Cautiously, almost timidly, she traced her hand down the tiers of shoe boxes, scanning the photographs. There were the little espadrilles she bought in Majorca on that last holiday with her mother. And there – the gorgeous bronze Gina mules, practically the only pair of shoes she’d ever paid full price for, but worth every hard-earned, beans-on-toast-for-weeks-after penny. Oh! The red pumps – her ruby slippers! The photo of these showed not just the shoes, but Amy, four years ago, spinning round at a party chanting ‘There’s no place like home’ over and over; Justin would think it totally childish but she smiled at the memory.
And there – in the middle tier, halfway down, was the little blank box that would make her cry if she so much as touched it.
She stretched out her hand.
‘You reached Narnia yet?’ came Justin’s voice from just outside the door, making her jump back to reality and jerking her into a decision. Those Michael Kors brown slingback sandals would be absolutely fine – balancing the heavy suede of the skirt and adding just a tiny sparkle with the diamanté buckles. The heels were less than three inches, which wasn’t ideal, but they’d at least give some extra height without arousing Justin’s suspicions. Sorted.
Briefly, regretfully, she glanced at the box containing the newest addition to her collection: today’s purchase, the fabulous green snakeskin mules she’d spied when she’d walked into that first shoe shop with Debbie and Jesminder. Usually she couldn’t wait to wear new shoes the moment she got them home, but tonight, alas, if Justin saw her teetering out of the apartment on four inches of green snakeskin sexiness, he’d smell a rat for sure.
She touched the lid of the box. Not tonight, my pretties …
‘Will I do?’ she asked a little nervously, twirling in front of Justin, who was shrugging on his jacket and getting ready to leave as well.
‘You look great,’ he answered, letting his eyes move all the way down her body and back up again. ‘Be careful out there. And … em … have a nice time. Shame we’re going in opposite directions so we can’t share a cab.’
‘Mmm,’ Amy replied, trying to sound as though she agreed.
‘See you in bed,’ he whispered as he passed.
‘Yup. Hope it goes well for you tonight,’ she replied over her shoulder.
‘Always does, Abe, always does,’ came, ever fainter, from the stairwell.
Once he was gone, Amy breathed deeply to try to dissipate the deep crimson colour in her cheeks. After a few moments her hands had stopped shaking enough to allow her to apply some Juicy Tube gloss in Marshmallow, and, after a last quick, guilty check in the mirror, she was done.
Hmm, not bad for a twenty-four-year-old fibber, she thought, as her mobile bleeped, signalling that her taxi was waiting downstairs.
The fact was that these evenings, these covert, deceitful evenings, were what had really put the spring back in Amy’s step since the death of her mother, and as the taxi pulled away towards the West End Amy’s guilt gave way to mounting anticipation. Life wasn’t bad on the whole, but, Amy mused, as the city glided by outside, it was definitely a bit short on spark these days. She’d held the same job since leaving uni, and whilst she enjoyed it most of the time, well, surely the world of work held greater challenges?
Amy’s nerves at the evening ahead grew as the taxi idled in a long queue at traffic lights.
And what of Justin – how could anyone not find Justin Campbell exciting? This handsome, clever man with the best taste in shoes of any man Amy had ever known, this man she’d met only a year and a half ago …
She’d been standing in the packed auditorium halfway through the warm-up band’s set. Pushing her way through the gyrating crowd to the back doors, she felt as if her head was about to implode from the drilling sound of electric guitar. Crashing through the doors into the cool bar area, she collided with the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen. And he smelled great too. ‘Hey, steady on, missy! Is something the matter?’
‘Oh, sorry, but it’s so hot in there, and the band’s so loud, I need to clear my head … oh …’
‘Careful, now – here, let me help. You nearly fainted.’
‘No, no, just stumbled. I’ll be fine after some fresh …’
‘Come on, you’re coming with me … Excuse me, guys, got a bit of a damsel/distress/shining-armour situation brewing here. Mind if I abandon you to the hordes? Cheers. Right, let’s go upstairs.’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Yup, VIP suite. Got air conditioning, lots of space, and some great big sofas.’
‘Em … the VIP suite?’
‘For you to recover. Oh, don’t worry; I’ll kick Bono off the sofa. That got you smiling! Must be a good sign.’
‘You’re being very kind, thank you … ?’
‘Justin.’
‘Thank you, Justin.’
‘You’re welcome … ?’
‘Amy.’
Now, glancing at her watch, it was touch and go whether she’d make it on time. Amy closed her eyes as the taxi pushed its way towards Covent Garden. She hated lying to Justin.
At last, the taxi drew up outside the Royal Opera House. Amy searched the sea of beautiful faces, trying to pick him out, as a doorman bustled forwards to open the cab door for her.
Stepping out, Amy felt like a movie star. She forgot all about Justin.
The foyer was filled with flowers and chatter.
And there, there he was.
Sergei.
‘Well, what do you think so far?’ Sergei asked as he led her out of the auditorium during the interval. Americanised, his voice still carried the richness and depth of his beloved Russia. They hadn’t had time to talk properly since dashing in to catch the first act.
‘Oh, I can hardly speak!’ Amy breathed. ‘It’s so perfect! Those costumes! The music, it’s so full of joy, don’t you think? And isn’t Darcey Bussell just a genius? She makes it look as though she isn’t really trying; she just dances, doesn’t she?’ Then, catching herself, she glanced up at Sergei. ‘I mean, that’s what it looks like to me – I forgot I was talking to a mega-genius world-famous choreographer for a moment. What’s your verdict, Sergei? Thumbs up or down?’ Finally she stopped and bit her lip. For someone who could hardly speak, she seemed to have just had something of a breakthrough.
Sergei waved away the compliment, then thrust his arms out and planted both thumbs firmly up.
‘I think it is an extremely good production so far,’ he replied. ‘Excellent, in fact. I am so glad you think so too. Shall we have a drink?’
The bar was already crowded, noisy, hot and swimming with a potent mix of expensive perfumes, and a heady theatrical buzz. Beautiful, confident people mingled with even more beautiful, even more confident people, and Amy shrank back a little as she moved towards the bar, clutching Sergei’s arm. It felt firm and strong under her hand. When would she ever feel that she belonged at places like this, as these people obviously did? So sure of themselves – so ‘solid in their shoes’, as her mother used to say.
Sergei always seemed to cause a stir at the ballet, Amy mused, as all around them people nodded greetings in his direction and hustled out of their path. He was still very handsome, with his strong ex-dancer’s body, and his dark hair only lightly flecked