The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (35 page)

       
Little wonder Marco was always so edgy when we girls quizzed Ben about his fiancée too.

       
My skin crawls when I think of all the intimate details I’ve confided to Ben. And not to mention trying on all those clothes and shoes today ... and the bustier  ...

       
He must have thought I was putty in his hands.

       
I feel mortified.

       
An announcement advises us that our plane is ready for immediate boarding.

       
Great
. And now, I have to go home and face that other little ménage à trois – Tim, Alex and me.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Shoe Are You?
 
Quirky SP
 
No slave to fashion, this princess has a strong sense of her own style and sticks to it. She would never wear shoes that hurt her or didn’t make her feel sexy and empowered. She has lots of Alexander McQueen and eclectic boutique-designer shoes in her collection. And is happy to commission handmade shoes from one of her favourite local artisans, for the right occasion.
 
Status SP
 
This princess only ever wears couture shoes by YSL, Roger Vivier, Terry de Havilland, Chanel, Pierre Hardy and the like. She is exceptionally well groomed and confident to mix and match designer pieces to form her own style. She exudes an aura of, ‘Don’t come near me unless you can handle me.’ It takes a very special kind of man to handle this princess – usually a billionaire!
 
Scary SP
 
With a penchant for reptilian spikes and dominatrix boots, this princess is in no doubt as to who’s the boss!
 
Sparkelina SP
 
Adores any shoes with a frosted, bronzed or gilded shimmer. She particularly likes summertime and has a whole wardrobe of coordinated sandals, slides, wedges and spikes with an array of shimmering and shining embellishments.
 
Pernickety SP
 
A true fusspot of a princess, she obsesses over the tiniest details in her shoe collection. She often only wears one style of shoe if she thinks it particularly suits her, or completely spurns styles that she abhors (usually cowboy boots and any form of trainers). This princess always stores her shoes in shoebags or original shoeboxes, hangs her clothes on padded coat-hangers, and meticulously lines her drawers with lavender-scented paper (high-altitude French lavender, of course).
 
Dare I ask if there are any more  ...?

31. Straight to the Point

When we get back to London I’m limp with physical and mental exhaustion. Though at least I’m not the only one that’s had a rotten time in Milan today. The arrivals lounge is littered with evening newspapers, all plastered with the front-page headline, ‘Catatonic’, above a rather ungainly full-page photo of The Cat (so much for the rail disaster in the north-east), legs akimbo, passed out backstage at one of the big shows today (still with her sunglasses on, mind you).

       
So far, there’s been no comment from Big Barry or the fashion house concerned. But Jolie Naturelle and Mange Tout are said to be ‘reviewing their relationship’ with her.

       
Poor Catriona ... she looks about as good as I feel.

       
Considering that I rarely use my mobile phone, I’m shocked to see nineteen missed calls when I finally turn it on. And Marco was right, the message bank is full – thankfully with no messages from Dad or Tim. In fact, all are from Liz, Rachel and Fi, telling me the same thing: to log on to Shoe Princess ASAP.

       
As much as I’d love to sneak away to a corner and lose myself in the computer, I’ve got a date with destiny that can’t wait for anyone, not even the divine Shoe Princess.

When Mum and I tiptoe in a shade after midnight, both Dad and Tim are still up. They’re in the front room, glued to some obscure Australian sport on cable TV that appears to be a cross between Gaelic football and a barbarian massacre. After some polite banter about Millie (who’s had a lovely day, by all accounts) Mum ushers Dad out of the room to bed.

       
As I sit down opposite Tim and summon the courage to talk, he suddenly turns off the TV.

       
‘Jane,’ he finally says after a pause that feels like an eternity, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

       
I brace myself for the Alex bombshell. My limbs are jelly.

       
‘I’ve been sacked.’

       
‘What?’

       
‘Well, not sacked
precisely
. “Let go”,’ he says with bitterness.

       
‘But how? Why? It can’t be.’ This is the
last
thing I was expecting.

       
Tim tells me that not only him but also all his team members have been ‘let go’. They’ve known since January that the bank’s been haemorrhaging badly from its US sub-prime exposure, and that a number of teams would be sent offshore to Bangalore by the year’s end – but not which ones. It’s been a closely guarded secret. So everyone’s been under
astronomical
stress-levels, while making sure they put in Herculean efforts to try and impress the powers that be – working insanely long hours, travelling ad infinitum, and not taking any leave.

       
‘The team-building conference in the summer was merely a thinly veiled exercise in redundancy planning – IT was always going to be the first to go. I’m on three months’ gardening leave. As of Monday.’

       
‘Oh, Tim.’ I instinctively move on to the sofa and embrace him. His normally taut frame feels deflated and defeated. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this was going on?’

       
‘You’ve had enough on your plate with Millie and I didn’t want to worry you even more.’ My eyes well with tears. ‘I felt like it was my job – you know, as the provider – to handle it. Myself. I guess I sort of ... went into lockdown ... to try and fix it.’

       
He sighs a deep heavy sigh.

       
‘I’ve never been out of work before.’

       
I’ve never seen him so low.

       
True to form, I revert to my stock-standard cure for all of life’s woes.

       
‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

       
I amble down the hall in a daze, trying to digest the gravity of all this, only to find a glass vase of peonies and what appears to be an album on the kitchen bench next to the kettle.

       
I take a closer look – it’s covered in exquisite pink-and-gold sari material, and decorated with fine glass beads. And opening it up, I see that it’s full of photos of Millie. From birth to one.

       
It’s truly magnificent. I turn round to see that Tim’s followed me in. I can barely see him standing in the doorway through the torrents of tears now streaming down my face. I’m literally speechless as I turn the pages. This really is too much to take in – particularly as I’d already come to terms with having lost the pictures.

       
‘But ... how?’ I whimper.

       
‘Remember the work CD-Rom I had to turn back and get on our way to Oxfordshire? Only it wasn’t – I took copies of all the photos on the camera to India with me.’

       
‘But what about these ones?’ Tim comes over to look at the photos of Millie and Allegra at their first birthday party.

       
‘Victoria and Kate. They emailed them to me at work. I’ve been quite busy all those lonely nights in Bangalore, you know.’

       
I run my fingertips across some gold braiding and then grab hold of Tim’s hand, squeezing it tenderly. I’m so
enormously
humbled.

       
‘You can’t tell me you did the appliqué and beading too?’

       
‘Ah, yes, there is some limit to my genius.’ He smiles. ‘Alex kindly helped me with all of that side of things. She’s been fantastic, actually.’

       
Oh. Alex.

       
My mood completely flattens, and I let go of his hand and fidget about looking for some mugs as I’m snapped back to the reality of our crowded marriage. We can’t dance around her a moment longer. For my own sanity, at least.

       
Sensing my unease, Tim says quietly, ‘Jane, Alex’s partner is Olivia.’

       
‘Oliver?’

       
‘No, Olivia.’

       
It takes a few heart-stopping moments for the full impact of this to filter through my overloaded brain. I feel acutely embarrassed.

       
‘Again, why oh why didn’t you tell me? You ... bloody ... bastard.’ I’m overwhelmingly relieved – yet furious too.

       
‘Well, initially, I honestly didn’t think it was terribly relevant. If you know what I mean?’ I do; and he’s right, in a not-batting-an-eyelid sort of way. ‘But I guess I was just so offended, after the team-building weekend, that you’d think I’d have an affair – let alone with a work colleague – that I, well, sort of let you sweat it out a bit.’

       
‘Sweat it out a bit!’ My pulse races and my temper flares.

       
‘Sweat. It. Out. A. Bit,’ I spit again, as I start to pace around the kitchen flailing my arms about in ever-increasing eddies of exasperation. The events of the past year streaming through my head at breakneck speed. ‘I THINK I’VE USED EVERY SAUNA IN THE UNITED BLOODY KINGDOM. AND THEN SOME!!!!’

       
‘I’m sorry, Jane. Really. I had meant to tell you, but you just made me so mad. It was never meant to go this far.’

       
Speaking of mad, I ask him why he didn’t comment on my mum shoes or support my plan to set up shoe-making at home.

       
‘I have been a bit
off the planet
, haven’t I?’ he says contritely. ‘I guess I couldn’t take it on board. I was just so fixated with trying to hang on to my job – and our mortgage repayments. Plus, I don’t remember an awful lot about that week in bed with the fever, I have to say.’

       
I thump him part playfully, part quite firmly on the chest with my flattened palms. Again and again and again. For all the worry and uncertainty and loneliness he’s caused me – and us – this past year. He responds by wrapping both his arms around me and gathering me into his chest. I nuzzle under his chin and inhale his scrumptious smell – I’ve missed him SO much.

       
We stand like this, motionless, for some time. Instinctively, our breathing synchronises and we are again one.

       
And then Tim unfurls me.

       
‘I have to ask ... What
possessed
you to doubt me?’