Читать книгу Clicking Her Heels - Lucy Hepburn - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

Shoes entailed a short trip to the walk-in closet in the hall, the one most normal people use for suitcases and vacuum cleaners and ironing boards.

But this one was, as Justin had said, an emporium, a grotto, a shrine, a veritable sanctuary, a private working museum of all things footwear. It was Amy’s mother ship.

Amy collected shoes like other people collected photographs, or bundles of letters, or life lessons. Each pair had been chosen with care, with love, with reason, with style – and almost every pair could pinpoint something special in her past, her present, and maybe, just maybe, might hold out the promise of something in her future.

For these weren’t just shoe boxes for Amy; they were little treasure chests. Thirty-four of them to be precise. Yes, they contained wonderful leather smells, intricate stitching, supple straps, glorious heels … but the real treasure was the emotions, the memories, the turning-points that had somehow attached themselves to these tangible objects, making them such a vital part of Amy’s life.

Each box meticulously displayed either a digital printout picture or a glossy Polaroid photograph of its contents. There, look! There were the black Prada slingbacks – if only the suede skirt had been black, not brown, those would have been perfect for tonight! And there, the knee-length Gucci boots, bargain of the century from that nice Greek man in Portobello Road – briefly Amy longed for the evening to be cooler so that she could wear them …

A galaxy of beautiful colours and styles was showcased on these pictures, boasting of the treasure within each box. From pale peppermint to Moroccan amber, there was no footwear emergency that couldn’t be catered for by a visit to Amy’s shoe closet – provided, of course, that the circumstances permitted the wearing of high heels.

Amy paused, allowing the closet door to half close with her inside, switched on the light and breathed deeply, seizing a moment of sanctuary to try to calm her jangled nerves.

Cautiously, almost timidly, she traced her hand down the tiers of shoe boxes, scanning the photographs. There were the little espadrilles she bought in Majorca on that last holiday with her mother. And there – the gorgeous bronze Gina mules, practically the only pair of shoes she’d ever paid full price for, but worth every hard-earned, beans-on-toast-for-weeks-after penny. Oh! The red pumps – her ruby slippers! The photo of these showed not just the shoes, but Amy, four years ago, spinning round at a party chanting ‘There’s no place like home’ over and over; Justin would think it totally childish but she smiled at the memory.

And there – in the middle tier, halfway down, was the little blank box that would make her cry if she so much as touched it.

She stretched out her hand.

‘You reached Narnia yet?’ came Justin’s voice from just outside the door, making her jump back to reality and jerking her into a decision. Those Michael Kors brown slingback sandals would be absolutely fine – balancing the heavy suede of the skirt and adding just a tiny sparkle with the diamanté buckles. The heels were less than three inches, which wasn’t ideal, but they’d at least give some extra height without arousing Justin’s suspicions. Sorted.

Briefly, regretfully, she glanced at the box containing the newest addition to her collection: today’s purchase, the fabulous green snakeskin mules she’d spied when she’d walked into that first shoe shop with Debbie and Jesminder. Usually she couldn’t wait to wear new shoes the moment she got them home, but tonight, alas, if Justin saw her teetering out of the apartment on four inches of green snakeskin sexiness, he’d smell a rat for sure.

She touched the lid of the box. Not tonight, my pretties …

‘Will I do?’ she asked a little nervously, twirling in front of Justin, who was shrugging on his jacket and getting ready to leave as well.

‘You look great,’ he answered, letting his eyes move all the way down her body and back up again. ‘Be careful out there. And … em … have a nice time. Shame we’re going in opposite directions so we can’t share a cab.’

‘Mmm,’ Amy replied, trying to sound as though she agreed.

‘See you in bed,’ he whispered as he passed.

‘Yup. Hope it goes well for you tonight,’ she replied over her shoulder.

‘Always does, Abe, always does,’ came, ever fainter, from the stairwell.

Once he was gone, Amy breathed deeply to try to dissipate the deep crimson colour in her cheeks. After a few moments her hands had stopped shaking enough to allow her to apply some Juicy Tube gloss in Marshmallow, and, after a last quick, guilty check in the mirror, she was done.

Hmm, not bad for a twenty-four-year-old fibber, she thought, as her mobile bleeped, signalling that her taxi was waiting downstairs.

The fact was that these evenings, these covert, deceitful evenings, were what had really put the spring back in Amy’s step since the death of her mother, and as the taxi pulled away towards the West End Amy’s guilt gave way to mounting anticipation. Life wasn’t bad on the whole, but, Amy mused, as the city glided by outside, it was definitely a bit short on spark these days. She’d held the same job since leaving uni, and whilst she enjoyed it most of the time, well, surely the world of work held greater challenges?

Amy’s nerves at the evening ahead grew as the taxi idled in a long queue at traffic lights.

And what of Justin – how could anyone not find Justin Campbell exciting? This handsome, clever man with the best taste in shoes of any man Amy had ever known, this man she’d met only a year and a half ago …

She’d been standing in the packed auditorium halfway through the warm-up band’s set. Pushing her way through the gyrating crowd to the back doors, she felt as if her head was about to implode from the drilling sound of electric guitar. Crashing through the doors into the cool bar area, she collided with the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen. And he smelled great too. ‘Hey, steady on, missy! Is something the matter?’

‘Oh, sorry, but it’s so hot in there, and the band’s so loud, I need to clear my head … oh …’

‘Careful, now – here, let me help. You nearly fainted.’

‘No, no, just stumbled. I’ll be fine after some fresh …’

‘Come on, you’re coming with me … Excuse me, guys, got a bit of a damsel/distress/shining-armour situation brewing here. Mind if I abandon you to the hordes? Cheers. Right, let’s go upstairs.’

‘Upstairs?’

‘Yup, VIP suite. Got air conditioning, lots of space, and some great big sofas.’

‘Em … the VIP suite?’

‘For you to recover. Oh, don’t worry; I’ll kick Bono off the sofa. That got you smiling! Must be a good sign.’

‘You’re being very kind, thank you … ?’

‘Justin.’

‘Thank you, Justin.’

‘You’re welcome … ?’

‘Amy.’

Now, glancing at her watch, it was touch and go whether she’d make it on time. Amy closed her eyes as the taxi pushed its way towards Covent Garden. She hated lying to Justin.

At last, the taxi drew up outside the Royal Opera House. Amy searched the sea of beautiful faces, trying to pick him out, as a doorman bustled forwards to open the cab door for her.

Stepping out, Amy felt like a movie star. She forgot all about Justin.

The foyer was filled with flowers and chatter.

And there, there he was.

Sergei.