Clicking Her Heels

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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