The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (14 page)

       
But you know what? Alison
never
complained.

       
Not even when I supported the decision to refuse her (quite legitimately) a week’s leave without pay for a summer holiday. Because she’d just used up the final three weeks of her annual leave, when all three kids got chickenpox one after the other. (I needed her for the Jolie Naturelle bid, for goodness sake.)

       
So, no prizes for guessing my New Year’s resolution: apologise to Alison. Profusely. (After my feeble effort at the Christmas party.)

       
Whether I have the backbone to follow it through this time is another thing entirely.

It looks like I needn’t have worried about sprinting to Marco’s studio in my high heels, nearly spraining my ankles (I’m so out of practice) – only Fi and Ben are here. Along with Marco, of course.

       
‘Here’s the periodical I was telling you about,’ says Marco, handing me a thick glossy magazine with a shoe on the front. ‘Everyone in the trade buys it – it should give you a good idea of what’s out there.’ With Millie’s illness and everything going on at home, I’d completely forgotten that I’d asked him (almost in passing, actually) about learning some more about shoe-making. It really is very sweet of him to follow it up. And so quickly too.

       
I’m also pleased to say that yesterday’s embarrassing mini-case of wanderlust is history. Thanks to the well-timed return of my cobra.

       
Fi hands me a welcome double espresso from the coffee machine she’s set up by Marco’s small sink. (She nearly died yesterday without a decent coffee under her belt.) The rush of caffeine also helps me suddenly remember the whole Rachel-gagging-to-bed-the-spunky-young-and-engaged-set-designer scenario.

       
‘Where are the girls?’

       
‘Oh, Rachel called to say that she’ll be late,’ says Marco. ‘She said to start without her – but she won’t be long.’

       
I immediately dart my gaze over to Ben, and study him closely. He’s either very sneaky or very cool. (Or very innocent, I guess?) As he hasn’t flinched a muscle at the mention of Rachel’s name. Apart from a lazy yawn, which, given that it’s Sunday morning, I’ll let him get away with.

       
Normally, I’d bet my last penny on my granny’s grave that Rachel’s shagged him senseless, and is at this moment indulging in a post-sleep-in bubble bath and home-delivered Patisserie Valerie croissants (courtesy of a young, hunky pastry chef whom she ‘treats’ every now and then too). Rachel usually gets what Rachel wants.

       
‘And Liz called to say that she won’t be coming in at all,’ says Fi.

       
‘Why? What’s wrong?’

       
‘She didn’t really say. Just that she couldn’t make it.’

       
That’s strange, because Harry’s away at a conference too.

       
‘Did she sound poorly?’ Ben’s concern seems genuine.

       
‘No. Not really. A little tired, I guess.’

       
When I think about it, she was pale and drawn yesterday. The stress of trying for a baby is so all-encompassing. Every now and then it catches up with her – mentally and physically.

       
‘Well, the least I can do is finish her shoes for her.’ Ben goes over and collects her materials. He really is a darling.

       
In fact, Ben turns out to be our saviour, practically tutoring us the whole morning, while Marco meets yet more clients up in the shop. If Fi’s miffed by her plan to spend the weekend with Marco being scuppered by all these meetings, she’s certainly not showing it.

       
During our break, I ask her tentatively who the clients are.

       
‘I don’t mean to be rude, but they all seem to be, um  ...’

       
‘Disabled,’ she says, matter-of-factly.

       
‘Well, yes.’

       
‘He’s making their shoes for a special one-off performance of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, at the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. They’re from a disabled theatre company – every one of the actors has been affected in some way by a motor-vehicle accident. Marco’s doing it all for free. It’s going to be out of this world. You should see the designs he’s come up with – sort of Zandra Rhodes glam rock meets
The Wizard of Oz
!’ Fi’s glowing with pride.

       
Well, I never. Marco Delaserio – the intelligent, handsome shoe designer – now with a social conscience. Fi has
truly
hit the jackpot!

       
‘And Ben’s kindly offered to help out with the set designs too,’ she says excitedly.

       
I would expect nothing less.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Ugg Boot Survey
 
The results are in! And I have to say that it was a keenly fought battle between the European and Australian SPs as to who had the strongest views on the subject.
 
The Australians, and in particular the Sydney SPs, assure me that only ‘Westies’ (from an allegedly outer-suburban fashion-challenged region) wear ‘Uggies’. And that no amount of ‘talking them up’ in Vogue is going to change their minds. A definite NO vote there.
 
Meanwhile, the European SPs are happily toasting their tootsies from the King’s Road to St Moritz – a winter-wardrobe winner that I’m afraid seems to be here to stay. And with enough votes to push the poll result to a resounding win for the Yeti YES team!
 
Shoe Shopping Hot Spot
 
Tokyo is officially this month’s winner. Its star status achieved by hundreds of SP reports of shoe shops to die for! And not only is the shopping great, but the shoe-spotting is out of this world. The girls there are mad about shoes – especially platforms or prettily patterned shoes.
 
And for my legion of SPs constantly complaining about shoes not being wide enough, the Japanese shoes are also made with more generous widths too.
 
So, what are you waiting for  ...

13. Kick the Boot In

Rachel graces us with her company just before midday, with a pounding headache and dark sunglasses. She vows that Liz gave her and Ben a lift home last night – dropping her off first. And alone. Ben corroborates the chain of events wholeheartedly. (In fact, he seems so clueless as to my line of questioning that I feel a tad embarrassed to have implicated him in the first place.)

       
I start to smell a rat, though, when Rachel says that she’s late because she’s had a huge night with a guy from work. Rachel’s always insisted that she’d sooner go hiking in Tibet than sleep with someone from work.

       
‘You’ve got a statistically higher chance of finding your life partner at work these days,’ says Fi, no doubt quoting from one of her trash-mag surveys.

       
‘Well, I can’t argue with that,’ says Ben with a smile. ‘I met my fiancée at the hospital when I was doing some volunteer work for the children’s ward.’

       
Rachel’s face turns even greener than it already is. And naturally, Fi and I quiz Ben some more about his fateful meeting with his fiancée.

       
‘I really think we should be getting on with things,’ says Marco anxiously, doing his best to jolly Fi and I along a bit, and leave poor Ben alone. I take his cue, and set straight back to work.

       
With Marco not racing off to a client meeting, Fi takes the opportunity to get some more video footage of them, and thrusts her phone into Ben’s hands. Marco looks slightly ill at ease, while I’ve never seen Fi looking so radiant. Rachel’s spirits suddenly rise too, as she takes delivery of a dozen red roses (with a raunchy little note that she won’t let us read) from her new lover. She’s floating on cloud nine.

       
Happily, we all settle down to a relaxed and quietly industrious session. I’m thoroughly enjoying the craft of cobbling today, now that I’ve really got the knack of it. And when we stop for a late lunch, and I’ve checked with Mum and Tim that all is OK at home, I even allow myself a little indulgence – I take up Ben’s offer of a French manicure. I made a special effort in the clothing department today too –
just
managing to squeeze into a pair of low-rise jeans (with the top button undone but cleverly covered by my knitted wrap top) and of course my high heels. Rachel and Fi are most approving.

By the afternoon’s end, and much to our collective delight, we’re admiring our very own pairs of handmade shoes. All in all, it’s been a brilliant weekend. Fi points out that, if we were to put our shoes side by side on the table, we’d be staring at mini versions of ourselves. And she’s not wrong: Rachel’s are in red satin leopardskin print, with gold-lamé lining. Fi’s are a funky denim, with fuchsia pigskin lining. And mine are mint-coloured with a flower sewn on to the side – a Cath Kidstony-type fabric contrasted with crimson pigskin lining.

       
And thankfully, with Rachel’s attentions elsewhere, Ben’s had time to finish Liz’s shoes. He’s done a lovely job on them too – they’re a beautiful cream calfskin, with classic cream lining. She’ll be thrilled.

       
I’m now more convinced than ever that shoes are worth every penny we pay for them. I’ll certainly not be able to look at a pair in the same way again.

       
‘You’ve got a good eye for shoe-making, Jane,’ says Marco, holding up my shoes and examining them closely.

       
‘Really?’

       
‘Yes. I’m serious. I’ve seen several other students use this fabric – but none so cleverly. And you’ve made very few mistakes – not easy for a novice. Well done.’

       
I’m embarrassed, yet completely chuffed.

       
‘If you ever want to make more shoes, you’re very welcome to use my studio.’

       
‘Thanks. But I don’t really have the time at the moment.’

       
‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ says Marco supportively. ‘You can take the materials home if that suits you best. I made my first pair at my mother’s kitchen table.’

       
‘I guess I can’t quite justify bespoke shoes in my wardrobe these days, either.’

       
‘Well, make them for other people instead,’ pipes in Fi enthusiastically. ‘You could sell them – make some “shoe money” for yourself. Marco, tell her about the scouts – from the large French fashion house – who bought the entire Portobello Road market-stall collection from one of your students last year.’

       
‘It’s true,’ he nods.

       
‘Gosh, that’s amazing.’ Now that I think about it, Sophie and the mums at my mothers’ group are always complaining about a lack of fashionable, yet wearable, mum shoes.

       
‘Actually, you’ve all done magnificently,’ says Marco. ‘And thank you to Ben, too. I don’t know what I would have done without you this weekend. Extraordinary circumstances – I do apologise.’ Marco glances over in the direction of his own worktable, which is buried under sketches and shoes he’s making for the play.