The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (5 page)

       
I stop dead in my marshmallowy-mummy-tummy tracks.

       
‘How do you know?’

       
‘Trash Queenz,’ Fi laughs, as if I’ve been on another planet. Which technically, I have. ‘You know, the blog dedicated to all the behind-the-scenes goss about the trash mags.’

       
More blank stares from me.

       
‘Everyone at work’s hooked on it. First thing we log on to each morning – TrashQueenz.com – with a “z” on the end of Queen. If you put an “s” you’ll get some hard-rock band.’ This inspires her to do a little air-guitar routine. (Boy, is she going to have one monstrous hangover in the morning.)

       
I feel a warm glow. Thank God for girlfriends, is all I can say! I vow to rediscover my love of trash magazines armed with the knowledge that the ‘dirt’ is only a mouse click away.

       
Dan, meanwhile, is gleefully bringing the boys up to speed on the many ‘assets’ of The Cat over a glass of port in the lounge.

       
Rachel’s suddenly animated,

       
‘If you’re into blogs, I’ve another that you
must
try: ShoePrincess.com. Now, I know what you’re thinking: every upmarket prostitute worth her salt’s doing a blog these days – it’s all so dotcom passé. But I assure you, she’s divine. Oh, and she’s not a prostitute – well, who cares anyway? Just go see.’

       
Needless to say, I simply cannot wait to meet the Shoe Princess when Millie is asleep tomorrow too.

       
My happy thoughts are short-lived, though, as I spy Tim motioning frantically across the room at me – slapping his hands against his chest as if he’s swatting insects.

       
Finally, I get it. He wants me to look down – at my chest – or rather at my Dolly-Parton-on-steroids breasts that have taken on a life of their own since Millie. Contrary to all expectations, rather than enjoying my newfound assets, Tim is truly scared of them.

       
I glance down and see two giant wet lily pads on my pale jersey top. I fear that, with all my expressing today, I must have tricked my breasts into thinking I’ve now got an enormous baby to feed on the hour. I can’t believe this actually happens in
real
life – I was certain it was a joke made up to mock nursing mums. Yet another bizarre bodily experience to add to my growing list.

       
I’m immediately grateful for the cape’s covering-up capabilities and, with every painful minute that passes, wonder if it’s physically possible for human breasts to explode. With Millie at the forefront of our minds, Tim and I are suddenly in a rush to leave.

       
We try to thank Fi for a lovely evening, but she’s too busy dancing and singing incoherently to the deafening strains of her favourite Duran Duran CD. Marco manages to nab her as she whizzes by and, drawing her in a close embrace, commences a soft slow waltz. She instantly succumbs to the subtle rhythm and collapses on to his chest – with her eyes closed and an enormous smile from ear to ear.

       
‘You
must
get home to Millie,’ says Marco. ‘We’ll be fine.’ He lovingly kisses the top of Fi’s head and motions us towards the door.

       
Dear Liz and Harry offer to stay and help tidy up, while Marco puts Fi to bed. Rachel and Dan head for the clubs. And we beat a hasty retreat homewards.

We’re greeted at the front door by a frazzled Mum cradling Millie, who has not slept more than ten minutes, or taken any milk from the bottle all evening.

       
Oh dear. Oh bloody dear.

       
I eventually slide into bed next to a comatose Tim, our bodies interlocking in our own human jigsaw. My head is heavy on the pillow as I warm my cold (and unusually sore) feet between his.

       
I fall asleep quickly – sandwiched between Tim’s heavy breathing and Millie’s snuffles. Utterly content. And shoeless.

       
Who’d have thought?

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Are you a Shoe Princess?
 
Have You Ever  ...
o Been frog-marched into your bedroom by your partner, during heated discussions about finances, to count the number of shoes in your possession?
o Displayed your favourite shoes on a mantelpiece or kept your wardrobe doors open so that you could admire them 24/7?
o Bought a pair of shoes while on holiday, and ever after referred to them as your ‘Berlin shoes’ etc?
 
Do You  ...
o Remember more details about the shoes in your wardrobe than the men you’ve dated?
o Find it impossible to walk past a shoe shop with a ‘SALE’ sign in the window?
o Believe that stilettos are not a shoe but a way of life?
o Own shoes that you have not worn because you genuinely don’t want to spoil them?
o Always get given beautiful handmade birthday cards with shoes on them – the favourites of which you keep in a special box?
o Find that buying a new pair of shoes always makes you happy?
 
Would You Rather  ...
o Share a toothbrush with a friend than share a pair of your shoes?
o Walk barefoot if caught in a sudden rain shower than ruin your shoes – especially if they’re suede?
o Move house than get rid of any of your shoes?
o Have a lifetime of happy shoe memories than a pair of perfect, non-mutilated feet? What are feet for anyway?
 
If you’ve ticked ALL of the boxes  ...
Welcome, my darling subject, to my fabulous shoedom!
 
And remember, if Madonna said that her Manolos are
‘as good as sex ... and last longer’, they are.
 
Email me to share your:
 
SHOE STORIES – memories; favourites; dreams; dilemmas.
SHOES IN THE NEWS – snippets that catch your eye.
SHOE ALERTS – designer shoe sales; shoe exhibits.

5. Clever Clogs

‘It was genius, pure genius,’ enthuses Fi, as she thrusts a bottle of bubbly into my arms.

       
I must admit, it
was
a personal career high point – sending the bid for the Jolie Naturelle contract in a Jimmy Choo shoebox.

       
For as well as being best friends since school, Fi and I are workmates at the global insurance monolith Asquith & Brown – as client-relationship managers. (All the buzz of wearing smart suits and mock-crock power points, yet none of the tedium of actually being a lawyer.) Fi’s been with the company for ages, while I only recently got my well-shod feet under the desk next to hers.

       
The Jolie Naturelle bid was our first project together and we were determined to make a splash. Ironically, it also became my last hurrah before going on maternity leave – well, four-months-at-home-without-pay maternity break. As I unwittingly signed on the dotted line with Asquith & Brown while two weeks pregnant – failing to qualify for the new paid maternity-leave provisions. (Such rotten luck.)

       
‘Anyway, it was hardly rocket science,’ I say. We’d desperately needed to make our bid stand out from the crowd, as it was common knowledge that all the competing insurers had cut their final figures to within millimetres of one another.

       
And that’s where the skill of the client-relationship manager came into play. Of the dozens of staff members at Jolie Naturelle we’d had to schmooze over the months, one thing had become crystal clear. They were mainly female, late twenties to early thirties, bright, well-groomed and ambitious. With a real sense of fun.

       
I had suggested to Fi that we slash the wording of the bid (without telling the consultants), roll it up in delicious crackly paper, tie it with a crimson, double-satin ribbon, and send it in one of Mr Choo’s shoeboxes (from my personal collection, no less). It was do or die.

       
Now, three months after I left work to have Millie (I can’t believe I worked right up to the week before she was born. I really cringe when I think of the tightrope I walked – doing the typical first-time-mum-working-girl thing and refusing to accept that I was different) my willing accomplice is here to tell me that our little shoebox has whizzed through the many layers of hoops at Jolie Naturelle to land us the contract. We won!

       
I’m over the moon. Truly. It’s actually quite nice to be reminded of my pre-Millie job – one thing at least that I know I’m good at.

       
I come down from my high enough to notice that Fi’s looking a little shocked, and I realise that the flat is a tip. Millie’s in a washed-out, slightly too small Babygro and I’m in my tracksuit and slippers. The TV’s blaring – I’m glued to the home-makeover cable TV channel, to which I’ve become perversely addicted – and Tim’s sprawled on the sofa sleeping off last night’s Comedy Club team-bonding session in honour of his new boss, Alex, thanks to a major restructuring programme at the bank. (To be honest, the IT department seems to get a new boss every six months.)

       
For my part, I’m
more
than a little taken aback to hear that my desk and my entire caseload of clients have been taken over (by Simon, no less). What did I expect, I guess? So much for my fervent belief in my own indispensability.

       
After filling me in on the finer details of the big Jolie Naturelle win – and of course all the office, Shoe Princess and Trash Queenz goss – for the first time Fi broaches the subject of my return to work in the new year.

       
‘One step at a time,’ I reassure her unconvincingly. For while the thought of getting dressed in a suit and heels and reading the newspaper on the tube, followed by sitting at my calm, organised desk with a cup of coffee in hand, is
immensely
appealing, I’m yet to get my brain around the logistics of actually making it happen. It seems nothing short of masochistic to return to work on the sum total of four hours’ sleep a night. (No man I’ve ever worked with would contemplate it, that’s for sure.) And then of course there’s the small issue of physically leaving Millie  ...

       
I smokescreen my uncharacteristic fluffiness with a change of topic that’s sure to please.

       
‘So, how’s Marco, anyway?’ I know she’s dying to tell. ‘Is it official? Are you dating yet?’

       
‘No. Well, at least I don’t think so. I don’t want to ask him, anyway. Just in case I jinx it.’

       
‘But you see him practically every day, don’t you?’ And she’s always telling me it’s the best sex she’s ever had.

       
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m just not sure if he’s ready to move on to the next stage yet. I don’t want to pressure him.’

       
‘Sure,’ I agree reassuringly. I’m simply happy that she’s happy.

       
The doorbell rings and Fi lets Kate in (she’s here for her regular aunt’s Saturday-morning frolic with Millie) and brings me a letter that had slipped under the hall mat.