Читать книгу Clicking Her Heels - Lucy Hepburn - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Isle of Wight wellies again, Amy?’ Jesminder said, raising an elegant eyebrow as she glanced beneath Amy’s desk later that morning.

Amy was on autopilot. She’d almost not come in to work at all – not having any shoes to wear playing only a small part of that decision. But then in a pocket-sized flash of defiance she’d pulled on the wellies she’d worn all weekend at the sodden festival and trudged in to the office. Besides, the four walls of the lonely apartment were suffocating her.

And work would be a distraction. She could immerse herself in the cyberworld of Internet travel – and life at aclickaway.com was always busy – then before she knew it the horrible, horrible day would be over. Plus, she’d be able to talk to Jesminder and Debbie. Hopefully get some advice.

Then, when she got back to the apartment, it would all have been a horrible mistake. Justin would give her time to explain everything, and he would apologise, and so would she, and her shoes would be safely back in her cupboard where they belonged, not on their way all around the world, as though blasted from a scattergun.

Jesminder drifted away, frowning, as Amy remained silent. She worked in finance on the floor above Amy, not far from Debbie, who was in the sales section.

It was impossible to concentrate. Amy found herself veering between wanting to howl with anguish, or else leap to her feet in fury, go to track Justin down, in her wellies, and force him to see sense.

But putting aside her wounded feelings about Justin, she was full of a kind of bewildered wonder at how badly the loss of her shoes was affecting her. They were only shoes, for heaven’s sake – she could easily put in an insurance claim and buy more! But somehow that missed the point. Rightly or wrongly, Amy loved her shoe collection; depended on it, even. No longer having her shoe collection was like losing a personal diary that one had been keeping faithfully year after year, recording the events, the people, the emotions of the time. They were her private history, the blocks on which her memories were built. Remove them and she was in danger of collapse.

Worse had been to follow. It hadn’t dawned on Amy until an hour or so after her discovery of the missing shoes that Justin had even gone so far as to get rid of her most precious possession of all – her mother’s ballet shoes. The only pair Amy owned, stored in that plain little box, the one without a photo on the outside. And Justin, the snake, wasn’t answering his phone now, so she couldn’t find out where he’d sent them. But anyway, who would bid for an old pair of dancing shoes? Then Amy’s heart sank as the answer thumped right back out at her. The Internet was crawling with souvenir hunters. There would be ballet aficionados all over the world who would jeté at the chance to pick up a small piece of Royal Ballet history – the shoes once worn by Hannah Powell, Britain’s most beautiful Odette.

And meanwhile, as the shoes winged their way to some nameless, faceless, thoughtless, tactless, blameless buyer, there was a young woman, wearing yellow wellington boots that smelled faintly of beer-soaked mud, sitting distraught behind a desk at aclickaway.com, trying to make sense of her monthly target sheet, who had just been robbed of her most precious link to her dead mother.

Just then, on her screen, her Instant Messenger sprang into life. It was Jesminder, from upstairs:

Jes: U ok, Amy?

Then, from the other end of the building:

Debs: Jes tells me ur wearing ur wellies to work. Have u finally flipped?

Amy forced half a grin, and tapped her response:

Amy: How long have u got?

Debs: How long is the so-called ‘working’ day?

Jes: Only tell us if u want to, Amy, we don’t want to pry.

Debs: Speak for urself, matey.

Amy took a deep breath, and began to type.

Amy: Justin has accused me of having an affair. He wants me out of the flat and he’s changed the locks. And he’s sold all my shoes on eBay when I was away with you guys at the weekend. He’s up north and won’t answer the phone. It’s over.

Debs: Ur having a laugh.

Jes: Unbelievable!

Amy: I know.

Debs: What a total creep.

Jes: Are u going to go?

Amy: I don’t know.

Debs: So is it true?

Jes: Debs, leave it.

Amy: Is what true?

Debs: R u having an affair?

Jes: Foot in mouth again, Deb.

Amy: Course not.

Jes: See?

Amy: Well, not like u think anyway.

Deb: Here we go.

Jes: Anyone free for lunch?

Amy: Not hungry.

Debs: All your shoes? Every last pair?

Amy: Xept the wellies. I had them on, remember?

Debs: That is almost funny, sorry, my pet.

Jes: Debs, will u leave it?

Amy: He sold my mother’s dancing shoes.

There was a pause.

Jes: Oh.

Debs: Ah.

Amy: I don’t know what to do.

Jes: Well, first you need to eat. Shall we see you at 12?

Debs: And then we need to get the girl some shoes. Our treat, right?

Jes: Right.

Amy: Thanks, you guys.

Shortly after twelve Debbie and Jesminder ducked off to the cashpoint and left Amy to have a preliminary browse around Shooz, the little Camden shoe shop that lay just around the corner from their office. It wasn’t Amy’s normal shoe haven, but desperate times called for desperate measures and there was absolutely no way she was going to grace any high street stores in Day-Glo yellow wellington boots, despite Debbie insisting that all she needed was to put on a bit of an attitude and soon every style-conscious girl in Camden would be heading for the outdoor shops to get a pair of her own.

It wasn’t really enough of a shoe shop to lift Amy’s mood. No leathery smell, no edgy lighting, just Dullsville shoes on racks. Still, something inside Amy told her that this sort of shop was no more than she deserved, not today. As if she could face a designer shop – or even one of her favourite market stalls – in wellies, with puffy eyes and a faintly deranged expression. No, what she needed was to be taken in hand by a nice, matronly shoe retailer who would sit her down and bring tissue-filled boxes full of unchallenging shoes for her to ease her feet into, backed up with some nice chat, some gentle encouragement to try different pairs in different colours, and lots of use of the word ‘comfortable’ …

There were three shop assistants standing right at the back behind the counter, chewing gum. Each looked no more than about sixteen, and not one was displaying any eagerness to come near her. Amy sighed, left them to their chat, and began to browse the racks.

It wasn’t until she dislodged a shoddily displayed rack of sandals that one of the girls finally rolled her eyes and looked in her direction. She jolted visibly when she caught sight of what Amy was wearing on her feet.

‘Look!’ the girl squeaked at her companions, gesturing at the wellies.

The ensuing splutter of laughter sounded like they had all just exploded. Amy, scrabbling on the floor trying to pick up the fallen sandals, wanted to cry.

‘Didn’t realise it was milking time!’ the largest of the girls stage-whispered to her companions.

‘I’d have thought knowing when it was milking time would be second nature to you three,’ came a loud, Geordie voice from the door.

Big, blonde, fabulous Debbie stood at the shop entrance, glaring at the three girls. She had heard every word. Behind her, Jesminder clapped a hand to her forehead but couldn’t resist a smile.

‘I used to giggle like an idiot when I was twelve as well,’ Debbie went on, ‘but you three are employed for a reason so I suggest you do what shop assistants are meant to do and get over here and assist.’

Put simply, Debbie didn’t take any nonsense from anybody. Her self-confidence when it came to standing up for what was right belied her twenty-four years. Amy couldn’t imagine having a more loyal, or a more fun friend. Crammed with big-hearted sexiness, everyone loved Debbie – apart, perhaps, from the grumbling ringleader of the shop assistants, who was making her way sullenly towards Amy and mumbling something that may very well have been ‘Can I help you?’ but could just as easily have been ‘Fnerganelpoo?’

Jesminder, still by the door, was trying not to giggle. She was cut from altogether different cloth. Calm, caring, you could trust her with your life. While Debbie was a gale that swept away all in her path, Jes was more a steady breeze, caressing and warm, but still with a strength of her own. She, above everyone, had spent most time with Amy since the death of her mother, and it was she, on their way to the shoe shop, who had offered Amy a place to stay until she sorted herself out.

Amy could feel their stares of incredulity when, after trying on only two pairs of shoes, she settled for the flat, beige canvas pumps.

‘I’ll take these,’ she said, not even looking up. ‘And, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep them on.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ smirked the assistant.

‘Careful,’ Debbie warned.

‘They’re lovely,’ Jesminder lied. Amy glanced up at her and giggled for the first time that day.

‘No they’re not, they’re Guilty Conscience shoes,’ Debbie decided, as she and Jesminder paid for the shoes. ‘Right, you, we’re going to the sandwich bar and you’re going to do some explaining.’

Amy trudged beside her friends to Squishy’s on the corner, loathing the practical, silent footfalls made by her new shoes. Now, on top of ‘miserable’ and ‘furious’, she could safely add ‘frumpy’ to her portfolio for the afternoon. Maybe ‘invisible’ as well. It’s not only height that you get from high heels, she remembered.

Ten minutes later, she was staring down the thick end of a tuna mayo baguette and wondering if she’d ever feel like eating again.

‘OK, shoot,’ Debbie mumbled through a mouthful of chicken tikka wrap.

‘Debbie!’ Jesminder scolded. ‘Give Amy time!’

Debbie gave Jesminder a withering look. ‘It’s for her own good, Jes. She said herself there was another bloke …’

‘OK!’ Amy held up her hand. ‘Listen, I appreciate you being here for me and you’re both wonderful, but I have just been dumped – at least, I think I’ve been dumped …’

‘You think you’ve been dumped?’ Jesminder queried. ‘Was there some scope for doubt in what Justin said?’

‘“Get out by tonight” doesn’t sound like a playful warning shot to me,’ Debbie concurred.

‘I know,’ Amy nodded. ‘But he just wouldn’t listen to me! He’d got himself worked up into a real state. He literally did not give me a moment to tell him the truth. Look, once he gets back I’ll be able to sit him down and explain everything, and he’ll be … fine.’ Amy knew this was unlikely even before she’d finished the sentence. After all, he hadn’t answered her calls all morning.

‘Well, if you say so,’ said Jesminder, doubtfully. ‘It’s worth a try.’

‘Worth a try?’ Debbie spluttered, slamming her Diet Coke down on the table. ‘Why should he get away with being a one-man judge and jury, and evil seller of shoes, without hearing Amy’s side of the story?’ Debbie sat back and folded her arms indignantly. Then, her face softened and she leaned towards Amy, wrinkling her brow. ‘Amy, what exactly is your side of the story?’