Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  “Yeah right.”

  Izzie drove on in silence for a while, frowning slightly, then burst out laughing. “Maddy, you are incorrigible!”

  “Oh and I meant to tell you. Some publisher rang too. Said they had something in the pipeline for you after Christmas. I said I’d see if you could fit it in, but that you’d had to put your rate up.”

  Izzie was horrified. Maddy had put the final nail in the coffin of her sickly career.

  Maddy paused theatrically. “They said that would be fine, and they were very grateful you could find time for them.”

  The last couple of weeks before the Christmas holidays flew by, as they always do. Izzie got on with all the usual stuff: cards, decorations, provisions, mince pies and Christmas pud to make, plus the nativity costumes to create—well, tea towels and dressing gowns, sandals, snake belts, and walking sticks, but still! This year, however, she had to do it all on a tighter budget than ever.

  For a change, they were going to spend Christmas with Marcus’s parents, Ray and Gwen, for the first time since the children had been born. Visits were supposed to be on a strictly fair rotation, alternating with Izzie’s parents. But there had been a sort of hiccup when Marcus’s brother, Adrian, had gone to live in Melbourne and they’d got out of synch. This had caused all sorts of tensions and crosscurrents of bad feeling that Izzie only vaguely understood—Marcus’s family were always squabbling. But she was very aware that after such a long gap, this Christmas had a significance beyond that of peace on earth and goodwill to all men. She was dreading it.

  Marcus and his parents had always been a sore topic in their marriage. The bottom line was that they were both acutely aware that she came from a very different background. Her dad was an artist, her mum a secondary school teacher. They’d never had much money, but she and her brother had sailed through grammar school. Home life had been rich in intellectual conversation, music, European travel, books, artistic friends always swapping ideas over glasses of cheap plonk at the kitchen table. Right from Marcus’s first visit to their house in Norwich, he’d tried very hard—perhaps a little too hard—to fit in with the lefty, liberal-thinking bohemianism, but her parents had been gracious and tolerant as always.

  Marcus’s upbringing had been much tougher. Staunch Thatcherites, and lifelong Express readers, his parents had been one of the first to buy their council house and were proud of the improvements they’d made to it. Not bad for a factory foreman and a dinner lady. But their proudest achievement was Marcus, and on every visit they asked him avidly about a life they could not even conceive of. Yet he always brushed off their well-meant inquiries.

  Izzie reacted by trying desperately to make up for Marcus’s reticence. She found herself blowing his trumpet for him, despite his glares. It was so difficult to strike the right balance. Whatever she did, she seemed to get it wrong. If she got matey with Gwen, having a giggle with her over peeling the sprouts, for instance, she was worried Marcus would think she was being patronizing. If she was quiet, she feared he would think she was a snob. She wouldn’t dare go down the allotment again with Ray after last time, although she’d really enjoyed lifting the carrots for lunch with him and seeing how tenderly he nurtured the hyacinths he was forcing for the house. Marcus had been uncomfortable about that, as if he was sure his dad would say something crass. It was insulting to Ray and even more so to Izzie.

  Taking the kids to stay at Ray and Gwen’s little semi did add an extra layer of stress, but they were so delighted by their grandchildren, and the feeling was mutual. Izzie allowed her strict rules on sweets between meals to go by the by—a policy she regretted at bedtime when she had to peel them off the walls, their blood sugar level was so high.

  Maddy had been understanding about the delicate diplomacy that in-law visits required and the impending sojourn. Maddy’s own in-laws sounded a pretty tricky bunch, but she had such a different set of problems now that Izzie didn’t like to go on too much. It seemed so petty. Funnily enough, the thing she was dreading about Christmas was not seeing Maddy. It would probably only work out as a week apart, at the most, but the intense effort leading up to the Christmas Fayre had been such fun, and now Izzie couldn’t help feeling that Christmas itself would be a letdown. She hugged Maddy and the kids good-bye after they met to exchange tiny token presents—no money for big ones—but Izzie couldn’t resist the shocking pink feather duster she’d found in Ringford Market. She had a sneaky feeling that the cassette of French songs Maddy had recorded for her had a hidden agenda.

  The second week of January and Maddy was profoundly relieved that the whole nightmare of Christmas and New Year was over. She had always hated this time of year—what on earth was there to celebrate when it was early January, more foul weather was inevitable, and it was weeks until spring? But this year had been infinitely worse than any before it.

  They would usually have spent Christmas in Hertfordshire with Simon’s family, which included his two married brothers, their enthusiastic wives, and hordes of cousins. They were a hearty lot who did the festivities in good English fashion, with lots of booze, a huge lunch (with Simon’s father, Alan, getting more touchy-feely and red in the face under his party hat as the day went on), then wellies on and a “bit of fresh air” down the fields with the dogs. This was more like a route march organized by Simon’s formidable mother, Cynthia, and Maddy was expert after years of practice at thinking up excuses to avoid it.

  Cynthia had been quite a looker in her youth, but hardened to the world after raising three sons, she had the complexion of a woman who had stood on innumerable touchlines watching rugby. Her very existence revolved around the men in her life, and she had no time for fools or those who didn’t “muck in.” Sensible and forthright, she was the kind of woman who had a voice that could strip paint, who based her politics on the leader column of the Daily Mail, who played golf with an impressive handicap, and who dressed from the catalogs advertised in the back of the Sunday supplements.

  On Maddy, Cynthia had never quite been able to get a handle. She thought she had her taped as a well-bred gal who would be just the right sort of wife for her beloved youngest son. But when Cynthia had met the Chanel-clad Giselle during the lead-up to the wedding, and had to suffer her very Continental approach to nuptials, she had to readdress her assumptions and had thereafter treated Maddy with a certain amount of caution.

  Maddy was determined not to follow the Christmas tradition—the gap left by Simon would have been a yawning one—so she had virtually invited herself and the children to stay with Giselle and Peter in their handsome Georgian house at Richmond. Panic-stricken by the thought of the place being wrecked, Giselle had practically cleared out the toy department at Peter Jones so Will, Florence, and Pasco would have no reason to touch anything during their stay other than their new toys. For all her inability to cope with anyone under twenty-five, Giselle was a lioness when it came to guarding the perfection of her house, and sticky fingers on her silk curtains was something up with which she would not put.

  Needless to say, on Christmas morning Pasco had been more interested in the wrapping paper than the contents, and even that had been short-lived. One broken lamp and a pot of hand soap rubbed into the bathroom carpet later, and Maddy was relieved when they packed up the car with the hoard of presents on Boxing Day. Just before she pulled away, Peter, a rather diffident bear of a man, had leaned into the car window as if to say a final good-bye and had pressed a check into her hands. It was made out for £500.

  Gobsmacked, Maddy had opened her mouth as if to say, What on earth . . . ? Peter had simply put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Think of it as an extra Christmas present,” and had turned to walk away.

  “What are you doing at New Year? Want to join us?” Izzie had asked very thoughtfully on December 27. But for once Maddy was economical with the truth. “Oh, I’ve a couple from London coming to stay. We’ll stay in and have a piss-up I expect.”

  In fact, she had curled up with a cup of ho
t chocolate in front of the TV, watched as much as she could stomach of hearty Hogmanay celebrations from Edinburgh Castle, and had been in bed with her book by nine thirty. The whole experience had been made more painful by the fact that Will kept reminding her how much fun Daddy had made Christmas and that Pasco had decided to start walking on New Year’s Day. Simon had recorded Will’s and Florence’s first steps devotedly on the camcorder, but even when Maddy eventually found the ruddy thing, she couldn’t get it to work.

  The next morning they awoke to a freezing house. No heating. No hot water. It took her ages to work out that they must have run out of oil. Frankly it hadn’t even crossed her mind that oil ran out, and “with the backlog of Christmas,” as the woman at the oil supplier call center had been at pains to point out, it would be a few days before they could fill up the tank. Cold, frustrated, angry at herself for letting it happen (in the knowledge that Simon wouldn’t have let such a situation occur), she felt desolate and lost. And when the tanker did finally arrive, she could only afford for them to half fill the tank.

  The same day the children went back to school and nursery, and she took down the pathetic decorations. Packing them up into boxes haphazardly and fighting back tears, she put them away as fast as possible in a cupboard on the top floor and collected up the Christmas cards. There had been a flood of them this year, and each one had a little note of support. The only one that hadn’t was from Pru. “What on earth was that little parcel you sent me?” she had scrawled hastily on her corporate offering, which rather incongruously showed a picture of a posh spa on the front (one of her clients no doubt). “I’ll be in touch in the new year—loads of kisses, Px.”

  Now, sitting down at the kitchen table during Pasco’s nap, she scribbled a note to Giselle to thank her for Christmas and the wonderful presents. They had given her a pale gray cashmere roll-neck, which was beautiful but seemed inappropriate when cash was so short, and a Nigella Lawson cookbook that was even more so when her budget ran to chicken nuggets and beans. Something stopped her, however, from mentioning Peter’s check. She had a feeling Giselle had known nothing about it and that perhaps Peter knew more about her predicament than he was letting on.

  The sale at the auction house had gone moderately well, the only big disappointment being the gilt mirror which only just made its reserve. She’d banked the check, then written out copious other ones and tucked them into envelopes with the rather aggressive reminders which had arrived from the kitchen fitters et al. She had earmarked most of Peter’s money for Florence and Little Goslings. She had taken the decision to reduce Florence’s hours to three days a week, and Clare Jenkins had swallowed her feeble excuse that she felt Florence would benefit from spending time at home. “Oh yes, Mrs. Hoare, bonding is so important at this age.” Eagles had been brilliant, the governors having written her a very supportive stay-of-execution letter about “never wanting to interrupt a child’s education if at all possible.” But the cash wasn’t going to last long, the phone was predictably quiet on the WorkWorld front, and the year loomed ahead of her dismally cash free.

  She had the key in the door on the way back from school later in the afternoon when she heard the phone ring. Stumbling into the hall she grabbed it.

  “Will,” she shouted, putting her hand over the receiver, “just leave your sister alone, and, no, you can’t watch The Weakest Link. Hello?”

  “A sea of domestic calm and serenity, I gather,” said an amused voice at the other end. “Darling, is this a good moment?”

  “No, Pru, your timing is crap, but how are you? Have good festives?”

  “Oh, usual thing. Gruesome day with Graham’s family, then back to DINKY heaven as quick as was politely possible. Now listen, I won’t keep you ’cos I’m sure you have supper to rustle up. About this gunge you sent me. From what I could make out from your scrawl, it all sounds rather intriguing. There just might be something in it—well, it certainly isn’t the fragrance—but I like the story. I’ve got a plan. I need to talk to you and your friend a bit more about it. I don’t suppose you can get down here to civilization, can you?”

  Maddy took in the chaos of school bags, caps, and coats all over the hall floor and the screaming coming from the upstairs bedrooms. It wasn’t just the logistics of child care if she went down to London—though God knew she ached to go—it was the cost, too. Could she really justify the petrol for a meeting that might come to nothing? She was pretty damned sure Izzie couldn’t.

  She’d obviously hesitated too long. “Okay, I get the message.” Pru laughed. “At huge personal cost to my delicate sensitivities, the mountain shall come to Mohammed. Can you meet me at whatever provincial little station is nearest to you?”

  Maddy put down the phone with a fluttering of anticipation in her stomach. It was time to come clean to Izzie about what she’d done.

  Pru looked totally out of place as she stepped off the train at Ringford two days later. Immaculate in a navy suit, perfectly tailored camel coat, deep burgundy velvet scarf, and armed with Louis Vuitton, she looked around her with momentary panic until she spotted Maddy waiting at the other end of the platform.

  “Daarling.” Pru flung her arms around her in a fragrant embrace and stood back to look at her old friend. “You look . . . well, bloody awful frankly. And what have, or rather haven’t, you done to your hair? Don’t they do highlights up here in the sticks, or are you rediscovering your French roots?”

  “Very funny! Come on, Izzie is waiting for us at the house—she’s looking after your godson for me—and she’s dying to meet you. How’s London? I want to know everything.”

  Pru nearly shrieked with disgust when she saw the little red Fiesta parked in the car park, and gingerly shoehorned herself and her briefcase into it as if she might dirty her coat on something vile left on the seat. On the short journey home, it started to rain and she peered out through the windscreen wipers like the first westerner to enter East Berlin.

  “Oh how quaint, a village post office. Do people really use them? And all these signs for the Countryside March. Don’t tell me they’re planning another one. Bloody pain that day was for nipping into Knightsbridge—the inconvenience!” Maddy smiled as she listened. It was heaven to have someone who felt the same way.

  Pru spent the rest of the journey as if she had a bad smell under her nose, and when they pulled into the drive and Maddy stopped the car, Pru stepped out in her high heels onto the now muddy driveway as if it were liquid cow pat.

  “Christ—how do you put up with it?”

  “Oh fortitude and copious amounts of gin,” laughed Maddy. “Come and meet Izzie.”

  Once she was ensconced in the house—“Oh, darling, I knew it would be a haven of exquisite taste in a sea of mediocrity”—and had given Pasco some cars which were entirely unsuitable and clearly stated on the packaging “not for children under 36 months,” Pru settled down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine. Her warm response to Izzie, who had been thrilled by Maddy’s initiative but was struck dumb with awe on meeting this pillar of public relations, reminded Maddy why Pru was such a good mate.

  “Now, girls, about this smelly gunk you so kindly shared with me. It smells like a trash heap, but I think the story is rather beguiling. What I want you to do is run it all by me again, show me this Luce woman’s scribblings, and then I suggest we cobble together a bit of a press release.”

  Maddy was puzzled. “You mean, you’re interested? We just wanted your advice on farmers’ markets and the like.”

  “Would I have come all this way for some two-bit farm-shop operation, darling? Let’s think global! I have a feeling that this product might just appeal to those jaded luvvies in the beauty departments of magazines and papers who are full of New Year flu and scrabbling around for something to interest their rich and pampered readers.”

  By the time Maddy put her on the return train to London three hours later, Pru had filled about twenty sides of A4 paper, had thumbed through Luce’s journal, and had tuck
ed the last of the samples they had left into her Vuitton handbag. “God! This is a bit of a quantum leap!” Maddy said to Izzie when she got back from the station and they’d given each other a congratulatory hug. “But if anyone can stir up interest, Pru can. She’s formidable to say the least and there’s not a journalist worth knowing whose number isn’t in her little black book.”

  The flu Pru had mentioned was now rife all over the country, and everyone Maddy met over the next few days had already had it, had it now, or was brewing it. Will came home from school shivering a week after Pru’s visit, and Maddy put him into bed with some Calpol and a hot drink. The next day Florence was showing signs of it, too, so Maddy battened down the hatches over the weekend.

  “God, I want to die,” sniffed Izzie down the phone when Maddy called her on Saturday. “I’ve just got back from drama club with Charlie and Jess and, even though I’m wearing three jumpers and my old skiing thermals, I can’t seem to get warm.”

  “What on earth were you doing out? You should be in bed. Where’s Marcus?”

  “Oh I think he’s photographing some event of the mayor’s. He won’t be back until later.” Feeling helpless that she couldn’t lend a hand, Maddy made Izzie promise to stick on an epically long video for the children and get herself into bed with a hottie.

  Fortified by orange juice and cigarettes (she was convinced she got fewer colds than nonsmokers), Maddy managed to stave off the lurgy, despite the children’s best attempts to sneeze all over her. But on Monday morning Will was still not well enough to go to school. No sooner had she put the phone down at 8:15 from telling the secretary that she was keeping him at home, than it rang again.

  “Mrs. Hoare, it’s Mara Fields here from WorkWorld. It’s very short notice I know but we’ve had an urgent request from the doctor’s surgery on Cherry Tree Walk in Ringford. They are down to one receptionist, what with the flu epidemic, and need someone to step in right away.”