Clicking Her Heels
LUCY HEPBURN
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
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A Paperback Original 2007
Copyright © Working Partners 2007
Lucy Hepburn asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007278893
Version: 2018-05-17
With special thanks to Erica Munro
The average person walks the equivalent of four and a half times round the earth in a lifetime.
They’re going to need a lot of shoes.
Contents
Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Epilogue About the Author About the Publisher
Saturday, early morning, and twenty-four-year-old Amy Marsh was running through her checklist, trying to keep a lid on her mounting excitement.
OK – purse, phone, Oyster Card – check.
A–Z – check.
Bus and tube maps – check.
Morning sunshine peeked in and winked at her through the slats of the wooden blinds in the third-floor flat she shared with her boyfriend, Justin.
Lip gloss – check.
Bottle of water – check.
Justin was still asleep, exhausted after larging it into the small hours at some hip PR party he’d organised for one of his new bands. Amy was glad. Had he been up he’d only tease her about how she got more excited about these missions than she ever did about going out on dates with him.
‘Huh, that’s not true,’ she’d murmured.
Sensible shoes – NO WAY!
She looked down at her feet and smiled.
‘Or is it?’
The blue denim Gucci wedges she’d bought for a song off the Internet a couple of months before looked stunning, as well as adding three much-needed inches to her five-foot-two frame. If she paced herself, they would easily carry her round the streets for a day. Well, at least they would if she took a bus or two along the way.
Then she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, studying the young woman who looked back at her with a quizzical shrug. Her dark brown hair swung glossily around her shoulders, her pale skin looked fresh and clear, and her hazel eyes glittered with anticipation.
Not bad, I guess.
Comb – check.
Eyeliner – check – no, forget that, I’m fine with just the touch I’ve got on already.
She wore a crisp, sleeveless white top and her favourite skinny jeans, the pale blue bottom-hugging ones that flattered her figure. Then, as a final thought before skipping out of the Victorian apartment building to catch the tube, she pulled off the chunky wooden bangle that was knocking