The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (32 page)

We’ve struck the morning peak-hour traffic, so I jostle for one of the few remaining seats in the train transferring us from Malpensa Airport to the centre of town. As we pass mile after mile of ugly concrete high-rise apartment blocks, it’s hard to imagine that at the end of the line there’s a da Vinci and a Duomo I really ought to see. But to be honest, I’m happy with Ben’s plan of shoe-ogling in the morning, followed by visiting Ars Arpel with Marco in the afternoon. I just need to tell Marco this  ...

       
A seat opposite me becomes available and Marco slides in. He’s been standing in the aisle, glued to his mobile phone, ever since getting on the train. It seems that an unexpected family drama (so Italian!) has emerged, throwing his morning of meetings and appointments into turmoil. Which of course means that I no longer need to shadow him around.
Phew
. He apologises to me profusely, but promises to meet us at Ars Arpel at 2 p.m.

       
Seeing Marco with his phone reminds me to get mine. I’m fishing around in the bottomless pit of half-eaten rusks and Wet Wipes in my handbag when I come across a page from his Italian
Vogue
. That’s strange – I don’t recall ripping anything out. (Something I am prone to doing.)

       
It’s folded in four. I open it up to see that it’s a full-page shoe advert, with a handwritten note near the bare flesh of the model’s curved ankle – to me. I’m astonished.

       
The note says that after a morning on Milan’s cobblestones in my heels I’m to go to the Ars Arpel Hotel (in the same building as the Ars Arpel Shoe School) at 1 p.m. for a pre-tutorial foot massage. Or whatever I want.

       
A foot massage!?
Or WHATEVER I want?!?!

       
I furtively compare the handwriting on the note to that of Marco’s on the back of his business card. It’s identical.

       
I pinch the skin on the back of my hand.
Yeeeouch!
Yup, and I’m
definitely
awake too.

       
I dare to glance at Marco, and he fixes me with a glowing smile.

       
This is SO not happening.

       
He’s supposed to be my
fantasy
, not my bloody
mind-sex partner
!

       
What on earth could Liz know that I don’t?

       
Red faced, I hastily refold the note and shove it into the side-flap of my handbag. I don’t know which way to turn. But I do know I’ll be sticking with Ben the WHOLE day.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Kittens
 
This very popular and wise choice of heel for the SP who’s no longer able to do proper high heels but wants a change from flats to smarten up an outfit needs careful handling. For just like their namesake, these adorable, irresistible little creatures can have split loyalties – playful one minute and scratching you on the nose the next.
 
It’s what you wear with the kitten heel that matters:
•
skirt just on or just below the knee – prepare for a mauling, especially if one has largish calves.
•
long skirt or nearly to the ankles – purrfect
•
short skirt (straight) – purrfect
•
slimline capri pants or skinny jeans – purrfect
 
Kindred Spirits
 
As any SP knows, there’s nothing like a fabulous pair of shoes to start up a conversation in the most unlikely places: bus stops, swings at the local park, supermarket queues and lifts. SP of Melbourne travels widely around the globe for her work and always takes her salsa shoes with her. No matter what city she’s in, she finds a salsa group and makes instant friends – despite not being able to speak the local language.

28. A Walk On the Wild Side

Blimey! I yank my foot up – and regain my composure, yet again – from one of the hundreds of metal grates (the exact size of my stiletto heel-tip) that are dotted like landmines across the pavements here. Between the cobblestones and metal grates, I’ll be astounded if I don’t come away from Milan without a sprained ankle or a slipped disc. At the very least, I’m going to be lame by the end of the day – having committed the ultimate Shoe Princess crime of wearing my new boots on a maiden voyage, without first breaking them in. (The balls of my feet are already starting to tingle.)

       
In fact, so perilous is the first half-hour of our walking tour, I call an immediate coffee break. And within minutes, I unwittingly find myself opening up to Ben (again) about Tim and me.

       
But I feel distinctly less liberated this time – due mostly to the fact that my problems have clearly not halved by talking to him, but seemingly
multiplied
. More than ever, Ben helps me to see that Tim and I have fallen into an abyss – of nothingness.

       
And by nothing, I mean exactly that: no blazing rows or vitriolic exchanges. No deep and meaningful discussions. No bright and breezy chats. No sex. No laughing. No hugs. No email banter. No daily phone calls. No walks in the park with Millie.

       
Simply
nothing
.

       
My heart wrenches just thinking about it.

       
And yet, as I sit here, with ever more aching feet, I’m reminded of one person who
does
seem to want me  ...

Coffee and rest having revived me somewhat, I slowly wind my way with Ben around the narrow cobblestone streets – spellbound by how remarkably serene and compact the shopping enclave is. And totally unprepared for how freezing cold it is. A freak Siberian chill has enveloped the city – it’s more like January than October. And the fur coats are out in force – the animal-rights movement does not seem to get a look in here. Kate would have an apoplexy.

       
We’ve no option but to buy some reinforcements – hats, scarves and gloves – and are spoiled for choice with the array of exquisite shops. Though I guess it’s only to be expected when Giorgio Armani is the local chain store. He seems to have a shop on
every
street corner dedicated to one of his different ranges. As well as his superstore, which takes up an
entire
block and has everything from clothes, books, CDs and furniture to make-up. And is the only place you can buy his chocolate – which we feel duty-bound to sample. (Mouth-watering, of course!) I’ve never considered myself a slave to designers before, but now that I’ve seen so much outstanding quality and beauty under one roof I’d seriously consider buying toothpicks if they had the Armani logo on them.

       
With Armani clothing definitely out of my budget, I find myself standing in front of a mirror in a tiny specialist knitwear boutique and trying on various scarves, cloches and berets. Ben, having already made his purchases, is busy discussing with the shop assistants the location of the new interior design store he wants to find.

       
I fiddle incessantly with a pretty grey crocheted cloche, tilting it this way and that in a vain effort to look more chic and less Miss Marple. All the while mulling over Marco’s invite. (To be honest, I’ve been able to think about little else all morning.)

       
I study my face in the mirror – peering deep into my eyes. For signs of the old me: Spunk. Passion. Gusto. But all I see is the new me: Tired. Drawn. Dull.

       
Which begs the question,
What on earth could Marco possibly find so attractive?

       
The more I ponder this, the more I’m convinced that what’s behind the invite is just his typical thoughtfulness. It’ll probably be nothing more than a cup of tea and some friendly shoe banter, with my feet up. And of course, we’ll talk about Fi.

       
As friends do.

       
What could be so bad about that?

       
Right
.

Unfortunately, the foot situation gets progressively worse. But thankfully, Ben’s
really
patient – not moaning in the slightest when I have to stop and rest every ten steps. In fact, he’s proved to be quite an enjoyable diversion from my Marco-obsessing (which has been made worse by having to think of him each step by painful step). Ben’s been getting me to try on all manner of wild clothes and shoes that I would honestly
never
have the courage to wear these days. (I must admit, I even rather liked the feel of the knee-high gladiator-tied sandal-boots!)

       
The most fun I’ve had in ages, though, was trying on the new season’s bustiers in Dolce & Gabbana. And despite warnings to the contrary, the shop assistants have been delightfully pleasant and attentive. And not to mention discreet. They did not bat an eyelid when Ben cheekily told them I was his mistress – at which point I
really
had to pull together all my reserves not to burst into fits of laughter. Though I’m sure I didn’t do my case any justice when I ended up purchasing said bustier – on Ben’s credit card. I had used up my last eBay shoe-sale pennies on my cloche, gloves and scarf, and Ben very kindly
insisted
on giving me a loan until I sold my next lot of mum shoes. (Seeing as though my credit rating’s so good!) I definitely would not have been brave enough to buy the bustier without his positive assurances. I guess I truly couldn’t believe how good (and dare I say, sexy) I felt in it – I even saw glimpses of the old me.

It’s now midday and there’s no denying the obvious: I simply can’t go on. My feet are in such excruciating agony, I have to take tiny little micro-steps in order not to hobble. (Hobbling’s
never
a good look, and probably outlawed in this part of the world anyway.)

       
Lagging way behind Ben, I manage to hail him down and we slip through the nearest lane to a topiary-lined café in one of the secret magical courtyards dotted throughout the precinct.

       
As we sit waiting for our order, Ben checks his phone messages and I try valiantly to block thinking about my nearly numb feet. (And, of course, Marco’s tempting offer to take them out of their misery.)

       
During lunch, the pain really does become worrying – I think I’m now starting to lose sensation in some of my toes.
I’ve never felt anything like this before
. I gratefully accept Ben’s offer to get me some paracetamol on his way to the interior design shop he’s been talking about.

       
‘Shall I swing back in a cab and get you?’ he says rather enthusiastically. ‘It’s a good fifteen-minute walk to Ars Arpel from here – you’ll
never
make it in time.’

       
‘Oh, no. Don’t you dare! You’ve already gone out of your way for me today.’

       
‘Are you sure?’

       
‘Absolutely.’ Delightful as Ben is, he can verge on the hyperactive-puppy – some time to myself right now would be nice. ‘I’ll get a cab – that’s no problem at all. Thanks anyway. You go –
enjoy
!’