The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (7 page)

       
‘Ninetieth,’ corrects Victoria.

       
‘Um, I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure.’ I really can’t remember.

       
‘And did you know that there’s a new nursery by the park – InfinityPlusOne – for gifted children. Have you got Millie’s name down there ... I think we should put her name down ...’ Tim is almost breathless with panic.

       
All I care about right now is feeding Millie. Kate’s packing away the ill-fated bottle, and Fi’s texting Marco – both of them politely keeping out of the eye of the storm.

       
Victoria asks more questions about teething, neck-control, rolling and sleeping – all of which I seem to be doing wrong – before flying off on her broomstick.

       
I could weep.

       
Tim’s in full-on rant mode now, and decides to rub my nose in it a little more, bombarding me with questions, stats and more bloody stats.

       
‘Did you know that there is not one nursery within a ten-mile radius of us with a vacancy? Or a waiting list of fewer than thirty kids? And that they’re staffed by underpaid sixteen-year-old girls of questionable IQ and body piercings! Victoria’s friend in Notting Hill had to provide her nanny with a new Peugeot 206 and a flat for her sole use – otherwise she wouldn’t have got anyone decent. We can’t compete with that! How have we not thought of this? We need to redo our sums – maybe we
can
survive on just my wage for a year or so ... Do you use the sling much? Eskimos, whose mothers carry them around in slings for the first two years, have higher than average IQs ...’ Blah de blah de bloody blah.

       
Fi’s in shock.

       
Kate’s holding Tim by the arm and comforting him.

       
I’ve zoned out completely.

       
And Millie, thank goodness, is blissfully asleep on a full tummy of milk.

       
Bloody Victoria and her bloody perfect baby.

       
Mmm ... Maybe I should have taken more notice of Alison’s advice on organising childcare, and not spent my entire pregnancy coordinating Millie’s nursery with her silver-lamé baby booties?

From:        Jane (home)

To:                Fi (work)

Subject:        RE: Team Xmas dinner – The Cube

Dearest Fi,

Thanks so much for coming and sharing the good news about Jolie Naturelle last Saturday. Really appreciated it. (Sorry haven’t emailed earlier – have had run of horror nights!) Thanks too for including me in the team Xmas dinner – thought you’d never ask, in fact. (It’s a bit tricksy, being on maternity leave, isn’t it?) Needless to say, I would LOVE to come.

       
Slight problem with the date, though – no one to look after Millie. Tim’s in Bangalore for work and rest of family busy with own Christmas functions. So ... wondering if I could come with Millie for the pre-dinner drinks – should be pretty quiet. And then we’ll see how we go after that. If Millie’s in fine form, she could very well sleep in her baby capsule (it lies down flat) in the corner of the restaurant or even in her sling.

       
Jane

       
xx

I open the front door to take Millie for a walk and find a parcel with a note on it:

Dropped by on way to work, but didn’t want to disturb you. My boss thought you might like to borrow this for your team Xmas dinner next week. She said she couldn’t have you worshipping at the altar of modern design in your saliva-soaked Baby Björn sling. Enjoy! (And sorry again that I can’t help with babysitting.) Kate x

For such a fashion freak my big sister never ceases to amaze me. I’m truly humbled, and open up the parcel.

       
I cannot believe what I am seeing. There is definitely NO way Kate could have known what was in here.

       
I hold up what is basically a chunk of incredibly fashionable, extortionately expensive and
very dead
baby lamb. It’s gorgeous, and naturally I try it on for size. I can’t help but giggle and tell Millie how fabulous she is going to look, bobbing along in her funky designer sling.

       
I feel almost Cat-like!

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
There’s a little bit of Shoe Princess in all of us, my darlings – Shoe Are You?
 
THE SP
 
This princess (usually an international supermodel, society beauty) totally understands the sexual cocktail of upmarket shoes and good grooming, and uses it to ensnare her impossibly handsome and wealthy husband/lover/partner. She could not tell you how many pairs of shoes she owns – but it would be in the hundreds. Her maid may have a better idea, as she is the only one allowed to touch them. She only ever ambulates cab-to-door and enjoys the jet-set lifestyle. The only ‘casual shoes’ you will ever spy her in are her high-heeled towelling Jimmy Choo pedicure-wedge flip-flops. She often has personal relationships with some of the biggest shoe designers on the planet, and thinks nothing of having shoes couriered to her home direct from Italy for special occasions. She considers pedicures (French, of course) more important than food.
 
Cosmo SP
 
The thoroughly dedicated-to-the-cause, childless working girl who utterly adores shoes. She is known to ring up her best friend on her mobile in the midst of a shoe-sale pandemonium, seeking permission to blow her budget on a must-have pair of silver Sonia Rykiel 3-inch spikes. She always owns a pair of red Dorothy shoes and lucky first-date and job-interview shoes. She takes shoe shopping very seriously, and has been known to shop for 6 hours straight in a quest to find the right pair.
 
Fashionista SP
 
Is happy to wear her vertiginous cheetah-print platform wedges with her strapless sundress on a cold and drizzly summer’s afternoon in London. All because Vogue ran a series of pictures of The Cat wearing them in St Tropez. Her mantra is: ‘No pain, no gain.’ She has her name on at least three shoe waiting lists at any one time. She doesn’t do white trainers – unless at the gym – as it would be like wearing Crimplene trousers.
 
There’s more to come! Or better still, send in your own  ...

7. Click, Clack, Clomp

We must send Xmas cards. What will Aunt Margaret say? J T

OK. We appear to have a problem.

       
You see, sending Christmas cards just seems to happen by magic in our relationship. Sort of like the sheets on the bed getting changed. And the black scum line in the bath disappearing.

       
Hmm ... He’s seen me squat, butt-naked, giving birth to Millie – I think he can handle one more home truth, wife to husband: the Christmas card fairy is a little busy this year.

From:        Jane (home)

To:                Tim (Bangalore)

Subject:        RE: RE: Xmas Cards

Tim, I can’t believe I have to spell this out to you: I AM A ZOMBIE.

       
In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m SO exhausted from caring for Millie 24/7 and doing the domestic run of the house, that I have the memory and attention span of a one-celled amoeba. I backed the car into a fence this morning, and put my mobile phone through a cycle of the washing machine. But all is OK – was doing 1 mile/hr in the car at the time, and the phone still works (Ha!). On top of this, I have tonsillitis. And you are in Bangalore, AGAIN.

       
I believe the armed forces call it torture (or is it death?) by sleep deprivation. Cut me some slack, will you? I simply cannot do the Christmas cards this year. I’m sure people will understand.

       
Jane

       
xx

From:        Jane (home)

To:                Tim (Bangalore)

Subject:        RE: RE: RE: Xmas Cards

OK, if you feel that strongly about the bloody cards, why don’t YOU do them? I’ve attached OUR Christmas card list. You can do the necessary edits for this year – changes of address, births, deaths, marriages, divorces, trial separations, reconciliations, new boyfriends/girlfriends, sex changes (and no, I’m not being petulant; remember your dear Uncle Alan who became Aunt Ellen in 2005) – pretty standard stuff.

       
And then write them – each night after work and in your lunch hour. Polish them off on the flight home from India, perhaps. I like to make sure that I write a personal message in each card – a little summary of the year’s events relevant to each person/couple/family. We normally send out about 60–65 cards.

       
Don’t bother calling tonight, as I’m out at my team Xmas dinner. (Should give me enough time to calm down too.) J

PS. Millie misses you. Never thought we’d get so much use out of the ‘bonding board’!

Here she is: m,zs0–23., ,=c04n, r 9 j45i0–34

I bid farewell to our trusty chauffeur, Javid, from Reliable Minicabs, and totter off around the corner in my favourite Patrick Coxes with pink-ribbon ties on the sides. My back twitches, but I ignore it and stride confidently along the pavement – Millie in front, baby capsule in one hand and nappy bag in the other.

       
With each click-clack of my heels and swish of my skirt, I feel alive again. It’s great to be back. In decent shoes. In town. I really cannot stop smiling – how proud Clotilde would be if she could see me now.

       
I kiss Millie on the top of her bobbing downy head. Nothing is going to spoil our night. Not Daddy and his festering festive Christmas cards. Not Mary sodding Poppins the health visitor sticking her gargantuan no-name trainers in our front door, asking why we haven’t been to her Birkenstock-wearing-placenta-eating new-mothers’ group yet. Not the fact that I look like an actress from an old
Carry On
film squished into my pre-Millie clothes, all rolls-of-fat-poking-through-too-tight-fabric five foot four of me. Not even your explosive poo and complete outfit change in the back of the minicab and accompanying £80 fine for loitering on a yellow line. No, my dear sweet little baby girl, this is
our
night – at The Cube. Your very first experience of a glittering West End restaurant – with your mum.