Clicking Her Heels

LUCY HEPBURN

Copyright

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

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

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

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.

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

PROLOGUE

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 annoyingly against her watch.

After all, she smiled to herself, when it comes to shoe shopping, there’s no room for distractions …

Thirty minutes later she was standing in a gorgeous shoe shop in Covent Garden with Debbie and Jesminder, her best friends from aclickaway.com, the Internet travel company where they worked.

Amy dug Jesminder in the ribs. ‘Over there,’ she hissed. ‘Green snakeskin mules third shelf down.’

Jesminder looked and frowned. ‘Hmm, do you think? Aren’t they a bit flimsy?’

‘Flimsy?’ Amy echoed in disgust. ‘Outright drop-dead gorgeous, I think you mean.’

Jesminder tilted her head to one side, taking another long look. ‘Do I? Well, they just don’t look very easy to walk in, that’s all.’

Debbie, tall and curvy, her long blonde hair freshly highlighted and styled in a shaggy knot at the nape of her neck, called over her shoulder, ‘OK, where did you say you were off to tonight again?’

Amy coloured. ‘Um, well, actually, I didn’t …’

Now was the time to come clean, she guessed. It was bad enough keeping it a secret from Justin, but she should be able to tell her friends.

‘Jes, hello? It’s Amy we’re talking about here!’ said Debbie, not noticing Amy’s unease. ‘It’s flat shoes you want to be worrying about her walking in … well, hubba hubba! Good morning, curiously alluring stranger!’ She had a loud, carrying voice, the confident Geordie accent undiminished by her three years of working in London.

‘Pardon?’ Jesminder looked lost.

Debbie turned round, huge-eyed and grinning. ‘Over there, by the window – top-totty alert.’

A tall, well-built man dressed in baggy jeans and a donkey jacket was checking out patent leather boots by the exit.

Amy sidled over to Debbie, stood on tiptoe and put her mouth close to her friend’s ear. ‘Sorry, Debbie, but take another look. Top-totty girlfriend alert, moving in from stage right – funny how girlfriends can sense when their men are being ogled.’ A frighteningly skinny blonde woman had just joined the man and threaded her arm through his. She glowered briefly at Debbie.

Debbie tutted in disgust and tossed her head. ‘Ah, well – his loss! Onward and upwards. Plenty more where that came from.’

‘Now, Debbie,’ Amy said firmly, planting a hand on her friend’s shoulder, ‘will you please at least make some sort of pretence of being interested in today’s mission? I need to find new shoes for tonight, remember?’

‘No promises,’ Debbie replied sulkily. ‘But I’ll try, if you insist.’

‘That’s my girl. I do insist. Men and shoe shopping simply don’t mix, whichever way you look at it. Priorities!’

Debbie frowned, removing Amy’s hand. ‘You’ve been with the same man for too long, Amy Marsh. Some of us are still browsing.’

Amy quickly scanned Debbie’s face to see whether her feelings were hurt. They clearly weren’t. ‘Fair point,’ she said, ‘but might I just suggest that if you’re on the lookout for available straight men then there are better places to start your search than women’s shoe shops?’

Debbie shrugged, acknowledging the point before returning her attention to the shoes.

‘Men are very good in the field of sports shoe design,’ Jesminder put in thoughtfully and irrelevantly.

Both Amy and Debbie turned and gave her blank looks.

‘It’s true. Ergonomics, aerodynamics, moulded arch support. The technological advances have been unbelievable over the last few years.’

Amy and Debbie continued gazing at their super-fit friend, who ran triathlons for fun. Well, ran, swam and cycled, to be precise. Her lean, toned body was testament to a lifetime of fitness, yet she wore her athleticism lightly, referring to herself as ‘scrawny’ and ‘gristly’.

Jesminder continued, ‘You’ve no idea the foot-health benefits that can be obtained from a properly cushioned and supported sports shoe.’

‘Well,’ Amy said after a respectful moment, ‘thanks, Jes. I’ll certainly bear all that closely in mind. Right then, where were we? Ah, yes – stilettos!’

She never did get round to telling her friends where she was heading that night.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Salmon?’ Amy gasped, her heart plummeting at the sight that greeted her upon opening the washing-machine door later that day. ‘Who on earth wears salmon?’

From rescuing the very first pink garment from what ought to have been the whites (delicate) programme, she realised that Justin had done a ‘Spectacular’. Salmon pants, salmon gym socks, salmon bra, salmon satin slip, and, most heartbreakingly of all, the salmon Whistles blouse she had planned to wear that night. Snowy-white, it had been, just an hour before.

With a little wail, she delved deeper into the machine, eventually yanking out the culprit – Justin’s brand-new, dark pink Marc Jacobs shirt. She held it aloft in disgust, gesturing at the havoc it had wrought upon her precious white delicates, as though expecting it somehow to shrug and apologise. Honestly, why did Justin have to pick today to have a go at being domesticated?

Amy sighed, gathering up the ruined blouse and carrying it, along with the Marc Jacobs shirt, ceremoniously through to the sitting room.

Oblivious to her dramatic entrance, Justin stood with his back to her. He was facing the window with its views over Finchley and Muswell Hill, talking animatedly into his mobile and making emphatic, Italian-ish gestures with his free hand.

‘Yup … no problem. Absolutely, bring them along; it’d be great to meet them. About eight? Yup … yup … gig starts around nine thirty, so once I’ve sorted the meet and greet, and distributed the press releases, the boys’ll be good to go … yup, limo’s arranged … yup …’

Despite her anger about his laundry malfunction, Amy couldn’t stop the tiny smile that caught the side of her mouth at the sight of her boyfriend. Six years her senior, Justin Campbell, self-made rock-music PR whiz, was looking decidedly fit this evening. With his designer stubble, pretty-darned-perfect gym-toned body and short, dark brown hair, there was something of the Ashton Kutcher – or no, even better, something of the young George Clooney – about him. Impeccably dressed in his Armani shirt, Daks trousers and those sub-zero Moschino sneakers (the chocolate-brown, round-toed ones with the suede details that shrieked ‘fantastic taste!’ to anyone who knew the tiniest thing about footwear), he was obviously reeling in some new contact or other with his consummate communication skills and charm. Amy liked that about him; his easy confidence was the perfect foil to her more reserved temperament. But she had also come to know his vulnerable side, his need to be needed, for constant reassurance …

Whatever, he wasn’t going to Clooney his way out of this one. She cleared her throat, and Justin whipped round. When he saw her face, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and said under his breath, ‘Just a minute, Abe …’ He usually called her Abe, as an affectionate compromise between Amy and babe, and Amy had yet to decide whether or not it annoyed her. Right at this moment, it totally did. Cheeky git!

She responded by gesturing first to the salmon silk blouse, then to the Marc Jacobs shirt, slapping her palm against her forehead, tossing the garments onto the leather sofa and, finally, planting her hands on her hips. She knew Justin was unlikely to be unduly intimidated by the sight of his bathrobe-clad girlfriend in the early stages of a full-on strop but, still, he could consider himself warned.

‘Yup … twenty-eight thousand sold so far for the whole tour … yup, six and a half tonight … venue’s got a really good vibe …’

And on he went. He turned again to look at her, appraising the situation with brown eyes that were ever so slightly crinkly when he smiled. But then he ruined it all. He winked.

Despairing, Amy shook her head. Had she never told him that she didn’t trust winkers? Was he being deliberately provocative?

However, she was at a distinct disadvantage right now, barefoot and tiny, enveloped in her white fluffy bathrobe. She supposed she could let it drop to the floor and get his full attention that way, but given that he didn’t currently deserve that option (besides, there wasn’t time), she decided just to tut loudly, go and find something else to wear, and give him hell as soon as he deigned to get off his mobile and come to find out what was up.

‘Tomorrow,’ she muttered to herself as she stomped down the hall, ‘I shall show that prehistoric man how to sort a washing load. Honestly, what did Phyllis teach him when she was bringing him up?’

Just then their landline rang. Amy padded over to the hall table and picked it up.

‘Hello?’

As though summoned by mere thought, it was Phyllis, Justin’s mum. Of course, there was a good chance it’d be her as it must have been, oh, a full three hours since her last call.

‘Amy, is that you?’ came Phyllis’s thin, clear voice. Phyllis always asked Amy if it was her. Who else would it be? But still, Amy loved her. Having lost both her parents – her father in a car accident twelve years ago and her mother barely two years ago to breast cancer – Amy found that she often craved the older woman’s company, even though she could be a little exasperating at times. Amy glanced nervously at her watch. She really didn’t have a lot of time, but neither did she have the heart to make her excuses and hang up. So, crossing her fingers that the call would be brief, she smiled down the line and confirmed that yes, it was indeed she.

‘Can I come up, Amy dear?’

Phyllis lived in the lower-ground-floor flat in the same building, an arrangement that had come about when Phyllis announced out of the blue to Justin the year before that she was, to all intents and purposes, moving in. Amy could see why it would be lovely for her. Phyllis’s house in Kent was too big for her now she was on her own, and a number of her friends had either died or moved away. Yet it had been a bit daunting for Amy to imagine her living in the same building. But then, after the initial surprise had worn off and Amy started to think of the benefits of having Phyllis so close by – a shopping companion, a friend to chat with when Justin was away on tour, a babysitter (OK, this was thinking far too far ahead!) – she warmed to the idea and, in fact, things had turned out just fine.

‘Oh, Phyllis, I’m really sorry, but Justin and I are off out this evening,’ Amy replied. ‘Well, I mean, we’re off out separately, but whatever, we won’t be in. Can I maybe pop down and catch you tomorrow morning? Scrounge a coffee?’

Phyllis didn’t seem to hear. ‘Amy dear, you know those putty-coloured linen trousers I was telling you about a while ago?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Amy fibbed, furrowing her brow.

‘The ones in Next.’

‘Of course I do. You look great in them!’ I’m definitely busking it now, Amy thought guiltily.

‘What?’ Phyllis queried. ‘But I haven’t bought them yet. Maybe I told you they were cream, not putty? Well, more a biscuity beige, veering into a kind of taupe?’

‘Ri-ight?’

‘I’ve hidden them!’

‘You haven’t!’ Amy grimaced and rubbed her forehead. No, please – not another attempt to beat the retail system. Only last week Phyllis had scored a replacement sweater in Marks & Spencer after accidentally snipping a hole in the original one when she was cutting the label off, then distressing the hole so that it looked like it had unravelled of its own accord. ‘Phyllis, you’ll get caught one of these days!’

‘I have! They’ve only got one size twelve left, so I’ve stashed it behind the eighteens! Smaller ladies never rake that far back in those long rails, trust me.’

‘Too right they don’t,’ Amy agreed, recalling the times shop assistants had pointed her towards the petites in disdain when she dared to touch some gorgeous item of clothing in the grown-up section. ‘But why didn’t you just, well, buy them?’ she queried. Phyllis was, after all, comfortably off, having run her own bookkeeping business for over twenty years before she retired.

‘Because they’ll be in the sale next week, of course. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten? I thought the two of us could go and have a look on the first day when the shop opens at seven? Mmm? Before work? They’ll be half price!’ Then, in a lower, conspiratorial tone: ‘You can borrow them for work sometimes, if you like – oh, but then I don’t suppose we’re the same size. Hmm, well, if you wear a belt and heels, maybe?’

Amy played with the end of her dressing gown cord and murmured, ‘That’s a lovely idea, thank you.’

Phyllis’s world hadn’t always been small. It caught Amy in a deep, melancholy way that now it consisted mainly of searching for bargains, searching for her wayward cat with its prodigious vagabonding habit, and searching for reasons to ring up her only son, four floors above. And Amy, with precious few links to anyone else of Phyllis’s generation, didn’t really mind.

Justin, in the sitting room, was at last wrapping up his call. A wave of ‘yup … great … yup …’ assailed Amy’s subconscious as Phyllis talked on.

These days Phyllis wore sensible shoes. Comfortable shoes. Footgloves, nubuck loafers, Clarks easy-fit sandals, and flat pumps for her fortnightly trips to play bridge in a decaying hotel in Greenwich. Once, Amy mused, Phyllis might have worn scandalous shoes. Dancing shoes. But not now. Today, Phyllis’s shoes took her round the shops, and home again. Amy’s passion for mapping people’s lives according to their shoes had a habit of being spookily accurate.

‘Phyllis, you’re a star,’ she said. ‘I’d love to come to the Next sale with you next week. Seven o’clock it is. Uh-oh, we’ll need to be up before six.’ Amy realised that she didn’t even know which branch of Next Phyllis was talking about and, flushing with guilt, resolved to spend more time with her in future. ‘Those trousers have obviously got your name on them, and we’ll make sure you get them.’

More than anything, Amy silently wished that she were talking about shopping trips with her own mother right now, rather than dear, lonely Phyllis, as lovely as she was. But there wasn’t time to get all emotional.

‘Tell you what,’ Amy chirped, after a longish interval, ‘I’ll borrow those trousers for work if you wear my turquoise Christian Louboutin wedges on Christmas Day. OK? Deal or no deal?’

Phyllis chuckled on the other end of the line, just as Justin emerged into the hall, pocketing his mobile. He sought Amy out, sliding his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzling his face into her collarbone.

‘I’ve never known such a girl for shoes!’ Phyllis laughed down the line. ‘High heels? Do you want to send me to my grave?’

Both women felt the full force of the dreadful pause that followed. Unwelcome tears pricked Amy’s eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ Phyllis said after a few moments. ‘How clumsy of me.’

‘It’s fine, really,’ Amy gulped as Justin, listening in, hugged her tight.

‘Anyway, you have a lovely night, all right?’ Phyllis went on.

‘I will,’ Amy whispered. ‘Thanks.’

‘And tell that son of mine he must be working far too hard if he’s leaving you to go out on your own rather than taking you somewhere nice.’

‘I hear you, Ma,’ Justin mumbled, from deep in the hollow above Amy’s collarbone.

‘Bye, Phyllis,’ Amy said, not trusting herself to say more.

‘Goodbye, dear.’

Replacing the receiver, Amy wriggled out of Justin’s embrace and turned to face him. She clasped his shoulders, took a deep breath, and eased him into an upright position, fixing him with the sternest glower she could muster. Justin couldn’t help giving a little snort of laughter, which he unsuccessfully tried to disguise as a coughing fit. He smelled nice, though. Luckily for him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he spluttered after a few moments, ‘but you are even cuter when you’re cross.’

Amy drew back further, narrowed her eyes and raised a single eyebrow. An old trick, to be sure, but an absolute killer when it came to all things Justin.

‘I appear to be in the doghouse,’ he ventured. ‘Don’t tell me the colour’s run on the Marc Jacobs?’

Amy nodded.

‘Sheez, I hope it hasn’t faded out too much …’ He stopped when Amy whacked him. ‘Ooyah! OK, I apologise. I’m sorry I turned your shirt pink. I shall never go near the washing machine again.’

‘That’s not the solution I had in mind,’ Amy replied primly, stroking the fabric of her newly salmoned blouse. His flippancy was beginning to grate. ‘This blouse is ruined and I wanted to wear it this evening. Not to mention my knickers.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Justin smirked. ‘I was just about to mention those.’

‘Could you please at least pretend you’re concentrating on my crisis?’ Amy complained, capturing Justin’s wrists just as his hands began to travel down her body.

‘Spoilsport. OK, well, the blouse, let me think. Maybe I could dunk it in some bleach?’

It was impossible to tell if he was serious or not. ‘I’m sorry?’ Amy exclaimed. ‘Justin Campbell, did you just say the word “dunk” within twenty yards of my beautiful clothes? Would you ever dunk your precious threads in a bucket of Domestos?’

Bingo. An arrow to the heart. She may as well have asked: ‘Would you please jump off the balcony onto the concrete thirty feet below?’

Finally, he looked abashed. He freed his hands from her grip and laid them on her shoulders. ‘Come on, gorgeous, let me help you find something else to wear tonight. Tell you what, you can put on a fashion show, and I’ll be Simon Cowell …’

Amy awarded him a filthy look.

‘OK then, I’ll be Simon Cowell without the rude comments and dodgy strides.’ He led her through to the rumpled tranquillity of their bedroom, and flung open Amy’s double wardrobe doors.

It concealed an impressive collection. Not that much of it was particularly flash – Amy’s salary was definitely more High Street than Bond Street – but she’d made some impressive finds in Camden Market and Portobello Road over the past few years, and was secretly very proud of her bargain-hunting prowess. Justin, on the other hand, who could afford designer clothes a little more regularly than Amy’s once-in-a-blue-moon splurges, owned an immaculate capsule collection of casual work wear, which, for a straight bloke, was scarily tasteful.

‘Where is it you’re off to tonight again?’ he asked, stroking his stubble.

Amy turned and made a show of riffling through the rail. ‘Erm, just to the pub. With Jes. Shouldn’t be too late back.’ Slowly, guiltily, she risked a glance round. Thank goodness he wasn’t scrutinising her face; wasn’t aware of her lie.

Justin nodded. ‘OK, so no fancy gear, then?’

Colouring further, Amy breathed, ‘No, erm, I guess not. Nothing fancy.’

Before long she had tried on, and rejected, about seven different outfits. Silently she cursed her small frame. Come on! she snarled at the rail. I need elegant! Womanly! A bit of a chest! Nothing was right and Justin by now was lounging on the bed, unhelpful, mentally co-ordinating his own big night and paying little attention to her travails. Which should have been a blessing but, still, Amy found herself stung that he wasn’t being a bit more contrite, having just wrecked an entire drumful of her clothing.

‘Thanks, Justin, I’d never manage to get ready without you,’ she muttered sarcastically, tossing an Indian silk scarf towards the pile of discarded clothing and ‘missing’, draping it over Justin’s face instead.

‘Sorry, Abe, I was miles away.’ He leaped up and surged over to her clothing rail. ‘OK, pub night, yeah?’ He twisted his face. ‘Well, that’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?’ He plunged a hand into the wardrobe and pulled out her bootleg Miss Sixtys in triumph. ‘These!’ he beamed. Then he surged into the rail once more. ‘With this!’

Amy was aghast. Now he was holding out her old black polo-neck jumper.

‘And some trainers!’ he went on. ‘You’ve got some reasonably clean trainers in that shoe emporium of yours, haven’t you? Job done!’

‘I …’ Stumped, Amy did not know how to respond.

‘Well, what else would you wear to the pub?’ Justin went on. ‘You don’t want your fancy stuff coming back stinking of beer, do you?’

Amy had to concede his logic, even though she knew that his subtext was: ‘You, Amy Marsh, will go out tonight in the equivalent of a burka, and nobody will hit on you …’ however little he was prepared to admit it.

Still, in a last-minute save, she had her answer. ‘Justin, don’t be daft. I can’t go out in jeans and a jumper in June! I’ll melt into a puddle.’

‘But—’

‘Listen, you,’ Amy went on, firmly. ‘I am not Natasha, OK?’ She eased him towards her. ‘OK?’ she repeated, pulling him closer still. She experienced a momentary twinge of guilt – but really she was doing nothing wrong, not really.

‘I know,’ he mumbled, stooping and burying his face in her shoulder again.

‘I will not cheat on you, have you got that?’

‘Goddit,’ came from somewhere around her clavicle.

‘I’m going to wear something nice and cool, and when I come home, you can help me to take it off, OK?’

She felt his body relax. ‘Man, you make me do everything round here, don’t you?’ he growled, not unsexily.

Released, Amy swiftly slipped into her coral silk vest, and pulled the matching sheer chiffon blouse on top. The only thing to team with that was the chocolate suede Zara pencil skirt – despite the heat outside – so on it went, leaving only one more decision to be made.

The shoes.

CHAPTER TWO

Shoes entailed a short trip to the walk-in closet in the hall, the one most normal people use for suitcases and vacuum cleaners and ironing boards.

But this one was, as Justin had said, an emporium, a grotto, a shrine, a veritable sanctuary, a private working museum of all things footwear. It was Amy’s mother ship.

Amy collected shoes like other people collected photographs, or bundles of letters, or life lessons. Each pair had been chosen with care, with love, with reason, with style – and almost every pair could pinpoint something special in her past, her present, and maybe, just maybe, might hold out the promise of something in her future.

For these weren’t just shoe boxes for Amy; they were little treasure chests. Thirty-four of them to be precise. Yes, they contained wonderful leather smells, intricate stitching, supple straps, glorious heels … but the real treasure was the emotions, the memories, the turning-points that had somehow attached themselves to these tangible objects, making them such a vital part of Amy’s life.

Each box meticulously displayed either a digital printout picture or a glossy Polaroid photograph of its contents. There, look! There were the black Prada slingbacks – if only the suede skirt had been black, not brown, those would have been perfect for tonight! And there, the knee-length Gucci boots, bargain of the century from that nice Greek man in Portobello Road – briefly Amy longed for the evening to be cooler so that she could wear them …

A galaxy of beautiful colours and styles was showcased on these pictures, boasting of the treasure within each box. From pale peppermint to Moroccan amber, there was no footwear emergency that couldn’t be catered for by a visit to Amy’s shoe closet – provided, of course, that the circumstances permitted the wearing of high heels.

Amy paused, allowing the closet door to half close with her inside, switched on the light and breathed deeply, seizing a moment of sanctuary to try to calm her jangled nerves.

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.

CHAPTER THREE

‘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 with silver, and more than once Amy had to stifle an immature giggle as the words ‘Baron’, ‘Von’ and ‘Trapp’ swam in and out of her brain when she looked up at him. She reckoned he was about forty-four, and he had gorgeous, twinkly eyes and a special brand of transatlantic exuberance that was hard to describe but delicious to experience.

And his effect on women was nothing short of remarkable. Most of the females in the place seemed to greet him with such full-on, kissy-kissy enthusiasm that in a strange way Amy quite enjoyed the cold looks they bestowed upon her moments later.

‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the glass of cool white wine.

‘So,’ Sergei began, ‘how have you been? I have missed you.’

‘Great, thanks,’ Amy replied. ‘Bit of a nightmare getting out of the flat tonight …’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, it was nothing, really, just a bit of a disaster with the washing machine, nothing important.’ She could have kicked herself. Here she was, standing in the Royal Opera House with the most distinguished-looking man in the place, whom she hadn’t seen for ages, talking about her sodding washing machine! She shot a glance round the room. Honestly, why am I such a moron?

But Sergei, ever the gentleman, replied, ‘Oh dear, how inconvenient for you. But I am so glad you are here.’

Amy felt the beginnings of a blush creeping around her hairline. ‘So, how long are you in London for?’ she asked quickly.

‘Not so long, I am afraid,’ he replied as they ascended the stairs. ‘I go to China tomorrow. Just for a short while and then I return to the States in a few weeks.’

Amy nodded. ‘Well, it’s lovely of you to make time to see me,’ she said, giving his arm a squeeze.

He gave her a strange look. ‘How could I not?’ he asked, his eyes flashing, before covering the look with a smile of heart-melting warmth.

A pause followed, and Amy took a large gulp from her wine glass. She was grateful for the extra height afforded by her shoes, knowing from past experience that flat shoes in a noisy crowded room, for a small person, meant only two things: instant deafness, and a sore neck from craning upwards all the time. Plus, as ever, her beloved heels imparted an injection of confidence that just might get her through the evening without her making a complete idiot of herself.

‘I’m off to the Isle of Wight Festival at the weekend,’ she announced, suddenly inspired with the thought that she could ratchet up her self-esteem by nailing ‘music’ and ‘travel’ in a single sentence.

‘Really?’ Sergei replied. ‘With whom?’

Is that a slight edge to his voice? Amy wondered, before immediately dismissing the thought.

‘Oh, with my two best mates, Debbie and Jes – should be brilliant!’

‘Any chance that I might know any of the bands that will be there?’ he asked.

Amy bit her lip. ‘Um, well, I’m not sure – how about Foo Fighters?’

Sergei shook his head.

‘Coldplay?’

‘Is that a name, or are you asking me a question?’

‘The Kooks?’

‘Kooks? With a K? As in, David Bowie?’ He seemed chuffed to have made a connection.

Amy frowned. ‘David Bowie? Not sure, could be – I think they named themselves after some song from years and years ago.’

‘It has to be! David Bowie, Hunky Dory – “Kooks” is one of the best tracks on it! Nineteen seventy-one!’ He punched the air, looking as though he was about to launch into the song, only to elbow a passing waiter, narrowly avoiding knocking the wine tray from his hands while upending his own wine glass all down his front in the process. Amy gasped.

‘Oh, I am – what do you call it? – a klutz,’ he muttered, shaking wine droplets from his trouser leg.

‘Let me help,’ Amy flustered, grabbing a bunch of paper napkins from a nearby tray and dabbing furiously at Sergei. ‘Lucky it wasn’t red!’

‘Thank you, really, it’s fine, there’s no need …’

‘No, really, I’ll fix you in no time. Here, hold still.’

And he did. He stood stock-still, if a little embarrassedly, as she rubbed furiously at his sleeve, the front of his shirt, even his trouser leg, before the wine had a chance to sink in. She could feel his eyes on the top of her head, and given that she was in the process of rubbing his leg, she realised she had to find something else to say. Something normal.

Like, now.

‘Actually, that’s a Coldplay song title, did you know that?’ she chirped, from somewhere around his knee level.

‘What, “Hold Still”?’

‘No! “Fix You” – have you heard it?’

‘I’m afraid my pop music tastes date back to prehistoric times, Amy.’

‘Oh? For example?’ She straightened up and looked at him with interest.

‘Kraftwerk? OMD? Erasure?’

Amy raised an eyebrow. He was grinning sheepishly. ‘I’m not particularly proud of my electro-past,’ he whispered, ‘but that’s what we all listened to in Russia.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sergei, but there must be organisations that can offer help …’

Sergei hooted with laughter. ‘That’s just the sort of comment your mother would make!’

Amy looked up sharply. This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. Sergei was her link to the past – and a side of her mother she was hungry to know about. Her mother – Hannah Powell – the most perfect Odette in Swan Lake that this country had ever produced, or so the reviews of the time had exuberantly claimed.

‘Do you know, once in my dancing days when I was about to go on stage, I spilled orange juice over my costume. Your mother did exactly as you have done tonight – she was always looking after me, like a mother hen.’

‘I can imagine,’ Amy said, clutching a clump of damp napkins in her hand, with nowhere to put them. ‘She mothered everyone.’ Glancing round the room, she couldn’t spot a single woman who looked like she’d allow herself to get into this sort of predicament. They probably all could have summoned up a member of staff to help out with a click of their perfectly manicured fingers.

‘I once dyed my hair orange to try and look like Bowie in his Aladdin Sane period, you know.’ Sergei was like that. He could put a coiled spring at ease.

‘Really?’ Amy laughed, relieved.

Sergei nodded. ‘I think that was just before I had it cut very short – it was just before my Yellow Magic Orchestra fixation. Oh, and there was the Sparks weekend …’

As Sergei launched into a somewhat baffling reverie about his seventies and eighties musical journey, Amy tried, she really, really tried, to keep up with his encyclopaedic knowledge of synthesiser pop, but within minutes she felt herself drifting off into another place – a fantasy world, or a reality check, she couldn’t decide which …

Sergei Mishkov. What on earth am I doing here yet again? And yet, how could I have stayed away?

It’s because of Mum, that’s why. This place, this is Mum’s world, and Sergei was Mum’s friend from another time – pre-me, pre-Dad, pre-retiring from ballet to bring me up … I owe Mum this, to live in her world now and again, to try and feel what she felt, with people she cared about. That way I guess she can live on in me as a whole person, rather than just as my mum …

‘Ah, Ultravox, now that was a conundrum. Did they truly fit the genre … ?’ Sergei was in full flow, waving his arms to emphasise the finer points of the Vienna album …

And they’re not half bad, really, these evenings, even though I feel like a kid in a crowd of adults. Sergei’s great, the dancing’s great, the music’s a bit iffy sometimes but I’m working on it. I just wish … oh, I wish I’d told Justin from the start. Why the heck didn’t I?

She knew the answer perfectly well. When Justin had first met Sergei – what, a year ago? – he’d made his feelings perfectly clear. He didn’t like him, didn’t trust him.

‘Amy? The bells?’ Sergei had stooped to look directly at her.

‘Pardon?’

‘I think I lost you somewhere between The Human League and Fad Gadget, did I not? I apologise.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry!’ The theatre bells rang again.

‘No need to be sorry!’ He waved his arms energetically. ‘But we must go back in: time for the second act!’

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