September 2010
It was truly the most beautiful pair of boots – and it knew it! Standing proudly on a purple velvet dais, prominent in centre window, where the late Summer sunlight kissed the soft, deep brown leather; but this pair of boots also had its own pair of spotlights, casting a soft diffused light, which chased away the shadows, so the leather gleamed enticingly with a soft glow. The light also sparkled the engraved bronze plates curved delicately around the heels, the small bronze tags dangling tantalisingly from the zipper and, down either side, Celtic carving, ornate, sinuous, mysterious. The toes were cut into a stylish wedge, the soles so thin and subtle, the heels just high enough, just low enough to be elegant. The boots were insinuating to the world, ‘buy me – I am sooo comfortable, everyone who sees them will be jealous that I am yours and not theirs – buuyyy meeeeeee!’
Penelope stared at the beautiful boots, her nose only a few inches from the thin leadlight barrier; she wanted them – no, she craved them. The fact that there was no price tag on them was of no matter to her; she was well aware of the maxim that, ‘…if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford them…’, but she did not want to ask the price, the only question she wanted to ask was, ‘Can you get me those beautiful boots out of the window, please.’
But, she couldn’t ask the question – it was 6.30 on a Friday evening and the shop was shut, the pink roller blind pulled down on the door. Benjie whined at her heel, tugging gently at his lead; he had been stood still for quite long enough and was dying to explore that really interesting lamppost just a few delicious sniffs away. She sighed, then slyly peered all around her – the street was empty – good. She just knew that if anyone could see her admiring the boots, their curiosity would draw them across the street to look for themselves and then, well, anyone who gazed upon these beautiful boots would surely desire them as much as she did…but they are mine!
The opening times were prominently displayed on a small card hanging on the inside of the window – Monday to Saturday: 0900 – 1700. She knew now that at nine o’clock tomorrow morning she would be here, standing in this doorway preventing anyone but the shop assistant herself getting near the door – then she would ask the question!
All evening, she could not concentrate; she picked at her food, before abandoning half a plate of an otherwise delicious lasagne to the bin; the television, which was usually quite entertaining on a Friday evening, tonight might as well have been showing back to back Party Political Broadcasts for all she cared. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to take ten minutes for the minute hand to advance by one stroke; she simply had to take her mind off those beautiful boots somehow. Pouring herself another large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, she picked up her Julie Walters autobiography and immersed herself in its pages. Soon, she was giggling, sighing, laughing out loud, crying…the boots were way, way back at the back of her mind . . . for the moment.
At eleven o’clock, she called it a day and prepared for bed; she was certain she would never sleep, but her eyes were tired from the intensive reading and, within minutes of her head hitting the pillow she was dreaming . . . of beautiful, magical boots; boots which weaved a sinuous path through a noisy throng in the High Street, the crowd parting to allow her to pass, envious glances at her beautiful boots as she stepped out proudly; boots with which she could stamp her way through a violent, sensual flamenco routine with a dashing, suave Spanish dancer, who only had eyes for her and the blood red rose gripped gently between her ruby red lips; boots which those gorgeous tanned hands slowly slipped from her legs as she languished back in the red satin chair, her wrists draped magnificently across the soft padded arms, awaiting his pleasure…
At 8am the alarm she had set dragged her from her intense dreams with a raucous buzz; she groaned and hit the clock with a practiced hand, silencing the alarm and granting her a few more precious minutes.
A piece of toast she didn’t really taste; a cup of coffee, more for the caffeine than for its flavour; a few brief minutes in front of the hall mirror arranging her hair so that it would not detract from her new beautiful boots, then she strode purposefully down the driveway and beeped open the Clio.
She lived in a pleasant cottage just over five miles from the centre of the town, which was near enough to be handy, but far enough away to be comfortable; today, however, it seemed way too far and she eased her red court shoes down onto the accelerator, driving the car on faster than was usual. She was almost halfway to town, on a quiet country road, when the wheel began to judder in her hands; a car travelling towards her flashed its lights and she had to fight to keep the car over to the left to avoid it. Pulling over into a farmer’s field entrance, she discovered the worst – the front offside tyre was flat, the black rubber oozing and steaming on the grey tarmac surface. For a few brief moments, she stood, immobile, staring, as if her gaze alone could re-inflate the tyre. Then a glance at her watch told her it was ten minutes to nine and her anger surfaced like a tidal wave, sweeping reason aside; she screamed out, “No!” and stamped her delicate red shoes into the dust until her heels hurt. Defeated, she thumbed through her mobile phone for the RAC.
At a quarter past eleven, the charming man had changed her tyre and apologised profusely for the delay; she had tried hard to be polite and reasonable, she was certain it wasn’t his fault, he was only doing his job, but the boots had made her berate him; to ask why she paid all this money every year to be abandoned on a lonely country road for hours and hours . . . but now, at last, she was mobile again. She floored the accelerator, throwing a shower of dirt and gravel through the farmer’s five barred gate.
Saturday mornings were, thankfully, quite quiet and there was always a space in the library car park; double yellow lines prohibited parking outside the shop itself. She drove into the car park only to find that the pre-Christmas Farmers’ Market had proved to be a popular diversion and there wasn’t a single space to be had. Fuming, she drove around and around the car park, but no-one returned to their car. She drove out again, heading off towards the Council estate, there were always spaces there, there always were . . . but today the space between each driveway was taken, for as far as the eye could see.
In desperation, she drove back, wedging her car halfway up a grass bank along the main road out of town, just beyond the reach of the hateful yellow lines. She beeped her car locked and ran down the road back into town. A stitch in her side slowed her down to a trot, she was not used to all this sudden exercise, especially on fashionable shoes, but trot she did, covering the ground at a pace which surprised her, the shop growing nearer and nearer with every step. Stopping on the other side of the road and waiting for the cars to pass, she happily saw the boots still centre stage in the shop window – she had made it!
Car after car passed, until, finally, she was able to dash across the road to claim her prize . . . but to her horror, a hand reached into the window and removed the boots right before her very eyes. She stopped dead in the middle of the road in sheer frustration, until the blaring of a horn made her turn and look up into the face of a bemused bus driver and she slowly crossed onto the kerb in front of the horribly empty window. Inside the shop, through the racks of clothing, she could just see the head of her nemesis, wearing a dreadfully pretentious yellow hat with feathers protruding from a floral band. Such a feeling of intense hatred surged through her that she dared not risk entering the shop, for fear of what she would say or do to that evil woman.
Slowly, dejectedly, wearily, she turned and trudged her way home, defeated.
For a few days she could not bring herself to even contemplate going into town. Instead, she busied herself in the house, trying to ignore the pangs of loss. By Saturday, she finally felt strong enough and, besides, she was running out of so much that she had only two choices – shop or starve.
The car behaved impeccably on the journey, she parked in the library car park with ease, close to the entrance and headed towards Sainsburys. A nagging suggestion that had lain just below the surface of her mind for days, suddenly surfaced – what if there were others? What if she had a dozen pairs of those beautiful boots? She could . . . she just could.
But no, a small voice whispered, a small town shop like hers tended to have one offs, couldn’t afford to stock the whole range, like the High Street chains. But a small glimmer of hope spread through her with a warm, rosy glow, until she found herself turning left instead of right and soon the small boutique was in sight.
Her heart dropped a little as she saw that there was a pretty, but incomparable handbag on the purple velvet dais, but she knew that this was not concrete proof that there was not a second pair; the window display changed regularly to keep up the interest of the casual passer by, to draw them into the small, but interesting little shop.
She climbed the two steps and hesitantly pushed open the door; the bell swung back, clanging noisily in her ear as she stepped hopefully inside. Mrs Hamilton looked up from her book and smiled warmly, “Good morning, madam, and how can I help you?”
“Er…I was wondering…you know those boots…those beautiful boots…”
“Oh yes, they were, weren’t they.” She chirped happily, “If I could have bought a dozen more pairs, I could have made my fortune overnight. Quite a few people have been in asking after them; but sadly, they were the only pair I could get hold of and a nice lady from out of town bought them on Monday!” she chuckled happily, her shoulders pulsating at the pleasurable thought.
Penelope was completely deflated, she could only ask, meekly, “If you ever…”
“Of course,” Mrs Hamilton smiled, pulling out a blue leather desk diary, “Let me have your details and I will be sure to let you know.” Penelope idly scanned the blouses on the sale rail, she might as well, while she was here, and hardly registered the sound of the bell as another customer came in. She did, however, register those uniquely wonderful words, “I’m sorry, I bought them here on Saturday, but I am beginning to think that size 6 is too small for me now.”
She spun around in a dream, and there, on the counter, was the most beautiful pair of boots. “They’re mine!” she shouted, happily.