Lucy Hepburn - Clicking Her Heels

‘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.