an invitation to a ball in less than five minutes?’
Debbie was reapplying gloss to her mouth, pouting into her metallic pink handbag mirror. ‘I just asked him where a girl has to go to have a good time around here, that’s all, and he invited me there and then – It was like taking candy off a kid. Don’t you think he’s just … edible?’
Amy couldn’t imagine ever being that hungry. But she nodded all the same. ‘Tell you one thing, though, Debs, you’d better keep out of Iwona and Marta’s way. I think they thought they had him all wrapped up for themselves.’
Debbie spread her palm out and gestured at her face. ‘See this face? Does it look bovvered?’
Amy laughed. ‘Come on then, you big hussy – you shall go to the ball. And I’m picking the shoes!’
It had been twelve years since Amy had last been in Berkshire, even though the county lay only a short distance to the west of London. It had been in winter; her parents took her to Windsor Castle as a Christmas holiday treat. She had been thrilled to be told she was going to see the Queen’s ‘real’ home and, according to her mother (although she couldn’t remember this), had spent the entire trip trying to peer through windows to see if she could spot Her Majesty watching telly. She’d even asked if the Queen would be wearing slippers, and when she got home that evening, had made an elaborate drawing of what Royal Slippers might look like. Tassels and diamonds had featured heavily.
Now, the day after her success at Delsey’s Gym, Amy was once again in Berkshire, only this time, alone. She’d said goodbye to Debbie in Newcastle that morning, wishing her luck for the Polish Ball before setting off early to track down the second address on the shoe list.
As the 2CV roared past Windsor, Amy tried not to glance at the castle looming on the horizon: pangs of nostalgia were making it hard enough to concentrate on the unfamiliar road as it was. She had had so few family outings – not many that she could remember, anyhow. But the Windsor Castle trip had been a truly golden day.
She remembered the strawberry ice cream her dad had bought her, which melted all the way down the front of her navy-blue duffel coat and onto her fur-lined silver plastic boots – her Spice Girls boots. Remembering these brought a smile to her lips for the first time that day. She’d worn them until they fell to bits, and had been heartbroken when her mother finally threw them out.
And only a few weeks after the Windsor Castle trip, her father was dead: killed in a car accident driving home from work late one icy night.
She shook her head violently, trying physically to wrench the sad thoughts from her mind. Her mission was hard enough without inviting in more painful memories.
Thatcham, Winterbourne, Chieveley, Peasemore. Amy drove past signs to towns and villages that sounded impossibly pretty, wishing she had Debbie or Jesminder with her to keep her company. Or Justin. Where the heck was Justin?
At last, after two stops to check her road map, she arrived at the village on the list – Brightwalton. Her heart quickened as she navigated her way past the church, over the canal, and finally pulled up outside a pretty, red-brick terraced cottage. Number three. She was there.
Putting off the moment, she pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and punched Justin’s number on speed-dial.
She jumped when an automated voice announced: ‘The number you have called has not been recognised. Please check the number and try again.’
He had disconnected his phone. He. Had. Disconnected. His. Phone.
On autopilot, Amy hung up and looked around her, the phone falling from her hands into the footwell. She had never felt so alone in her life.
Dully, she checked her reflection in her handbag mirror. Dark shadows circled her eyes and her forehead sported twin vertical frown lines just above her nose. They hadn’t been there a week ago.
I look like shit.
With a sigh, she locked the car, made her way up the cobbled path to the green-painted front door, and rang the bell. Now her heart began to dance a brutal tango in her chest.
‘I’ll get it!’ came a small voice from inside.
‘Oh!’ Amy exclaimed, as a little girl of around eight or nine greeted her, wearing a pale pink ballet tutu, complete with net skirt and ribboned ballet shoes. ‘Hello!’
Immediately, the tango in her heart upped its tempo. I don’t believe it! This has to be where Mum’s dancing slippers are! It just has to be!
‘You look pretty!’ Amy twittered. ‘Is your mummy at home, please?’
‘Who is it, Miranda?’ came a woman’s voice from the kitchen.
Without waiting for a reply, the girl’s mother appeared. Short, flustered, barefoot, pretty in a dishevelled sort of way and very, very pregnant. ‘Hello, you’re early, aren’t you?’
Her voice was friendly enough, but Amy could tell straight away that the woman was exhausted. It showed in every move she made, in every trying-to-be-polite word she spoke, the dark circles under her eyes even more impressive than Amy’s. Amy opened her mouth to speak.
‘Sophie?’ A man’s voice called through from the back of the house, ‘any chance I could get that kettle now, please? Bit of an emergency out back…’
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Coming.’ She grimaced apologetically at Amy. ‘Come in, please. My husband’s doing something completely vital to the onion plants – won’t be a sec.’
She bustled back towards the kitchen and Amy, unsure of the correct course of action, followed.
The kitchen was a sea of family clutter: ironing, toys, crockery and a paint-laden child’s easel filled every available space. It had a warm, homely feel yet still Amy’s heart went out to the woman who was yanking the kettle from its socket and handing it to the lanky, apologetic-looking man standing in the back doorway.
‘And Tim? Don’t get mud on it,’ she sighed, rubbing her forehead.
‘I won’t, darling,’ he replied. His voice was soft and patient. He too looked exhausted.
Something’s not quite right here …
‘Thanks.’ Amy heard the faintly contrite tone in Sophie’s voice, but her husband was already gone, shoulders slightly stooped, back towards the canes and nets of a vegetable patch that lay beyond the child’s swing set.
‘Sorry about that,’ the woman said, smiling weakly at Amy. ‘So, you must be the lady who rang up about needing volunteers for the Community Council?’
Eh? Yikes …
‘Me?’ Amy pointed at herself with her thumb. ‘No, not exactly. I’m sorry to trouble you, but well, my name’s Amy Marsh and there’s been a mix-up over some shoes I sold on eBay and I thought I’d better come in person to try and sort it out.’
Sophie’s eyebrows
