by Jenny Harper
They were sitting in the garden room at the cottage. Molly was wearing jeans and an old fleece with battered Uggs for warmth. Lexie sported thick woolly socks, purple leggings and a shapeless, multicoloured sweater, which fell baggily half way down her thighs. Her hair was in need of a colour refresh and her skin was pale. Outside, the glorious brilliance of the snow had disappeared, leaving only a few small patches where it had been out of the sun. The estate gardeners had not yet attended to this end of the walled garden, so the flowerbeds were full of yellowing leaves , pallid knots and dead stems. It was the end of February.
Lexie had been watching Molly’s aimless actions for five minutes, but she could contain her irritation no longer. She leapt out of her chair, snatched the brush out of Molly’s hand, and tossed it back onto her brush tray.
‘Will you stop doing that!’
‘Sor-ry.’
Lexie flopped back down onto the chair and swung her legs over its bulky arm.
Molly sat bolt upright. Her mouth twisted to one side. She clasped her hands, twiddled her thumbs, and looked at Lexie pointedly.
Lexie glared at her then started to laugh.
‘No, it’s me who’s sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m like a bear with a sore head.’
‘Is it too early to drink?’
Lexie considered the question.
‘Well, you can look at it two ways – it’s only four o’clock, so yes, it’s too early. On the other hand, the sun is well over the yardarm as my granny used to say, so it’s definitely okay to down something that’ll see us to supper time. White or red?’
‘Don’t mind. Either.’
Lexie disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Medoc and two glasses.
‘I don’t do this when I’m on my own,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’
‘Nor me.’
They surveyed each other across full glasses.
‘This isn’t a good habit, is it?’ Molly said.
‘You’ve got to have some pleasures in life.’
‘Don’t you want the cottage?’
‘Yes I do. No, no I don’t. Honestly, Moll, I don’t know. The trouble is I don’t know what I want to do next. I suppose I need to find another gallery to show the exhibition if I’m to do it on a bigger scale – in London, ideally.’
‘So what’s stopping you?’
‘I don’t know.’ She wriggled restlessly. ‘The exhibition was great, I just can’t decide what to do next.’
Molly said, laughing, ‘Maybe you need a different kind of excitement. Like a new man in your life.’
‘Ha ha. Anyway, look who’s talking.’
Molly went quiet.
Lexie looked at her more sharply and said, ‘It’s okay to move on, Moll. You can’t change what happened, and I won’t think any the less of you for looking for love.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Who said it would be easy? Just maybe try dipping your toe in the water again.’
Molly drank deeply and they lapsed into silence again. Eventually, Molly said,
‘Have you seen the way Patrick Mulgrew looks at you? He’s really interested. I’m astonished you two didn’t get together ages ago.’
Lexie flushed.
‘Lex? Are you hiding something from me?’
‘No, nothing. Anyway,’ she tried to divert Molly, ‘I was furious about him helping me, you know I was.’
‘Sure. But I haven’t worked out why.’
‘Really? You know I was determined to do everything by myself after he was so awful to me about the last exhibition.’
‘Okay, so he lost his temper, but you’ve never given him a chance since then, have you? You want me to move on – why don’t you move on yourself? Talk to him. For goodness’ sake, you said to me once, “Patrick never forgives and never forgets”. Don’t you think you were wrong?’
Lexie was about to argue when she remembered how Patrick had come to tell her about Pavel’s death.
My darling, it’s Pavel.
He’d held her in his arms and she’d felt safe. And he’d shown his faith in her art – hadn’t he found a way of making sure her exhibition went ahead? If it hadn’t been for Cora’s slip she would never have known of his involvement.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ she said in a small voice.
Outside, darkness had fallen. The only light came from a scented candle that Lexie had lit an hour ago and placed in the centre of the cherrywood coffee table. Fig and vanilla, the label said. Lexie couldn’t make up her mind if she loved the smell or loathed it. Right now, it was overpoweringly cloying. Across the table, it was no longer possible to see the colour of Molly’s eyes, all she could see was the flickering flame of the candle shining back at her.
‘Tell you what,’ Molly said, ‘I’ll think about finding another man if you’ll make it up with Patrick. Deal?’
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘Sometimes you have to be ruthless to be successful. Deal?’
‘Do you seriously mean you won’t if I don’t?’
‘Yup. Deal?’
Lexie sighed. ‘Where’s this going to lead us, Molly?’
‘Deal?’
‘You’re so bloody persistent. I suppose so.’
They leaned forward and chinked glasses across the flame.
‘Ow,’ Lexie said, snatching her hand away from the heat, ‘that hurt.’
Molly grinned. ‘No gain without pain.’
Lexie composed herself to call Patrick. Three times she lifted the phone and started to dial. Each time, she cut the call before it even started, mainly because she had no idea what to say. Anyway, wasn’t it up to him to get in touch first?
A couple of days after her conversation with Molly, her mobile rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Alexa Gordon? My name is Anthony Spartan and I’m calling from The Spartan Gallery in London.’
A London gallery? Calling her?
‘What can I do for you, Mr Spartan?’
‘I happened to be in Edinburgh visiting my brother a couple of weeks ago. He dragged me kicking and protesting to a little place in Hailesbank to see an exhibition he swore I’d like.’
‘The Maker’s Mark?’
‘There was an exhibition called “In My Shoes”. Your work.’
‘What did you think of it?’
Anthony Spartan laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t like it. I wanted to talk about the possibility of a follow-on exhibition. How do you feel about that?’
How did she feel? It was what she had dreamed of. Twenty minutes later, she rang off, her head spinning.
She had barely had time to recover from the surprise, when her mobile rang again. This time it was a gallery in Manchester. The owner had had reports from a friend who’d seen the exhibition and she was also interested. Lexie was stunned.
She settled down with Martha’s shoe notes and set to work to expand them. Starting with her mother was an easy choice.
1: Ladies’ court shoe, black patent leather, slightly pointed toe, simple bow embellishment, slim 6-inch heel. Donated by Martha Gordon. Shoes tell stories. This shoe says everything about Martha Gordon’s lifestyle as a legal secretary. They are smart, but practical, designed to give comfort throughout a working day, while still being stylish. Martha Gordon left her job after her son was killed in an accident. For her, they tell the story of a life she has lost.
The next one was obvious, too. Her father.
2: Black leather traditional lace-ups by Clark’s. Donor, Tom Gordon, Hailesbank. There’s nothing remarkable about these shoes, except that they personify the story of Tom Gordon, my father. They are plain, inexpensive, serviceable, worn and a little old-fashioned. They make me choke with pride and admiration for all they stand for: the way my father plugged on doggedly, determined to hold his family together, whatever the personal cost.
While she was in family mode, she might as well carry on with Jamie’s boots.
3
: Rugby boots. Tough leather studded boots, worn by Jamie Gordon, lock for the Hailesbank Hawks. Donor, the Gordon family, Hailesbank. Jamie Gordon was a man like many other young men. He loved to play sport, see his friends, work hard, enjoy life to the full. He played a pivotal role in the rugby team he was passionate about, just as he was pivotal in so many people’s lives. Sadly, Jamie lost his life in a car accident, aged just 28. The boots seem to embody his energy, spirit and talent.
Here Lexie stopped.
Something was missing – but what?
The nagging feeling had hung around her for weeks. Now the answer came to her. She had told Jamie’s story and her parent’s stories, but what was her story? What shoes would she choose to tell the tale of her own journey through life?
Maybe I’m too young. I haven’t travelled far enough to have a story.
No, that’s a cop out. Concentrate.
What about the old plimsolls she used to live in as a student, the ones she’d worn week in, week out when she’d been learning her craft? Not good enough – she was hardly the same person who wore those plimsolls.
So what else?
After a while she abandoned the exercise in disgust. She hadn’t got enough of a story, that was the truth of it. Yet if she hadn’t got a story, who was she?
Patrick stared at the computer screen and swore in frustration. He wasn’t used to struggling with this kind of task because it was one he would normally delegate – but this was one job he had to do himself.
Victoria popped her head round his office door.
‘Problem? Anything I can do to help?’
Patrick toggled to a spreadsheet screen, feeling like a furtive skiving employee rather than the boss.
‘No thanks, Victoria. I’m fine.’
Victoria smiled, but didn’t go away. She shifted from one foot to another as if she wanted to say something but didn’t have the courage.
‘Something on your mind?’
‘I wondered – would you mind if I left sharp at five today?’
She was embarrassed and pleased at the same time.
‘Only I’m going to a concert tonight with Alec and I need to get home and change first.’
Patrick grinned. ‘New boyfriend?’
‘Quite new, yes.’
‘Off you go then.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure. Scarper.’
Victoria scuttled off. The brief episode in New York, he was relieved to see, had been put aside.
He returned to the challenge in hand. How the hell did Lexie put together these book things so effortlessly? She could do a whole layout in an hour, she’d told him once. His plan was so simple, surely he should be able to do the job in minutes?
The trouble was that the main picture – a Manolo Blahnik stiletto – was decorated with ribbons and buttons, and flowers. He had photographed it against a white sheet, but there still seemed to be a shadow around the image. He fussed with filters and effects and something called transparency, but he could still see crumples in the sheet behind it.
Was this a good idea? He was tempted to forget it. After all, he’d bought the damn things for her, surely all he needed to do was hand them over?
It had been an icy March and a four-in-the-morning start – pure hell normally, pure magic that day. Just watching Lexie’s face as he’d told her where they were going had been worth it, and it got better as her excitement had mounted and she’d viewed the auction lots for the first time. He’d known a dozen dealers at the auction, including a specialist from Cardiff who’d owed him a favour.
‘Fran,’ he’d said urgently as Lexie was on the other side of the auction room working her way through the catalogue, ‘I need your help.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I need you to bid for Lot 165 – but you mustn’t come in until after my companion has dropped out.’
As predicted, the bidding had been fast and competitive, but it had been Fran’s paddle that had gone up as the hammer had come down.
Patrick clicked the mouse yet again and the image turned dark purple. Hopeless. Sighing, he accepted the inevitability of imperfection and used the best picture he had. If folds and wrinkles could be seen, maybe she would think they were part of the design. Anyway, at least the book was beginning to take shape.
He’d planned to give the shoes to Lexie after her exhibition opened but, a few days after the auction, Jamie Gordon’s car had hit a tree so they’d stayed in the box in the bottom of his wardrobe, peered at occasionally and sought after by the V&A, but otherwise mostly forgotten.
Now they would be his peace offering, a token of his love – but they mustn’t be just something he could buy because he was wealthy. They had to tell a story. Wasn’t that what Lexie’s exhibition was about? It was the story that would win her, not the shoes.
He laboured on, but it was another couple of hours before he pressed the ‘send’ button, and the book finally shot down the line to the printer.
Open yourself to her, Cora had said, be honest. It’s going to take that to win her.
When it came back, so long as the quality was acceptable, he’d take the book round to Lexie.
Lexie opened the door to the garden where a brave sun drilled through the cloud and promised a rare winter treat – warmth.
She returned to the kitchen and picked up one of her chairs. She’d sit on the small paved area outside and think. She couldn’t decide about the offers for a follow-up exhibition and longed to discuss them with Molly, but that was out of the question because Molly wanted her to discuss such matters with Patrick. Half an hour of early spring warmth and a hot coffee might bring the answer.
She closed her eyes. Last night she’d seen Cameron for the first time in weeks. He’d had his arm round a new girl, a pneumatic brunette with silver hoop earrings and aubergine lipstick. She hadn’t been jealous, quite the contrary – she was grateful that Cameron had been able to switch his attentions so speedily.
In the distance there was the sound of a car on gravel and the slam of a door. The gardeners must be arriving to start clearing the winter debris. She had perhaps just a few more minutes of peace.
The idea that shoes tell stories was what she’d based her whole life on for the past months – but still she had no idea what her own story was and the failure to pin it down irked her.
There was one image she couldn’t get out of her mind – white 1950s sandals lying entangled with highly polished, hand-made Church’s lace-ups. Her own shoes and Patrick’s, dropped beside the bed one scorching hot evening in her room in Edinburgh. She could hear the chatter of late-night drinkers spilling onto the pavement from the wine bar underneath the flat. Patrick’s naked body beside her, and the overwhelming sense of joy that permeated her whole being.
There was a heavy thump inside the cottage. Lexie’s eyes snapped open.
Why did we ever fall out? How could I have been so stupid?
She got up reluctantly to investigate the cause of the noise. In any case, the sun had disappeared again.
Someone had posted a parcel through her letterbox, carefully wrapped in thick cream paper and secured with a crimson ribbon. It must have been hand-delivered. She picked it up, slipped a finger inside the cream gift tag and teased it open.
‘Lexie,’ it said, ‘please read me.’
She tugged at the ribbon and the bow loosened at once. The parcel had been wrapped with great care and a thick wad of tissue protected the contents. Intrigued, she folded it back to reveal a book. It was upside down, so that all she could see was a plain red cover.
She turned it over and gasped.
Lexie’s Shoes read the title. And the picture, crisp in every glorious, tiny detail, from the scarlet of the towering stilettos to the flowers fashioned from feathers, sequins and silk brocade, showed the Manolo Blahniks she’d once tried to buy.
She ran her fingers over the image, pausing at the artful ribbon details, stopping at the exquisitely arranged scraps of lace. S
he read the title again.
Lexie’s Shoes ?
Her hands trembling, she opened the book. On the first page all that appeared was a tiny portion of the tip of one shoe, and one single word, Lexie.
She turned to the next page.
The shoe had crept further into view, but there were no words.
Mystified, she leafed through the book, turning to the next page, then the next, faster and faster. Each page was completely blank, except for the steady journey of the shoe, which tiptoed further and further onto each page.
She was almost at the end. Finally, one whole, glorious shoe was visible – but still there was nothing else. No words, nothing.
She turned the last page.
There were six words. That was all.
My Life Is Empty Without You.
Lexie laid the book on the kitchen table and looked out.
Patrick was leaning against his car and staring at the cottage. She had never seen him looking so anxious. Her heart pounded, she couldn’t stop looking at his face. Why was he just standing there? At last she realised that he was holding something … a cardboard box … and on the top of the box was a pair of perfect red stilettos. The Manolo Blahniks!
How had he come by them? Did it matter? The only things that mattered were that he was here and that he had made the beautiful red stilettos relate the story of his love.
Catalogue number 37: Prince Charming – if the shoe fits...
Lexie opened the door of the cottage and walked into the sunshine.
THE END
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2015
ISBN 9781783753963
Copyright © Jenny Harper 2015
The right of Jenny Harper to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
