The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (12 page)

11. No Mean Feet

Kate holds my A4 page entitled ‘Millie’s Day’ and studies it closely
.

       
‘It’s a great little routine for a six-and-a-half-month-old,’ she finally says. I’m mildly spooked by her approving tone, so unused am I to hearing it. ‘Two sleeps – mid-morning, mid-afternoon; four milk feeds; nice variety of foods – chunky, not puréed; play time; quiet time. She’s even taking drinks from a trainer cup now – fantastic.’

       
Yes, it is, actually. Achieved through much perseverance. And the carrot of this weekend’s shoe school with the girls may have helped a teeny bit too.

       
Kate’s here with Mum and Dad to give Tim a hand looking after Millie.

       
‘She’s even sleeping through a lot more too,’ says Mum, who’s listening in on Kate and me. ‘I knew she’d get the hang of it.’

       
I’m glad she was so sure. But yes, I will for ever love sweet potatoes. Truly madly deeply.

       
As I watch Millie sitting and playing with her toys, I can’t help but be enchanted by how she’s blossomed. When she spots me she breaks into a gummy smile, and then blows a sloppy raspberry. We all burst into fits of laughter, which, naturally, heralds an encore.

       
I’m sure this is nature’s reward for all the hard graft of the early months – a socially engaging, utterly adorable bear cub.

The shoe school starts at 10 a.m. and Kate, feeling adventurous in light of the mild spell of weather, suggests that she and Millie join me for the short bus ride to Marco’s studio. This is lucky for Tim, as it enables him to spend the first morning of his ‘father–daughter bonding weekend’ flat out in bed (after having arrived from India late last night) in the warm knowledge that a fully cooked breakfast from Mum awaits him, as well as a comprehensive selection of weekend newspapers, courtesy of Dad. I’m sure he’d have been more than capable of looking after Millie himself – though I believe my family’s rally to his side is what he likes to call a win-win situation.

       
The only glitch to the journey so far has been nearly giving myself a hernia by lugging Millie’s pushchair on to the bus, while Kate nursed Millie. Oh, and then having to sit directly on top of The Cat’s pert breasts – yes – due to her neck-to-toe gold Lycra cat-suited body stretching the entire length of the bus’s upper deck in her new Mange Chat advertisement.

       
Once off the bus, we duck and dive our way down to the far end of Church Street, where the hubbub of the noisy market traders gives way to the more serene antique shops. I leave Kate and Millie, making Kate promise to come and see me before heading home, and follow the signs for the shoe school down to the basement of Marco’s Antique Mirrors.

       
I feel strangely lost not carrying seventeen bags, a baby and a pushchair, yet wonderfully liberated too. Fi is busy showing off her new toy – a 3G iPhone with inbuilt video camera (courtesy of Jolie Naturelle) – to a completely captivated Liz. Fi’s been emailing me videos of shoes all week from her lunchtime jaunts. (It’s almost like old times.)

       
Marco is speaking to a sandy-haired and not that unattractive (I really do need to get out more) guy, when Rachel makes her trademark grand entrance, a fashionable ten minutes late.

       
Fi immediately spots her metallic-silver ballet flats.

       
‘Ooh, do you like?’ says Rachel. ‘Trust me, they’re the next
big
thing.’

       
I’m bewildered. There’s not a knitting-needle-thin heel in sight. Though admittedly Rachel was way ahead with the wedge. And legend has it that Sienna and Kate saw
her
in Ugg boots on Ledbury Road – kick-starting the now infamous West London Ugg Boot shortage of Christmas 2003.

       
Marco, in his usual studied silence, moves across to put the finishing touches to our workstations at a large antique wooden table. There are five spots laid out – each with pliers, hammer, nails, scissors, heat gun and glue pots.

       
‘I see we’re already running a little late,’ he says, self-consciously fiddling with his watch. ‘If we could do the introductions and then get started. We’ll need all the time we can get this weekend.’

       
The sandy-haired guy takes up Marco’s lead.

       
‘Hi, I’m Ben.’ He flashes a boyish smile. Rachel X-rays his trendily tight long-sleeved T-shirt, baggy jeans and Converse trainers with a glimmer in her eye. He’s very young – maybe early twenties.

       
‘I’m a set designer. And before you ask, no, I’m not here to make a pair of shoes for myself. I’d like to try and make a pair of shoes for my girlfriend – actually, fiancée – as a special birthday gift.’

       
Blimey, Tim wouldn’t even know my shoe size, let alone make me a pair of shoes. A collective sigh of admiration ripples around the table.

       
‘Does she like shoes, then – your fiancée?’ Liz asks in awe.

       
‘Oh, yes. They’re her one real passion in life – apart from the kids at work. She’s a paediatric intensive-care nurse. I always like to do something special for her birthday – really spoil her.’

       
‘What else have you done?’ I ask. Tim is going to hear about this.

       
‘Um, let me think. Well, last year I did the Pru Leith cooking school and surprised her with a dinner party for her best friends. The year before that I did an Emma Bridgewater pottery workshop and hand-painted a teacup and teapot set. I always like to do something with my hands for her.’ He holds up a pair of large, muscular, veined hands.

       
Rachel is practically salivating beside me, and I fear she may faint.

       
‘
Oooh! Come to Mamma
,’ she whispers wickedly in my ear.

       
I shoot her a disapproving glare – for all it’s worth.

       
Marco seems a little flustered by our rather lengthy introductions and obsession with asking Ben all about his fiancée, and tries to redirect us back to the business of shoe-making. He firstly gives us a short talk on the history of the shoe and its various components, which I find totally fascinating. He then explains that we have a choice of two styles – both mules, as backs and straps are too complicated for beginners – one with a heel and the other flat. Rachel and I choose to make flats (sadly not because I’m a slave to her big fashion prediction, but because that’s all I have the need to wear these days), while Fi and Liz stick steadfastly to heels.

       
We select insole plates and a pair of plastic foot moulds (or lasts) in our shoe size. Marco proudly shows us some newly arrived leathers that we can use for the upper (the outside material of the shoe front) as well as some exquisitely soft pigskins in gorgeous colours like cherry and turquoise for the linings – which will give the shoes a distinctly upmarket look and feel. He brings out some sample shoes and photos from previous classes to inspire us – I can’t believe how professional they look. Definitely good enough to be shop-bought.

       
We all gather around an enormous antique sea chest with yet more pieces of leather and fabric to choose from – in every conceivable colour and pattern. The choice is too much and we dither about for some time, before I settle upon a textured fabric with a sort of lineny, raw-silk feel.

       
I get up from kneeling by the chest and am straightening my clothes when Rachel gasps alarmingly, ‘Jane!’

       
I jump a mile. What on earth.

       
‘What is it?’

       
She puts her hand to her mouth and points at my waist.

       
‘
Eeeelastic
.’ She spits the word out and then says in monosyllabic bursts, ‘Waistband. E-las-tic. Oh, Jane, do be careful.’

       
‘Well, I’m hardly going to fit into a pair of skinny jeans, am I?’

       
‘You don’t see The Cat in elastic, post-bambino, do you?’

       
I consider pulling her up on a technicality, in light of the gold Lycra cat-suit, but bite my tongue, sensing it could easily backfire on me.

       
‘One very slippery slope, my darling. Next it’ll be the three Ts.’ She’s already given me several lectures on these: T-shirts, tracksuits and trainers. ‘And then it’s, “Hello, mistress.”’

       
‘Oh, seriously.’ Liz pooh-poohs Rachel’s drama-queenness. ‘Not all married men have mistresses, you know.’

       
Rachel purses her lips. Her silence is discomfiting.

       
‘And anyway,
real
mums don’t have multimillion-pound slush funds to spend on nutritionists and personal trainers.’ I suddenly find my fight.

       
‘OR tummy tucks and boob jobs,’ says Fi, winking and quoting the latest Trash Queenz bombshell about The Cat.

       
‘Excuses. I’m just hearing excuses, girls,’ Rachel reprimands, and I know she’s not joking.

       
A little crestfallen, I skulk back to the table, where Ben is patiently waiting for us. He brought his own fabric along today – a microfibre that looks and feels uncannily like leather, in a pretty shade of pink. His fiancée is a devout vegetarian. He’s also got a suitable lining material and his own vegan glue.

       
‘Who’s his fiancée? Stella McCartney’s secret twin sister,’ whispers Rachel slyly before sidling up next to Ben, and coquettishly fiddling with her materials.

       
My first challenge turns out to be pattern cutting. I’ve already been given a gentle rap on the knuckles by Marco for wasting material – he’s extremely professional. I’m left with no doubt that this is no token craft class for bored housewives, and that in less than forty-eight hours the jigsaw pieces in front of me will resemble a gorgeous pair of shoes. I have a feeling it’s going to be no mean feat, though.

Kate and Millie take me by surprise when they peek into the studio an hour later, providing a welcome interruption to the gluing and sewing. I frantically motion to Kate not to come in, keen as I know she is to get a glimpse of Marco. But the fumes from the glue are headache-inducing and far too strong for Millie. I excuse myself and go upstairs with them. Fi promptly follows us with her wretched video phone and takes aim at Millie. She’s like a kid with a new toy today – I’ve already had to take numerous movies of her and Marco ‘making shoes together’. Though I should think it’s more ‘Marco making her shoes’ – she’s really showed minimal interest in the mechanics of it, preferring to dote on Marco instead.

       
When I get back, I’m surprised to find that Ben has finished off sewing one of my uppers – so that I don’t fall behind. He seems to be taking to shoe-making like a duck to water. And is similarly at ease with his handling of Rachel’s outrageous flirtations – politely humouring her and taking it in his stride.

       
The room is bustling with activity and shoe chatter, and Ben and Marco soon become privy to all of our girlie ramblings. Fi has tried to convert us to Iyengar yoga – as part of her New Year’s resolution to harmonise body, mind and soul. Hah!

       
We’ve dissected the Shoe Princess’s latest words of wisdom, as well as expanded our vocabularies, thanks to blogs posted by fellow SPs, with the likes of ‘choogasm’ (when one’s nirvana comes from wearing upmarket high-heeled shoes) and ‘sparklers’ (gold- or silver-lamé shoes worn in group sex so one knows where one’s feet are – Rachel, of course, obliging us with the logistics).