Читать книгу Clicking Her Heels - Lucy Hepburn - Страница 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

For the most part Amy was grateful to have Debbie, a Newcastle native, in the passenger seat of the crumbling 2CV as they negotiated their way into the city centre on a stuffy Friday evening. Debbie had swiftly arranged a weekend trip north to see her family, so that she could keep Amy company on the first of her shoe-finding missions, brushing off Amy’s gratitude with a gruff, ‘No, no, if it wasn’t for you I’d never get off my arse and come to see the old folks at all.’ Which was untrue, but deeply touching all the same.

The car hadn’t enjoyed the long journey all the way to the north-east of England, and the girls had had to make three unscheduled stops to give it rest time and allow it to cool down. Now, though, on the final stretch of the journey, stopping and starting at traffic lights, it wasn’t just the car that was overheating.

They were trying to find Delsey’s Gym, the first address on the hit list, and Debbie had spent a lot of motorway time bragging about her thorough knowledge of Newcastle city centre. Amy, her eyes and head aching from concentrating on the road for hours, was growing irritated at Debbie, whose skills as a navigator seemed to depend entirely upon the existence of familiar shops and nightclubs in the immediate vicinity.

‘Gottit!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘Go that way! There! Past the building that used to be TK Maxx!’

‘Used to be?’ Amy echoed, indicating right and turning the car into a bothersomely narrow side street. ‘Since when was that a help?’

‘You know my orange cashmere tank top? Fourteen quid? That was from in there – you had to go on a Tuesday, that’s when all the new stuff – Careful! You’ve gone too far. That was the next turning back there; you should have hung left into the lane that’s got Harley’s nightclub at the end! Look, there’s a garage with its door open. You can turn there.’

‘Oh, goody,’ Amy deadpanned, jamming the brakes on far too hard. The 2CV coughed its disgust.

‘There, look, on the left – Delsey’s Gym. Told you I’d find it. There’s an underground car park round the corner. We made it, kiddo.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Amy breathed, as the 2CV bumped down the ramp into the underlit car park. ‘My will to live was seeping away.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Debbie teased.

‘Sorry.’

Yawning and stretching, they sat still for a few minutes, summoning the strength to heave themselves out and make a start on their mission.

Amy’s brain was buzzing. ‘Do you know what’s really weird about this whole trip, Debs?’

‘Um, the fact that neither of us have discussed this year’s Big Brother yet?’

‘No, not that …’

‘No? What about my unusual good manners in not using the words “Justin” and “bastard” in the same sentence since, oh, first thing this morning?’

Amy smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that one – yes, but the other weird thing about this trip is having no idea which pair of shoes went to which address.’

‘What? I hadn’t realised that!’ Debbie exclaimed.

‘All I’ve got are the buyers’ addresses, but no information on what they actually bought, so in here, for instance, could be my Jimmy Choos, or my walking boots, who knows?’

Debbie frowned. ‘Or could it be an old tin of toy soldiers Justin decided to sell while he was busy flogging stuff on eBay anyway?’

‘No way!’ Amy’s heart lurched. Was this a flaw in the plan? Swiftly she tried to push the notion away. ‘If Justin was selling toy soldiers on eBay he’d have a label file on his computer titled “Toy Soldier Addresses”. I’m certain of it.’

‘What a bundle of laughs life with that man must be,’ Debbie said – in such a low voice Amy wasn’t sure she picked her up properly.

‘Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

They clambered stiffly up a bright yellow-painted stairwell, four steep flights to the door marked ‘Reception’.

‘I feel fitter already,’ Debbie panted. ‘Come on, let’s do it.’

Amy, bracing herself, pushed open the swing door and the girls entered the gym.

Here goes: Operation ‘Best Foot Forward’ commences right now …

The dark-haired receptionist, who was talking on the phone in a language Amy didn’t recognise, briefly pressed the receiver to her chest and glanced at them. ‘Ah, hello! So nice to see you back again!’

Achingly tall. Beautiful. Foreign. Insincere. She lobbed them a toothy smile, omitting to involve her eyes in the gesture, before returning to the telephone conversation from which they had so thoughtlessly deflected her.

Behind the reception desk, a frosted glass door decreed ‘Private – Staff Only’, and to the left a sign pointed to the saunas and steam room. On the right a corridor led to the male and female changing rooms and the ladies’ and gents’ toilets, then beyond those the gym. Amy could hear the thrum of running machines from behind the double doors and, briefly, she thought of Justin. He loved his four-times-a-week workouts.

Huh, if the staff at his gym look like this specimen here, then no wonder – just look at that girl! You just can’t compete with Eastern European bone structure, and no mistake …

‘Aha!’ said Debbie, gesturing down the corridor. ‘Bathroom break! I’m bursting – won’t be a tick.’ And she bounded off towards the ladies’ room.

Amy stood and chewed her lip, feeling awkward, wishing Debbie hadn’t gone, trying to conjure up the mantra used by Jesminder in situations like this: ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent!’ But this receptionist was so glacial, her cheekbones so sharp and her disregard of Amy so total that it was hard not to just apologise and run out.

Oh, for heaven’s sake – have a word with yourself, Marsh!

Amy was wondering where in Eastern Europe the ice-queen receptionist was from – could she even be Marta Kowalski, the very woman she was looking for? – when her eye fell upon a gigantic poster that took up the whole of the staff pinboard behind the desk.

NEWCASTLE POLISH SOCIETY

ANNUAL BALL

AT THE MARBURY HOTEL

THIS SATURDAY

FORMAL DRESS

CARRIAGES 3 A.M.

DANCING TO THE ALFONS ALEKSANDER

SWING BAND

TICKETS FROM POLISH CENTRE

OR MARTA OR IWONA KOWALSKI,

DELSEY’S GYM, LOMBARD LANE, NEWCASTLE

She was close then. Excited, Amy took a step forward, only for the door to open behind her, and for Adonis to walk in. At least, if you asked a hundred women to describe their version of Adonis, then pooled all the images into a single big, blond, beefy hunk of love, it’s highly likely this is what you’d end up with. Amy gawped. She’d never seen such a ludicrously perfect specimen of muscly manhood and for some reason had to stifle an urge to bark with laughter.

Not my type at all, but if ever I need a wall built …

On seeing the man’s arrival, though, the receptionist hurled the phone down as though it had caught fire, and rushed across to fawn over him, practically knocking Amy over in her flight. They triple-kissed enthusiastically, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, exchanging greetings in Polish, but then, drawing apart, Adonis somehow found a moment to flick a brief, appraising glance in Amy’s direction.

‘So, then, beautiful, have you had a busy day?’ he asked the receptionist in heavily accented English. Then brazenly, he shot another, longer look at Amy before once again returning his full attention to the woman under his nose.

Amy’s skin prickled uncomfortably.

Huh, I know when I’ve been mentally undressed. And I bet he’s only speaking English to keep his options open.

‘As always,’ oozed the reply. ‘There is never time to … relax in this place; you know what I’m saying?’

She flicked her ponytail with her fingertips, then lasciviously licked her lips, laid a hand on her hip and bang! The right side of her body dropped until she stood in a provocative, thrusting pose that owed nothing to subtlety and absolutely everything to Marilyn Monroe.

Amy watched, anxiously chewing her fingernail, yet entranced by the display. I am receiving an award-winning lesson in shameless flirting – even Debbie would struggle to match this pair. Outstanding!

Just when Amy thought the heat couldn’t rise any higher, the staffroom door flew open, and an Amazonian blonde shot out and hurled herself over to where the other two stood. Practically pulling the receptionist off the man, she rubbed her hand provocatively down his arm and purred, in the same foreign accent, ‘Well, hallo, stranger!’

Adonis was loving it, Amy could tell. Both women had fit, athletic builds – it was clear that any spare time they had left after flirting was taken up working out in the gym.

‘So, what can I be doing for you this evening?’ the blonde woman lisped, her mouth about two inches from the man’s ear. ‘Come to arrange a little personal training, hmm?’

‘Hey!’ the receptionist barked. ‘It is me who is in charge tonight!’ She wriggled between the blonde and Adonis. ‘So! How can I help?’

Adonis took a moment, probably to savour the hedonistic delight of having two women squabble over him so blatantly. He looked first at the blonde, then at the brunette, and sighed, ‘Ah, ladies, I need to buy two tickets for the ball, naturally. I can get them here, yes?’

Immediately the women fell away from him, trying to disguise looks of crushed disappointment.

‘Oh?’ The receptionist’s striking face snapped back into an impassive mask. ‘Well, you must wait. I must see if there are any tickets left.’

‘Who is lucky lady?’ the blonde hissed, trying to appear uninterested when her eyes shrieked the opposite.

Adonis shrugged his massive shoulders, and treated the two to a smouldering look. ‘I have not decided yet …’

The receptionist whipped round. ‘Plenty of tickets! I have just remembered!’ Amy, by now fully blended into the background, was slightly annoyed at being ignored, although another part of her was quite enjoying the pantomime being played out before her.

Debs, hurry back – you’d love this.

‘Hmm. Excellent.’ He was still appraising the women, like a tiger who’d accidentally caught two gazelles at once. ‘I would not want to come between sisters, however. Catch you, as they say, later.’

And with that, he tore himself away, swaggering down the corridor towards the gym.

You could crack nuts with those, Amy thought, inwardly giggling at his pert departure.

The receptionist and her blonde sister were standing bickering in the same spot where Adonis had stood between them.

Amy spoke up. ‘Erm, excuse me?’ It was now or never.

The women turned to glare at her. Amy raised a hand in a self-conscious little wave.

‘Yes? Oh, it is you – you are still there.’

Taking a deep breath, Amy said, as confidently as she could, ‘Yes, I am still here. I’m sorry to bother you, I can see you’re very busy, but I believe you have a Marta Kowalski working here?’

The sisters exchanged looks. Then the receptionist, narrowing her eyes, replied, ‘And you are?’

‘My name is Amy Marsh, but Marta doesn’t know me. I need to speak to her about a mix-up over a pair of shoes she bought on eBay.’

There was a silence. Amy was certain she felt a crackle of recognition pass between the two, though their faces remained impassive.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Yes. I … I sold them by mistake, and I was wondering whether I could possibly get them back. Buy them back, I mean, obviously …’

‘We don’t know what you are meaning. Do we, Iwona?’

Iwona? This must mean that the receptionist is Marta.

The receptionist glowered at her sister, then hissed something to her in Polish. Iwona responded sharply, her sister snapped back, and soon, gesturing and glowering, they were on course for another quarrel.

Stumped, Amy let them get on with it for a few minutes, wondering what to do.

Come on, this is mad! Debbie would have joined in by now, Jesminder would have us all sitting round a table discussing things rationally and here I am, standing like a lemon in the middle. That is just, like, totally … pants!

She took a step forward and held up her hands. ‘Excuse me!’ How she longed for a bit more gravitas, some higher heels, a deeper voice, a pair of cymbals, anything! But somehow it worked – sort of. Gradually the row simmered down, and the dark-haired receptionist turned to face her.

‘OK. I am Marta.’

Hurrah! At last, she was getting somewhere, although could they have been any more difficult?

I may regret tempting fate with that thought – these two are dynamite …

Iwona, the blonde, cut in, ‘You want to know about shoes? eBay shoes?’ She stormed over to the side of the reception area where a row of lockers sat beneath an array of heavily laden coat hooks. Pulling a set of keys from her belt, she stabbed one of them into the lock as though trying to kill it, pulled open the door and yanked out a pair of shoes. ‘These shoes?’

Amy caught her breath.

There, being slapped onto the reception desk like a pair of wet fish, were her black patent Ferragamo court shoes, the ones with the three-inch pale wooden heels, tiny heart-shaped peep-toe and wide, grosgrain ribbon ankle tie; the ones she’d bartered as though her life depended on it from the man on the stall in Spitalfields two years ago: the ones that meant the world to her.

Just looking at them, Amy was assailed by a raft of nostalgic memories. Now she realised that her shoe quest wasn’t only worthwhile, it was essential. But seeing them was one thing, getting them back from this pair was going to be entirely another.

‘Thank you for nothing,’ Marta snapped, grabbing the shoes. Iwona growled something earthy in Polish, as her sister made a face.

‘Hey!’ Amy cried.

‘You been making friends here?’ To Amy’s relief, Debbie had finally returned from the ladies.

‘You tell her,’ Marta mumbled, jabbing the heel of one of the shoes at her sister and turning her back.