Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  “Er, tell me,” she faltered, “what has Marcus said about all this press response. Is he excited?”

  “Well . . .” There was a second’s hesitation. “Less than I’d hoped. I try not to talk about it too much, what with him not working. It doesn’t seem fair that everything’s going right for me at the moment, especially when he’s trying so hard. Men can be so proud. I consider anything I earn as being our money, but I think, deep down, he feels he ought to be the provider. Perhaps the extra pressure of having to step in to take care of the children has been difficult for him too, what with his photography project and all that.” Good old Izzie, loyal to the last. Maddy let the subject drop.

  “How the hell are we going to fake this country thing?” said Izzie after a while. “My wardrobe is old business clothes, half of them still have shoulder pads, and the rest is jeans.”

  “Don’t think I’m much better.” Maddy yawned. “I don’t think Prada would really work, do you?”

  They both lapsed into silence again, and Maddy could feel her eyelids drooping.

  “I’ve got it.” Izzie sat bolt upright and kicked Maddy’s foot as she did so. Maddy started awake. “Janet.” Izzie’s eyes sparkled. “Janet is the country icon—she’s to the country what Anna Wintour is to urban chic. Do you suppose she’d let us raid her wardrobe?”

  Maddy snorted. “On yer bike, love. You’re not getting me into bloody sweaters and thong sandals. I’m not that desperate!”

  “The whole prospect does sound pretty dire,” Izzie conceded and slumped back in her seat. “I was too late for the hippie era. We’re going to need a makeover to get the image right.”

  “And if Pru gets her way, we’ll be making the Summer of Love look like the miners’ strike.”

  Izzie’s prediction had been right. There was a massive pile of mail-order requests waiting for Maddy when she got home at three thirty. Janet, once again, had done her angel of mercy bit taking care of Pasco while they’d been in London. She was obviously out now collecting Will and Florence. Maddy smiled at the vision of her standing in the playground, among the appliquéd army.

  She picked up the pile—there must have been a couple of hundred of them—and carried them into the study to join the others which were piled up on the desk and all over the floor. There were envelopes in all shapes and sizes, some typed, some handwritten in big scrawly writing, others in tiny anal script—all wanting one thing, a piece of a miracle. Again the enormity of responsibility washed over her. The Easter holidays were looming and what on earth was she going to do with the children when there were all these orders to get out?

  By the time the aforementioned rushed in, Maddy had gulped down two mugs of tea, smoked several cigarettes, first checking that the Wholesome Police didn’t have their binoculars trained on her window, and was feeling more human. She made a fresh cup for Janet and persuaded her to have a biscuit and sit down at the table while she started making supper.

  “How did it go in the Smoke?” Janet enquired, dunking her ginger biscuit in her tea.

  Maddy laughed wryly. “Yes, smoke. That came up, among other things.” As she put a pan on to boil for pasta and chopped up bacon for carbonara, she told Janet all about Pru’s marketing plan. “It’s just not us, Janet,” she said. “I’m about as much earth mother as Joan Crawford.” She put down the knife and took a deep breath. Oh what the hell.

  “Janet, you’re the right sort of person for this image. You’re such a good person and I’m just flighty—and obsessed with designer labels.”

  “Oh no, Maddy, you’re so elegant. Everybody in the village thinks so.”

  “Well, that’s sweet of you to say so. But Izzie and I just wondered whether, just for this Country Lifestyle interview, you would let us borrow some of your . . . er . . . lovely clothes,” she finished lamely.

  “What a thrill!” gushed Janet. God, this woman was game for anything. “I’ve got a barn dance on Saturday to organize and Sunday, well, that’s a workday for us God botherers, as you know, but can you both come over on Monday and we’ll see what we can dig out. I’m not sure anything I have will be right, and of course it’ll all be far too big for you both, but with a couple of belts and a following wind . . .”

  Right, thought Maddy the following morning, Thursday. One problem sorted and just the small issue of honoring hundreds of mail-order requests and a company to establish. After another long day at Izzie’s, straining more centpertuis into the giant vats Izzie had tracked down at a catering wholesaler, she collected Will from a superheroes party at Ringford Community Center and limped home aching with stiffness and exhaustion. The evening was a trying one. Will was too fractious to do his school reading, and Florence flatly refused to put on her nightie, opting instead to go to bed in her pink ballet tutu. Too weary to care about either issue, she gave in and by the time she had finally settled them down enough to sleep, it was well past eight o’clock.

  She was drinking a glass of wine and pulling off bits of meat from a cold chicken in the fridge—too exhausted to bother cooking herself supper—when the phone rang.

  “Maddy, darling, it’s Peter.”

  “Oh hi,” said Maddy through a mouthful. “This is an unexpected pleasure—I didn’t knowMaman let you near the phone!”

  He laughed his deep, aristocratic laugh. “She’s gone to a charity fashion show with Josephine in town, so I have a lovely evening of peace and the crossword. Now listen—just a thought but I’m playing in a seniors’ golf match over the weekend, and I’m driving down tomorrow. Can I drop in on my way and steal a cup of coffee from you?”

  “Oh I’d love that. I might be up to my ears in beeswax, but so long as you don’t mind that. What time shall I expect you?”

  Peter’s big Mercedes pulled into the drive on the dot of eleven, as he had predicted. He really was an enigma, thought Maddy, as she watched him get out of the car in his yellow Pringle V-neck and golfing trousers. He was one of those constants in her life. A man of few words, solid, distant. At first she’d resented him for not being her real father, but he had simply taken her teenage moodiness, and later the arrogance of her twenties, on the chin. Then suddenly he would surprise her. Her wedding, for example, which had been out of this world, the check pressed into her hand at Christmas, and then this, a visit out of the blue. She suddenly felt intrigued.

  He gave her an awkward hug and pressed a huge bunch of yellow parrot tulips into her hands on the doorstep and, inviting him into the kitchen, she bustled about exclaiming how lovely they were and finding a suitable vase.

  “There’s a very odd smell in this house,” he said, bending his tall frame into a kitchen chair and taking Pasco onto his knee.

  “Oh that’s our secret ingredient! Not very appealing, is it? But the addition of a bit of lavender takes the edge off things.”

  “How’s it going? I keep seeing bits and pieces about you everywhere, and Giselle has even taken to tearing bits out when she sees them and sticking them in a file.”

  “It’s okay,” said Maddy hesitantly, putting a mug of coffee in front of him but out of Pasco’s reach. “The response has been really quite amazing, and Pru—you remember Pru Graves, the one who made a pass at Simon’s brother at our wedding?”

  “Did she ever find the rest of her clothes at the end of the party?”

  “Boy, she was drunk, wasn’t she? Well, she’s quite the businesswoman now, runs her own PR empire and is giving us her advice. She says that the response has been unprecedented and that we need to get ourselves sorted.” Maddy sat down opposite him with her coffee cradled in her hands. She was desperate for a fag, but had only allowed herself one so far this morning. “Honestly, Peter, you should see the response we’ve had. Come and look at this.” She extracted Pasco from his arms, before he smeared a jammy dodger into Peter’s pristine sweater, and led the way through to the study, throwing open the door dramatically.

  Peter laughed deeply at the envelopes piled haphazardly everywhere. “It looks like
Santa’s grotto in early December.” Pasco started whinging, desperate to wriggle out of her arms.

  By the time she came downstairs after putting Pasco down for a nap, Peter was sitting at the table again and had commandeered a piece of scrap paper from the sideboard.

  “This is what you need to do. You need an accountant.” He scribbled down the name Geoff Haynes on the paper. “Talk to this guy. I used to have dealings with him in the City, and he lives out this way now.” He put the number next to the name. “Next you want to open a business account, with a trading name. Geoff will tell you that you need to set up a limited company. He’ll also advise you on VAT, mail order, and so on. Next you need premises. There must be industrial units around Ringford. Call a commercial estate agent. Don’t Suggs and Travis have a branch here?” As he made each suggestion, he wrote it down.

  The list seemed to go on and on. Lawyers, professional indemnity, health and safety, staffing. By the second cup of coffee, Maddy had given up and lit another fag.

  “Oh I wish Simon was here. He’d have explained it all to me. He was so dynamic about this sort of thing.”

  Peter looked at her, aware that he was bamboozling her with details. Suddenly he put his hand on hers. “The irony is, my darling, that if Simon were here none of this would have happened. And for the first time in ages there is an excitement in your eyes—in fact, it might almost be the first time I’ve ever seen it.” Maddy smiled a little uncertainly. This was rather too honest.

  “You’ve been a lucky girl all your life. And for once you are doing something because you have to. Your husband was a wonderful man in many ways, but he was an idealist.” Maddy frowned. “Workflow Systems would never have been the hit he wanted, but still he went and sunk all his savings and everything you made on the house in London into it.”

  “How do you know?” Maddy finally got out.

  “Once a City man always a City man. I watched his progress with interest, though of course I wouldn’t have dreamed of wading in with advice. He was—” Peter struggled for a moment to find the most apt word “—impetuous, and I’m afraid to say it was a trait which never did much for his career.”

  “Oh, Peter, do I really want to hear this?”

  “No, maybe not. But I want you to realize that, in a way, he has given you a fantastic opportunity. The chance really to use that pretty sharp brain of yours, because I may be your old fool of a stepfather, but I have watched you grow up. I love you very much, and I know you better than you think.”

  Half an hour later, he heaved himself out of the chair and said his good-byes. “Darling, just call me if you want any help.” He hugged her really warmly this time. “I’ll do anything I can. It keeps the old brain ticking over and keeps me out of your mother’s way.”

  She watched him from the front door, as he got back into the car. What a surprise he was.

  “Oh, by the way,” she shouted as he wound down the window to wave, “where is your golf match? Do you have much further to go now?”

  He smiled, called, “Hertfordshire,” and pulled out of the gate.

  Chapter 11

  Priorities, priorities! Izzie and Maddy were redefining theirs by the minute. With the threat of another interview hanging over them, everything else faded into insignificance.

  “I had no idea we were going to be subjected to this kind of scrutiny,” Maddy complained, swigging strong coffee like it was going out of style. “These people will be wanting to go through my knicker drawer next. And as for giving up smoking! It’s the bloody limit! What other pleasures do I have in life?”

  “Well, speaking as someone who has gone through your knicker drawer, I can see that would fill a whole issue of Country Lifestyle. Thank goodness it’s only us they’re interested in—we won’t take more than a double-page spread.”

  It was Monday and they were due at Janet Grant’s house to find suitable outfits for the photo shoot. They decided to walk—a concession to clean living—and the crisp air nipped color into their cheeks and, less attractively, noses as they strode along. The whole journey took ages because Pasco insisted on jumping in every ice-covered puddle in his tiny red wellies.

  The drive leading up to the handsome rectory was overhung with branches that threatened to whip them in the face if they strayed too close to the relatively mud-free verges. They hopped along, avoiding the potholes as best they could, and passed by a large and elegant bay window, bedecked with stickers—CND, Amnesty, Greenpeace, Musicians’ Union—and little stained-glass panels depicting cats, lighthouses, irises. The effect was like looking through a kaleidoscope. Inside they could make out a large table with several lumpy shapes spread around it. One of the lumps detached itself and waved—Janet.

  “Come round to this door,” came a disembodied voice. “The front one sticks—we never use it.” Then Janet’s cheery, shiny face appeared round the corner of the house. “Come in, come in! Lovely to see you both. I’ve been looking out some bits and bobs.”

  In the gloomy house, the clutter and dust failed to disguise the beautiful proportions of the arched hallway, and despite jackets hung on every doorknob and over the tops of open doors, the beauty of the paneled wood was undisturbed. A broad curving staircase with slender balusters was so encumbered with piles of books, clothes, papers, and crockery that only a narrow path remained up the middle of the worn runner.

  Janet led the way into the kitchen—the room with the bay window and a strong smell of boiling marmalade. Here, added to the disorder, were two teenagers, a pseudogoth girl and a droopy, skateboard-type boy, with loose-fitting sweatshirt and enormously wide jeans. He reminded Izzie of a dripping candle. They eyed the visitors with silent hostility.

  “Tamasin and Oscar,” trilled Janet. “My younger two. Cosmo and Jamilla are away at uni.”

  Tamasin made a quick inventory of their clothes from the corner of her eye, Izzie noticed. Oscar blushed furiously and pulled a woolly hat down farther down. “Tammy and I had such fun this morning, sorting through my old things—”

  “All your things are old,” hissed Tamasin, glaring at her mother’s plump rear as she bent over to pick up a laundry basket from the flagged floor.

  “Well, at least I’m conserving the world’s resources, sweetheart. I know how important that is to you! So here you are. Take your pick.”

  “Mother, you can’t seriously be proposing to lend your hideous clothes to—”

  Izzie decided to take action and reached out to shake Tamasin’s unwilling hand before she realized what was happening. “I’m Izzie and this is Maddy. Lovely to meet you—and you, Oscar. Yes, your mother has kindly agreed to let us borrow some of her clothes for a magazine shoot we’re doing later on this week. They are perfect for the image we’re trying to project. I guess you can regard it as dressing up—rather like you’re doing with your goth look. Now, in ’78 on the King’s Road it was all about—”

  An astonishing transformation took place. Tamasin sat bolt upright, her black-lipsticked mouth open like a child’s and her eyes suddenly bright. “You were there? Like actually there?”

  Izzie decided to camp it up a bit. “Oh yes, naturally—we all were. Malcolm, Johnny, Jordan, Vivienne. You just bumped into people all the time. I remember one time with Jimmy Pursey in this changing room at Flip in Covent Garden. Well, I won’t go into that now . . .”

  Oscar looked puzzled but more animated. “Jordan?” he croaked. “The one with the—”

  “No, you cretin,” snapped Tamasin. “For God’s sake—we’re talking about important political gestures here. An empowered youth movement. Not some model with implants.” She turned back to Izzie. “Go on!”

  Izzie knew she’d caught her fish and began to reel it in. “Some other time, maybe. It’s so kind of you to help us again, Janet.” She smiled at the older woman. “This is the second time you’ve baled us out—and I’ve got a feeling it won’t be the last.”

  “Nonsense,” laughed Janet, looking unusually bashful. “It’s lovely
to be able to help and to get a chance at playing with these adorable little children of yours.” Pasco was already clamped to Janet’s sturdy leg and was starting to investigate the basket. “Now, sweetie, what do you think would suit Mummy in here?”

  Item after item, one scarcely different from another, was dragged out of the basket. All dung colored and shapeless, they could have passed for floor cloths, but Janet held them up like treasures. “Oh these dungarees!” She didn’t notice her daughter theatrically sticking her fingers down her throat. “They’re marvelous with this little cambric blouse. I’ve looked out some shoes too.”

  She gestured to an amazing array of what looked like leather Cornish pasties.

  “Cor! Have you contacted the Birkenstock museum? They’d pay a fortune for a collection like this!” Maddy goggled at the display that now decked the kitchen table and most of the floor. “I think we’ve struck gold.”

  Half an hour later, Maddy and Izzie packed their choices into recycled plastic bags. With real emotion, Maddy and Izzie hugged Janet good-bye, aware of the calculating, puzzled gaze of Tamasin, who was clearly incredulous that anyone could be more interested in her mother than in her. They were just struggling down the drive with the bags when Oscar loomed up beside them. “I’ll help you—if you like. I can carry them for you. You shouldn’t . . . Well, I’ll do it—if you want.”

  Maddy shot him a killer smile and he flushed violently. “Thanks, Oscar! You’re a darling.”

  On the way back to Maddy’s house, he gradually opened up. He played in a band, he wanted to take up surfing, he read science fiction, he was hoping to find some work during the holidays and at weekends (Izzie made a mental note of that fact, just in case)—every teenage cliché falling into place with a resounding thud. But underneath the veneer of apathy, he was as kind, thoughtful, and solid as they would have expected a son of Janet’s to be. He mumbled a good-bye to them at the door, suddenly embarrassed again, and shambled off home. Inside, and at Maddy’s insistence, they carefully laundered the clothes on a delicates wash, with loads of fabric conditioner, then put them to dry over the Aga.