‘Wait … one moment … oh!’ Marta, with one final tug, slid off the bench and clattered onto the floor, panting and defeated, as the shoe rolled to one side. Amy stifled an urge to yell, ‘Come to Mama!’ and launch herself towards it.
‘Ten out of ten for effort, over there,’ Debbie whispered. ‘You’ve got to hand it to her.’
‘Shh!’
Now it was just Iwona. Surreptitiously kneading at the patent leather to try to soften it, she bent down for a final, valiant attempt to get the shoe on her foot. But it was clearly useless. Even from where Amy stood a few feet away, she could see that no more than her toes and the bridge of her foot had made it into the shoe.
Iwona sat up, folding her arms on her lap. Then, exhaling deeply, she cast a longing look in the direction of the poster advertising the Polish Ball.
Amy made a lightning-fast deduction.
She must be hoping to wear them to the ball – with that big beefy bloke!
‘To be honest,’ she began, tentatively, ‘the shoes are murder to dance in.’
Iwona’s gaze dropped to the shoe in front of her. Then she held it aloft, examining the heel and sole.
‘I only wore them the once,’ Amy went on, ‘and they nearly killed me. Those wooden heels are very unforgiving. I was limping for days afterwards.’
‘So why you want them back?’ Iwona shot back.
Good point, Sherlock. What on earth do I say now? Well, I guess when all else fails, how about the truth?
‘Because they have very special memories for me. I love them.’
‘She really does,’ Debbie put in. ‘She’s a funny one, is our Amy.’
A silence followed, the first since Amy had pushed open the door of the gym, approximately three lifetimes ago.
‘So,’ Marta said eventually, not meeting Amy’s eyes, ‘you want them back, these shoes that do not fit you either?’
Amy nodded slowly. ‘Would you mind? I’m so sorry to have caused all this trouble.’
Then, after a few more moments of indecision, Marta finally heaved herself to her feet and placed the left shoe on the reception desk. And after still more agonising moments, a scowling Iwona followed suit with the right.
‘I will need my forty pounds back, of course,’ Marta said in a low voice.
‘Forty!’ Iwona spat. ‘You should only get thirty-five! The traitor must pay!’
‘Thief!’
‘Ladies! Still looking hot hot hot tonight, I see.’ Adonis swaggered by, heading for the saunas, winking suggestively.
It was as though the sight of him wiped the previous fifteen minutes entirely out of their consciousness. Marta and Iwona shot off after him, Iwona pausing only to grab what looked like two ball tickets from under the reception desk.
Once again the reception area became spookily calm. The black shoes sat on the reception desk. Amy stared at them. Then, without a word, she fished forty pounds out of her handbag and slapped the money behind the desk. Debbie grabbed the shoes.
‘Come on, Buttons, let’s leg it,’ Amy giggled, ‘before the car turns into a pumpkin!’
‘Right behind ya, Cinders,’ Debbie called back as they made a dash for the stairs.
It took several minutes for the girls to compose themselves enough so that Amy could start the engine and persuade the grumbling 2CV to leave the underground car park.
‘Take a left at the end,’ Debbie ordered.
Amy obeyed. ‘Wow, what a palaver for a pair of shoes I’ll never wear again!’ she giggled. ‘They nearly crippled me the one time I wore them.’
‘I thought you were making that bit up. Oh, turn right here, then left again at the lights.’
‘First gig I ever went to with Justin. I didn’t want him to know straight away what a midget I am, and I’d just got them, and you know how, whenever you get new shoes, you just have to wear them straight away? Like, that very night?’
Debbie nodded. ‘Or else the Shoe Goblin comes and casts an evil spell on you? Left again at Millets.’
‘That’s the one. So, the gig was brilliant, and we were dancing, and I knew after only about half an hour that if I didn’t take the shoes off I’d have to saw my legs off to get some relief from the excruciating pain and I didn’t fancy doing that …’
‘Right after Accessorize, which is round the corner!’
‘So I took them off.’
‘Your legs?’
‘The shoes, you muppet. And danced barefoot, staring at his chest. Y’know, he can rest his chin on the top of my head – it’s kind of nice.’ Or, at least, it used to be kind of nice.
‘And nobody stood on you? Straight on here, but look out for an opticians on the left, then go right.’
‘He’s got a really smooth chest, Debs. And that night it smelled of cocoa butter …’
‘Amy, pet, I think you’re over-sharing a bit now. Since when did a bloke smell of cocoa butter?’
‘It was nice! And he carried me out of the tent – did I say, the gig was in a marquee in the grounds of this fantastic stately home?’
‘No, you – Left at the Vodaphone shop, no, wait – did I say left? I meant right at the Vodaphone shop. Oops! Orange shop! Since when did the Vodaphone shop become the Orange shop? Or maybe it was always the Orange shop and I just forgot …’
‘Whatever, so there’s me, barefoot, being carried across this lush wet grass towards Justin’s car, dangling the shoes from my fingers – I thought he was going to drive me back to the flat I lived in at the time but he asked me if I wanted to go back to his place instead …’
‘And, oh, let me take a wild guess. You said, “Certainly not, sire. I’m a good girl, I am. Take me home this instant, or my governess will be most anxious!” Yup, straight along here, past the Good Luck Chinese – fantastic foo yung in there, by the way.’
Amy grinned. ‘Something like that. Anyway, I moved in with him the very next day.’
Debbie was silent for a few moments. Amy sensed that she was wrestling with herself, probably dying to unleash a pithy ‘That was your first mistake’ type of comment but, for once, veered away from the killer one-liner. ‘Ah. Nice,’ was all she said in the end.
‘So where are we going now? This isn’t the way we came in, is it?’ Amy asked.
‘I thought you’d never ask!’ Debbie smirked. ‘Here, yes, left here, into the car park.’
Amy indicated to the left. ‘Wow, this looks like some size of a shopping mall!’
Debbie nodded. ‘And tonight it’s open till eight, as well.’
‘Oh?’ Amy pulled a ticket from the machine and the barrier lifted. ‘What is it you need to buy? Something to take to your folks?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Debbie snorted. ‘They’d think I was either pregnant or wanting to tap them for cash if I arrived home with presents. No, I, er, need to buy a dress, actually. And while we’re at it, you could probably do with buying a couple of pairs of shoes for your trip. Those torture shoes aren’t going to get you very far.’
‘Fair point, but why tonight? What’s the rush? And what’s the mystery item?’
Debbie coloured. ‘A ball dress.’