The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (25 page)

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Crocs Survey
 
Well, the results of the survey are in and I must say I’ve had a dismal response – at best.
 
One can only assume that either you’re all away on summer holiday, or, like me, you feel the only use for ‘real’ reptiles is flattened and stitched into a boot or bag, and that any self-respecting SP would not be seen dead in these cloggy, spongy, goofy affronts to the senses.
 
However, there were just enough positive responses for me to concede a rare middle ground, and deem that crocs may be worn by SPs strictly in the garden and/or the short distance between pool / sea / spa and towel. That’s it.
 
Heel Virgins
 
A heinous state of affairs has recently been brought to my attention: some of the women nearest and dearest to us have never – not ever – worn stiletto heels. (I know, as hard as it is to imagine.)
 
I urge all of my loyal subjects to put an end to this unacceptable social injustice, and make it your goal this month to introduce one girlfriend/sister/mother/cousin to spikes. Even if you have to escort them personally to the shoe shop. Or better still, give them a pair of gorgeous high heels as a friendship gift – with some walking-training thrown in for good measure, of course. What are SP friends for anyway?
 
Footnote
 
Cracked heels and yellow toenails are never a good look. Foot maintenance is just as important as shoe maintenance.

22. Hop to It

I embark upon the task of finding the pre-Millie me with nothing less than the strategic zeal of a Harvey Nicks shoe-sale offensive. And with time being of the essence, I quickly gather my wits about me – cunning, persistence, agility, finesse – and begin  ...

Step One: Face and Body
This is insane. Absolute madness. I’m looking, of course, at the recipe I’ve diligently formulated, from a dozen or so trash mags:
 
Essentials:
Gym membership, jogging, yoga, swimming, Pilates, Yogalates, spinning, acupuncture, face waxing, body waxing (including Brazilian), face firming/anti-ageing creams, manicure, pedicure, massage – full body, spray tan – full body, starvation diet, teeth-whitening, toners (hip, thigh and buttocks).
 
Desirables:
Personal trainer, detox, Botox (face AND buttocks), crystals, reiki, reflexology, day spa, glycolic-acid face peels, pigmentation-spot laser therapy, laser hair removal, microdermabrasion, seaweed wrap, eye-liner tatooing, eyelash dyeing, silk eyelash extensions, collagen fills, liposuction/body sculpting, teeth reshaping, surgery (tummy tuck, boob job, nose job, neck lift, eyelid lift), fine-line laser treatment, spider-vein removal, colonic irrigation.

I can’t imagine
anyone
going through all of this palaver. I certainly couldn’t, pre-Millie. Bar the leg waxes and pedicures, of course. Plus, I’ve always considered shoe shopping to be a much more civilised form of exercise than working out in stinky old gyms. But the thought of Alex-the-alluring-waif throwing herself at my husband quickly returns me to the task in hand. As does the knowledge of my tracksuit bottoms being an inch higher off the ground, thanks to an extra two inches of fat around my girth. (It’s just my luck to get the middle-aged spread at the same time as post-baby blubber.)

       
I’m mulling over the fact that I can’t afford even a fraction of these treatments (let alone find the time for them) as I sort through the morning post. And for the first time
ever
, I open one of the seven letters from banks that I get each day – encouraging me to sign a pre-approved application for instant credit.

       
It’s soooo tempting. Maybe credit-card debt is a small price to pay for saving my marriage? After all, desperate times call for desperate measures.

       
Am I
completely
crazy? Tim’s favourite pastime is scouring our VISA card statement and doing his best Basil Fawlty impersonation when he comes across my purchases. If he found out about a hidden mountain of debt, that would surely put another nail in the coffin.

       
No, I’m going to have to be
much
cleverer than that  ...

Step Two: Mind and Spirit
I think back to when Tim and I were happiest. When he wanted me. Undressed me with one fleeting glance. Devoured me.
       
I was working. Always busy – in an inspired, positive sort of way. And ambitious.
       
It’s clear that now is the time for my mum shoes project (really just a very simple variation on the flat mules that I made at shoe school) to see the light of day. I pull together all my ideas and sketches on scraps of paper from the top drawer of the desk, and set about getting the wheels in motion.

I firstly phone Marco’s studio, and am surprised when Ben answers the phone.

       
‘Ben, hi. Is Marco there, thanks?’

       
‘He’s still in Italy with Fi. They’ve extended their stay, remember.’

       
Damn.

       
‘Oh, of course! How silly of me.’

       
In my haste to get started I’d forgotten about Fi and Marco throwing caution to the wind. She forwarded me an email that she sent to work, saying that they’d decided to lend a hand on an ‘eco-friendly thermal-energy project’ at Mount Etna – till the end of the month. This was entirely fabricated, of course. The closest she and Marco have come to thermal energy at Mount Etna is the sauna in the nearby five-star resort. Unbelievably, human resources not only bought into her little scam, but gave her a ‘special commendation’ on her staff file for participating in a project of ‘global and/or community significance’. (They get extra EU funding in return.) Good on her for being canny enough to pull it off – she certainly deserves to be having the time of her life with Marco.

       
‘Can I help you with anything – I’m taking care of the shop and studio for Marco? A bit of a lull in set-design work,’ says Ben.

       
That’s strange, Marco and Fi never said anything to me about Ben holding the fort. Oh well  ...

       
‘Um, yes, actually.’ I tell him all about my mum shoes – how I want them to be funky and fashionable, yet comfortable enough to cope with fallen arches and bunions, and sturdy enough for a walk around the block or the school run. And of course, not extortionately priced.

       
‘What a
great
idea. Come into the studio any time you like.’

       
Well, that is a stroke of luck. As is the fact that he’s got Marco’s contact details and can find out for me what materials he has in stock and what sort of an outlay I need to get started.

       
Ben phones back the next morning with Marco’s cost estimate for enough raw materials to make my first batch of mum shoes (about seven to ten pairs, depending on how well I go). It’s not as much as I expected – though I’m sure Marco’s giving everything to me at a discounted rate. That’s just so like him. Marco also gets Ben to open some packages of gorgeous, super-soft leathers for me – in chocolate, crimson, charcoal and teal. They’ll be perfect.

       
Fi then drops me a quick email, saying that Marco insists I take as many materials and tools home as I like, instead of having to go into the studio with Ben. That’s very kind of him, but of course completely unnecessary – now that I’ve got Dad’s welcome help with Millie (and in truth is the only reason this project’s remotely doable in the first place).

       
My next obvious hurdle is paying Marco for the raw materials. Fortunately, my trusty Home Parent Assistant has not only been behind my mum shoes project from the beginning, but he’s also been living with me long enough now to pick up on the strain of Tim being away and my need to get my groove back – if not even for the sake of the marriage, but simply for me. We put our heads together and, in light of the Shoe Princess’s Heel Virgins campaign, come up with a rather ingenious plan to raise funds: shoe pimping. (I promise it’s not as dodgy as it sounds.)

       
I gather a small selection of what-on-earth-was-I-thinking-about-at-the-time-impossibly-high-stiletto-heeled shoes (still in original shoeboxes and mostly unworn) from the back of my wardrobe, write a series of provocatively irresistible descriptions about them, and then post them, along with a photo, for sale on the Shoe Princess noticeboard. (I’m quite computer-savvy now, thanks to Dad’s technical help.)

       
The stilettos sell out within a few days – and I’m suddenly in the shoe-making business!

I spend the remainder of August dashing between Marco’s studio and home – generally going in after lunch (when Millie has her afternoon sleep) to do all the gluing, stitching and hammering. And then coming home late afternoon, thanks to Dad taking Millie for a walk and play at Queen’s Park when she wakes up. They’ve had a truly magical time together and, by all accounts, the other toddlers have relished having a rare, older male figure around too – Dad proudly telling me that he’s the newly crowned Pied Piper of the sandpit.

       
I finish off the shoes in the garden shed during Millie’s morning sleep, and then embellish them with my own funky/retro designs made from material, ribbon and leather remnants, as well as Florence’s gorgeous little crocheted flowers. Plus, most evenings I take advantage of the long twilight and return to the studio for a few hours, once Millie’s gone down and Dad’s settled in front of the TV. All thanks to Ben’s generous offer of opening up for me. I don’t feel too guilty about it, as he seemed genuinely glad of the company, given that his fiancée is away on her annual stint volunteering at a Romanian orphanage.

       
Actually, Ben’s proven to be something of an angel in disguise this summer. Not only has he been helpful with the odd technical issue with the shoes, but he’s also been a real emotional crutch. You see, with only the two of us in the studio for long stretches, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was pouring out my heart and soul to him – about Tim. I told him everything, right up to the horrid time at the wellness centre. And I have to say that it was nothing short of liberating. ‘A problem shared is a problem halved,’ and all that. He’s such a patient and natural listener. And not judgemental in the slightest.

       
Tim and I have at least spoken – but crucially not about Alex. I’ve not been game to, for fear of pushing him further away. And he seems to have just swept it under the rug, as if there’s nothing to talk about. All he does talk about is coming home to be with Millie on her first birthday. And for that, at least, I’m grateful.

Step Three: Clothing, Hair and Make-up
I’m so happy with my first batch of mum shoes that I post them for sale on the Shoe Princess noticeboard straight away, and am absolutely staggered (and ecstatic) when they sell out within hours to the loyal members of my Funky Mammas subgroup (plus one or two outsiders). In turn, raising enough money for me to splash out on some trendy new high-rise jeans (thank goodness they’re back in fashion), a chic new haircut, colour and sassy highlights, and invest in a good-quality cleanser, tinted moisturiser, mascara and lip gloss.
       
All of my grooming advice has been gleaned from the ‘mistress of mistresses’ – Rachel (who’s still in Scotland). I’ll do anything at this stage of the game to get ahead of the enemy – even fraternising with them. But of course I didn’t tell her about my own dilemma, just that I needed to claw myself out of dumpy mumsville on a
very
tight budget. Naturally, she was only too happy to oblige with the secret formula.