The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (29 page)

25. Killer Heels

From:        Fi (work)

To:                Jane (home)

Subject:        HAVE I MADE THE WORST DECISION OF MY LIFE?

Hi Jane

       
Thanks SO much for letting me weep all over your kitchen table on Saturday. (Just like old times ... Ha!) Poor Millie – seeing her favourite aunt in such a state. I’m glad, at least, that she loved her giant push-along stiletto. (Though I’m still cross with you for not inviting me to her big party.)

       
At least work’s been frantic ever since coming back from hols – have been too busy to obsess over Marco ... too much. Am on the road now for a few weeks with Jolie Naturelle – so hopefully might have time to clear my head. Or not? Oh, what have I done?!

       
Ho hum, life goes on ... even in relationship breaks.

       
Fi xx

Fi is one thing, if not predictable.

       
Her visit on Saturday ended, unsurprisingly, in an epic tea-and-tears session in my kitchen. All thanks to her announcing that she and Marco are officially ‘on a break’. At her instigation, of course. Because she has ‘issues’. ‘Issues’ being code for Fi-pushing-the-relationship-self-destruct-button so that she can save face, in the extremely unlikely event that she’s got it all completely wrong, and Marco was about to dump her anyway.

       
And so it goes.

       
She said that she got spooked by the intensity of her month away with Marco (they coincidentally had their first big tiff) and wondered if he was Mr Right after all. Surely she remembers our gap year in Italy – travelling together can test the best of friendships, let alone relationships. And there is no doubt that this is the first ‘real’ relationship that Fi has ever been confronted with.

       
As delightfully melodramatic as I found Fi’s monologue it
was
a welcome relief to mull over someone else’s relationship troubles for a change. Though I’m afraid I probably wasn’t quite as congenial a counsellor as I normally am – due mostly to the fact that Tim was due home imminently. I still haven’t dared to tell Fi (or anyone else other than Ben, for that matter) about the dark place that Tim and I seem to be in.

       
But I did tell her that I was planning to go to Milan with Marco and Ben for the day next month – we’ve been friends too long for me not to. She was plainly a little put out. But this trip is really important to me, and I made it very clear that Marco was taking Ben and me along purely as his students. And in any case, she should be back together with him by then (if she has an
ounce
of sense about her) and can come along too if she really wants.

       
And to top things off, Fi told me that Alison’s just been promoted to team leader at work. (Reminding me that I
still
haven’t apologised.) Alison’s mum has apparently moved in with her and her husband to help out with the kids. And according to Fi, she’s not only getting in to work early these days but she’s also making her mark by changing all sorts of policies and procedures (that I must admit have needed shaking up for some time). Simon’s apparently seething (tee-hee).

Tim arrived home just as Fi was approaching the bottom of the tissue box. He dropped his luggage in the hall, said that he felt poorly and then went straight to bed.

       
I’ve never seen him so unwell – with a raging fever that swung between burning hot and shivering cold, many times over. I was so worried that he might have bird flu or malaria, or some equally exotic illness, that I called in the GP. But she said that it wasn’t anything more sinister than a very nasty dose of the flu, and that he should just ‘ride it out’ with plenty of bed rest and fluids.

       
So that’s exactly what he did ... for SEVEN comatose days.

       
I set up camp in the spare room at night. And then during the day left bottles of water and flasks of soup by his bed – as I had to continue my house visits with Mary, while Millie was at Victoria’s. (Victoria wouldn’t swap jobs for the week, insisting that only she could decipher Mary’s diaries. Which seemed a little mean.)

       
For the most part, Tim barely noticed one day roll into the next, let alone my new makeover. (I was cut to the core.) And in the odd lucid moment that coincided with me being around, he wired himself to his mobile and laptop. And then promptly went back to sleep again.

       
Though I did manage to tell him about my mum shoes and my trip to Ars Arpel, but he was oddly distant – and what’s more, flatly refused to be drawn into any discussions about taking the day off work to look after Millie. Piously claiming that it was a very ‘critical’ time at work, and that he couldn’t take any ‘unnecessary’ leave – especially after this week off sick. (He hasn’t taken
one
day of leave all year, for goodness sake.)

       
I was livid. Especially after all the support I’d given to him and his career this year. And refusing to babysit really was the
last
straw. In my mind, at least.

       
On the eighth day he crawled out of bed and went back to Bangalore.

       
It felt like a dream. A very bad dream at that.

At least Mary and I got our paperwork finished – managing to collate enough signed breast-feeding certificates to keep the bureaucrats more than happy, I should think. And Victoria produced a magnificently professional dossier of patient-number spreadsheets, pie graphs, statistical analyses and cross-referenced research studies. (She’s right, I would
never
have been able to do such a great job of it.) Sophie then got one of her work couriers to pick it all up from Victoria’s, and she presented it to the relevant government department along with a fearsome legalese cover letter. I shouldn’t think that they knew what they were in for!

       
All fingers and toes remain crossed.

From:        Jane (home)

To:                Liz (work)

Subject:        RE: eBay Congrats

Thanks! Am still a little stunned by it all. There’s clearly nothing like a pair of vintage Vivienne Westwoods to bring on a bidding war! (Can see why you’re so hooked on eBay – all very exciting.) Definitely have enough money now, after paying Ben back for the flight, to visit the upmarket clothing warehouse near your work. You’re absolutely right – can’t go to Milan looking anything less than fab.

       
Thanks again, Jane xx

There’s no denying that my whole prise-my-husband-from-the-claws-of-Alex-with-a-stunning-new-makeover drive was a breathtaking flop. And with the big save-Mary-and-the-mother-and-baby-clinic campaign trail now at an end, and the apparition that I think was my husband back in Alex’s arms in Bangalore, Millie and I slip deeper into our old routines of daytime TV, playgroups at Victoria’s and spins around the park.

       
I’m quite frankly counting the sleeps until my trip to Milan in two weeks’ time – as outside of Millie’s cuddles, Milan’s the only thing getting me through my days. OK, and maybe my Cat-a-Pole routine too – I’m completely hooked. Dad’s very kindly offered to look after Millie for me so that I can go to Milan – as Mum will be away on a quilting week in Marseilles and not returning until the same night I’m due back.

       
And with barely any communication from Tim, I increasingly spend my nights in cyberspace – seeking emotional solace from the Shoe Princess and Trash Queenz – with a permanent migraine, which is only mildly relieved by copious doses of painkillers and wearing my sunglasses (all day
and
night – very Cat-like!).

       
Oh, hell, who am I kidding ... blow the Jaffa Cakes. Where’s the vodka?

TrashQueenz e-lert

Cat Got Your Tongue? The Cat’s long-term manager and agent, Big Barry Drake, has broken his silence on the growing media interest in her increasingly erratic behaviour – first highlighted by Trash Queenz, no less. He’s appearing on Brunch with Britain today to douse those pesky rumours. Don’t miss it  ...

Millie, Florence and I are waiting in front of the television with bated breath for the appearance of Big Barry – that’s what the tabloids call him. Due in part to the considerable size of his girth but mostly because of his Swiss bank accounts (thanks to all the money he’s made from The Cat over the years). He’s the eagle-eyed photographer who ‘discovered’ her outside the changing rooms of Top Shop, Oxford Street, at the tender age of fourteen. And the rest, as they say, is history.

       
Tamsin seems to be in a rotten mood today. She and Gavin are squabbling over everything, from who reads the weather forecast to who gets what side of the sofa to sit on. And now, to top it off, Big Barry’s a last-minute no-show.

       
Tamsin’s less than impressed. (She’s a real stickler for professionalism.) Instead, they run with a rushed-together video segment on her ‘Cat-aclysmic’ decline, and get the resident agony uncle, Dr Pemberton, to give his analysis. I adore the dapper Dr Pemberton and his chestnut Oliver Sweeny brogues and pinstripe suits. I’m also certain that he’s got a
massive
crush on Tamsin – the flirting’s outrageous.

       
‘So, Doc ...’ Gavin always calls him ‘Doc’, just to wind him up. ‘What do you make of The Cat’s Jekyll and Hyde lifestyle?’

       
She’s now out drinking
every
night (always in those oversized dark sunglasses and never talking to anyone other than her bevy of minders). Then spending her days locked behind the walls of her vast West Sussex estate with Happy Sunshine and the latest addition to her litter, Strawberry Blossom (a sweet little Sudanese orphan girl), donating vast sums of money to international aid organisations and tending her organic vegetable patch. Or so we’re told!

       
‘I think what we’re seeing here is clearly a young woman
struggling
.’ Dr Pemberton clasps both hands together and frowns – he’s such a drama queen. ‘
Struggling
with the modern-day pressure to be the perfect “model” mother;
struggling
with the emotional and physical burdens of solo-parenthood;
struggling
to let go of her old career-focused pre-baby life and find a new niche for herself;
struggling
with the body of a woman who has suckled a child; and, of course,
struggling
with unfaithful men who constantly let her down.’

       
Maybe The Cat and I have more in common than I thought?

       
‘Yes, Gavin and Tamsin, this could well be a very public post-partum adjustment-period for her.’

       
The camera pans across to Tamsin for the wrap-up, but suddenly jolts and wobbles abruptly back to Gavin, who’s already started talking, and seems to have stolen her autocue line.