Lucy Hepburn - Clicking Her Heels

LUCY HEPBURN

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 HarperCollins Publishers 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.

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

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.