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.
‘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
