whole packet! ‘Ben was concerned for you too. You missed out on the tutorial this afternoon. We had an embellishments expert – your favourite part of the shoe.’

       
Oh, dear. It was extremely rude of me to run away like that. And I do really regret not going to the tutorial and seeing the rest of the shoe school.

       
‘Anyway,’ Marco continues. ‘It’s
unforgivable
of me to have made a boot so poorly – and caused you such pain. I will destroy the last for that design and start again – you can be assured. And I will
absolutely
make you a better pair – that you can dance in, pain free. Even on cobblestones!’

       
I follow his eye down to my trendy trainers.

       
‘Ah!’ Marco grimaces. ‘And I was going to get you a better-fitting pair of boots. My friend has a shop – very near to Ars Arpel. We had plenty of time before the tutorial and school tour, too.’

       
‘You were
what
?’

       
‘Going to get you another pair of boots – it’s the very least I could have done.’

       
I peer searchingly into his eyes. Is he
really
only talking about boots? And
not
an adulterous-foot-massage liaison?

       
I think back to the
Vogue
page and the business card with the same handwriting on them. Marco’s. That is, unless  ...

       
‘Ben’s fiancée must be jealous – missing out on a fun night in Milan,’ says Mum jovially from my side. She’s been listening in on Marco and me, and can clearly see the cogs turning in my head.

       
‘Fiancée ... puh!’ scoffs Francesca, who’s reattached herself to Marco and also butted in to our conversation.

       
Marco turns an uncomfortable shade of red and clears his throat.

       
‘Jane ... I ... err ... don’t know how to tell you this, but ... Ben is not engaged to be married.’

       
‘But his girlfriend, the vegan. Who works with sick and dying children at the hospital. And in the orphanage. The love of his life.’

       
‘Sorry.’ He shakes his head grimly. ‘No girlfriend.’

       
‘But what about all the cooking classes and pottery workshops ... and French manicures?’

       
‘Well, yes, he did do those. Just like the twenty-five shoe workshops he’s done with me.’

       
My brain’s trying to compute what he’s saying. This is getting worse by the minute.

       
‘Look, Ben’s a great guy. With a lot of creative energy. And very caring too. He’s also just a guy who seems to like meeting women of a certain ...
circumstance
,’ says Marco, clearly uneasy with the whole conversation. ‘He’s, how do I say–’

       
‘Marco, you’re
soooo
polite!’ says an exasperated Francesca. By now, Mum and the gang are completely agog. ‘Ladies, Ben is a good old-fashioned lothario. A red-hot pants-man who likes to
please
(and apparently very well indeed)’ – a chortle bubbles through her audience – ‘women of the not-so-happily-married kind,’ she says with equal measures of disdain and amusement.

       
Oh no.

       
It
must
have been Ben, then – that planted the note. What a LOW LIFE!

       
And what a fool I
truly
am.

       
I sit down and hold my head in my hands, thinking of all the time I’ve spent with Ben lately. Which could have been far less, if only I’d taken more notice of Marco (who was clearly trying to protect me from him, knowing all too well how fragile I was). Like when he suggested that I made my mum shoes at home, and not in the studio with Ben over the summer; and of course, strongly suggested I spend the morning with him today and not go on Ben’s fateful ‘shoe-appreciation’ tour.