The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy (8 page)

       
And what an experience it promises to be. Tim and I had dinner here just before I found out that I was pregnant. It had only been open a few weeks and was the talk of the town – oozing stark white ultra-minimalist chic.

       
The vibe is palpable before we even enter the building. I desperately want to look around to see if I can see anyone famous, but decide to opt for the casual I-go-to-these-sort-of-places-all-the-time swagger – which is less than convincing with a baby attached to my front.

       
The double glass doors open and, oh? It’s black. Everything’s black. Still the odd twinkling of chrome. But no giant plastic Rubik’s Cube hanging from the ceiling or enormous white artworks splashed with large multicoloured dots. I do a double-take and wonder if I’m in the right place.

       
As I leave all the baby gear at reception, my casual investigations reveal that I am indeed in the right place, but that ‘black is the new white’. The Rubik’s Cube was seen as too Thatcherite for the ‘now generation’ (is it X, Y or Z?) and is being replaced with an ice-cube sculpture next week. Apparently all part of a rebranding exercise which will also see the name changed to The Ice Cube – representing fluidity, clarity and individuality.

       
Gosh – I’ve only been out of circulation for how long? I feel positively ancient.

       
I make my way down a wide, steep glass staircase into the basement restaurant. All the walls are covered from ceiling to floor with flat computer screens – each one showing a different YouTube clip. A handful of people are seated casually in Philippe Starck Ghost chairs around the sunken (literally – in water) bar in the middle of the room. The bar staff are bopping away to the muffled sounds of an ultra-hip soundtrack, setting up shop for the night.

       
I spy Fi and the work crew in the far-left corner, and make my way over.

       
Actually, they’re pretty hard to miss – it’s 6 p.m. and the guys are on to the tequila already, and having a hilarious time of it.

       
Simon, already smashed, keeps asking, ‘Why did we win Jolie Naturelle?’

       
And then the others answer in a high-pitched voice, clearly trying to mimic The Cat (from her Jolie Naturelle TV ads), ‘Because there’s a goddess in all of us!’ Accompanied by much pretend flicking of luscious manes of hair, and more hooting and cheering and downing of drinks by all.

       
(Were it not for our team winning the Jolie Naturelle account, and being crowned the top profit-centre in the company this year, we’d most certainly be enjoying the more downmarket ambience of our usual £10-a-head-Balti-restaurant Christmas bash in Covent Garden.)

       
Fi rushes over and gives me a huge, wide-armed hug (around Millie’s sling).

       
‘I’m SO glad you could make it!’ she screeches, before putting a hand over her mouth after noticing that Millie is asleep. ‘Ooh, she looks so cute in her scrummy little leather and sheepskin ...’ She’s clearly struggling to describe what she’s seeing. ‘Babybag ... with straps.’

       
‘It’s a sling,’ I laugh heartily. ‘Bill Amberg, no less. Kate’s boss kindly lent it to me.’ I do a little twirl for her. She’s sufficiently impressed and can’t resist stroking Millie’s leg, which is dangling like a floppy rabbit’s ear out of the corner.

       
‘Jane Meadows. Well, well, well. If my eyes don’t deceive me!’ Our boss, Richard, grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and gives it to me. ‘My star recruit. We thought you’d got lost in nappy valley,’ he guffaws. ‘You haven’t brought little Molly in to see us yet – unlike Alison and her merry gang.’ More guffaws.

       
‘Millie. Her name’s Millie, actually.’ It doesn’t seem the moment also to tell him that she’s named after the great Emmeline Pankhurst, and is in fact asleep right under his disinterested nose.

       
Richard is not, shall we say, the most
liberated
of men. As long as his wife has his clothes washed, ironed and laid out for him at the start of the day, and meat ’n’ three veg on the table at the end, she is fulfilling her role in society. Paradoxically, he is a really exciting guy to work for – a brilliant mind. And incredibly motivating.

       
‘I’ve got a lot lined up for you, Jane. This Jolie Naturelle account, it’s bigger than big.’ It’s no secret that his promotion and stock-option package are riding on the back of it too.

       
He motions the team to gather near Fi and me.

       
‘Everybody, I want to propose a toast – to our dynamic duo – to Jane and Fi!’

       
‘And their bloody brilliant shoebox,’ chips in Simon. ‘To Jimmy!’

       
After the toast, it’s business as usual.

       
‘Now, ladies ... I spent the morning with Véronique at Jolie Naturelle HQ yesterday. We’ve got
big
plans.’ Big seems to be the word of the night. Richard pulls out his BlackBerry, checks some emails and then turns to me. ‘I want you on the ground running – day one. Do whatever you have to do, to keep Véronique happy. I’ve upped your travel budget – I want you to cover
all
European work hubs, concentrating on HQ in Paris, of course. No expense spared. By God, if she wants you to floss her teeth or paint her toenails – you’ll be there to do it. One hundred and ten per cent – that’s our girl!’

       
Cue more excited squeals and air-punches from the team. (Everyone except Alison, of course, who has made a mad sprint home to sort out the babysitter.)

       
Now, the old me would have found Richard’s little ‘call to arms’ nothing short of orgasmic. Pinpoint attention to detail, ruthless efficiency and unquestioned commitment were my calling cards. My job was my life.

       
But the new me feels a little queasy. I can’t help wondering exactly how I’m going to wipe Millie’s backside and Véronique’s at the same time.

       
Though it seems Véronique is the least of my worries right now. I’ve just spotted Alison, making her way down the staircase.

www.ShoePrincess.com
 
Now that the big post-Christmas sales are sneakily starting earlier each year, this is the perfect time for the humble subjects of my shoedom to restock shoe supplies:
 
The SP Guide to Shoe-sale Shopping
 
1. Repeat after me: ‘I am a (your shoe size). Not a (two sizes bigger) or a (one and a half sizes smaller). Not even a (size smaller). I am a (your shoe size). No matter how divine the shoes. OK, if you really, really love them, buy them no matter what the size. And the matching handbag wouldn’t go astray either!
 
2. Plan your trip wisely, and always arrive early. I know, queue – no matter how common it makes one feel.
 
3. Wear thin tights and comfy mules or loafers – not glam, but easier when trying on shoes in a hurry.
 
4. Take a handbag with straps that go across your body – to keep both hands free for shoe-fossicking. And to country mice in town for the day, always pack your Longchamp fold-up travel tote in your handbag – to escort your precious cargo home in.
 
5. If in a large department store like Harrods (whose shoe sale is phenomenal and an annual must-do for shoe princesses) target key designers, rather than float around aimlessly – you’ll get pummelled in the crush otherwise.
 
6. Always be polite and courteous and never snatch shoes from another shoe princess. Ever.
 
7. Yes, you really do need satin lime-green stilettos and purple ankle boots.
 
8. Chant the mantra: ‘Why buy one pair of sale shoes when I can technically afford to buy five?’
 
9. Have fun and hopefully you will find that couture stiletto which you would never have been able to afford otherwise.
 
10. And, last but not least, have lunch with a girlfriend to ogle and admire your newfound sole mates. (And help justify the amount of money you’ve spent!)

8. Sidestepping

The team’s clearly out for a big night, with food not high on the agenda. My vision of Millie sleeping blissfully in the corner of the restaurant while I delight in the ultimate haute cuisine experience has disintegrated before my very eyes.

       
Millie’s been awake for about an hour now, and shows no sign of going back to sleep. As long as I keep moving, she’s happy to stay in the sling. Which is lucky for me. As I’ve been spending all my time sidestepping and dancing my way around the bar, catching up with people in ever-increasing states of inebriation, in an act of abject cowardice: avoiding Alison.

       
But eventually, I swivel around in response to a friendly tap on the shoulder, and come unceremoniously face to face with her and her sensible brown rubber-soled court shoes.

       
‘I am
so, so sorry
,’ I want to say. But the words get stuck somewhere deep in the toes of my shoes, and I affix a stupid grin to my face.

       
I
really
want to apologise to her. And tell her that I now understand why she mistakenly put on mismatching shoes: because she has to get up at dawn (and most likely several times throughout the night), dress in the dark, and then single-handedly (her husband has to be at his desk by 7.30 a.m.) shuffle one baby to a childminder, one toddler to nursery and the other child to school, jump on the tube and be seated at her desk sometime around 9.30 a.m. If she’s lucky.

       
But I just stand, frozen with guilt and shame, while Alison makes a huge fuss of how pretty and alert and healthy Millie looks. She’s genuinely excited to finally meet her, and is keen to know if I found the small bag of things that she sent with Fi useful.

       
Oh? I’d completely forgotten about them. They’re probably still by the sofa or, most likely, underneath it. I fib, and say they were invaluable.

       
Alison relieves me of my misery by making a break for a gap in the bar queue, and I unwittingly find myself alone in a sea of suits. I shuffle along and find a quietish spot, and stand still for a moment, gently rocking my hips from side to side to pacify an increasingly fidgety Millie.

       
As I think about Alison, it all of a sudden dawns on me: maybe Richard isn’t the anti-feminist dinosaur, after all? The truth of the matter is he treats us three girls exactly the same as the twelve guys on the team.
Exactly
. He simply couldn’t give a toss who has children.

       
Richard only wants the old me. The Millie-less me who thought she knew it all. And had done it all. Beaten the men at their own game. Lived the corporate lifestyle. The travel, the boozy lunches, the deadlines, the buzz. Who was what her
Cosmo
foremothers had raised her to be. A career girl. A success.

       
But I hadn’t beaten the men. I had just become one.

       
It’s so clear now: I love work, but work doesn’t love me – or rather, the-mother-of-a-three-and-a-half-month-old baby-me, returning to work in a few weeks’ time. If I don’t want to lose my rung on the ladder.