Some might say that I don’t need another pair of heeled black shoes with a to-die-for heel. Particularly when, to the untrained eye, there are several similar pairs fighting for space under my bed.
Others might point out that the success of a first date is never to do with the quality of footwear. That you’re just as likely to meet the love of your life in 99p flip-flops as in glorious sling-backs that cost . . . well, let’s not dwell on the cost. Let’s dwell instead on Rich, with whom I’m going on a date this evening.The gorgeous, intelligent, chisel-jawed, tight-arsed Rich. That way, you’ll understand about the shoes – and why, despite my strict rule that a first date will never result in sex, I have removed all trace of body hair so that my bikini area now resembles that of a French porn star. Just in case.The to-die-for shoes and enthusiastic depilation are but elements of a routine with which I’ve been a stranger to for the past eleven months.It was then that I was thrust back onto the dating scene with the eye-opening jolt of someone who’d spent the previous six years in a relationship.A ‘steady’ relationship that turned out to be not as steady as I’d thought when I found out that my beloved was sleeping with his sister’s best friend. In my fucking bed.Still, being newly-single has its benefits, as my friend Amy never tires of telling me – though admittedly, she’s a nymphomaniac. “Think of the fun you’ll have looking for the next one,” she points out. “And. . . think of the shoes!”I have to admit, the shoes always had their appeal. Trouble is, after a few years of not dating I’m starting to realise that I have no idea what to do. In fact, judging by how few first dates I’ve ever had that have resulted in second ones, I’m positively abysmal.It’s not that I can’t get people to go out with me, it’s what happens afterwards that’s the problem – the date itself.Amy says I’m trying too hard. My other friend Katie insists I’ve just been unlucky. And Pavan – my roommate – tells me I should be myself. Let them get to know The Real Me.Which is one of the reasons that I worry for him, because why would anyone want to go out with The Real Me? The Real Me doesn’t have a glass of sparkling water between every alcoholic drink, has never read anything by Hemingway, hardly ever washes her make-up brushes and doesn’t help out at a centre for the homeless each weekend.That, obviously, is not the Me on show tonight as I prepare to meet Rich, whom I encountered last week at a networking event in Leeds. Even allowing for the fact that most of our conversation was about PR strategies for professional services, the chemistry was electrifying.No, the Me on show tonight is the well-read, witty, charming Me, the one whose incredible shoes would make Sarah Jessica Parker look like Susan Boyle, pre-makeover. The me I want to be.It’s a mild evening for March and I have a good feeling about tonight. My long curled hair is satisfyingly bouncy (which it should be, given I put in rollers four hours ago) and, after a drastic post-Christmas diet, my size twelve SilkFred dress just about fits.As long as I don’t breathe out.I see Rich the second I walk into the bar. It’s one of my favourite venues – a spectacular former barn converted into the most stylish drinking hole imaginable. It’s dimly-lit and incredibly warm, so much so that I feel beads of sweat prick on my forehead almost immediately.I straighten my back and head towards him, imagining how Marilyn Monroe might enter a room. My feet stay firmly inside the new shoes instead of slipping up and down like they did before I followed a clever trick I saw on TikTok– to stick a blob of Blu-Tack under my heels.At least, it’s my own version of the trick: I couldn’t lay my hands on any Blu-Tack but I did find an old pack of HubbaBubba in the back of the kitchen drawer. After a few chews it stuck fast to the heels of my stockings and is working a treat.Note that the Me on show tonight is wearing stockings, as opposed to the more practical but considerably less sexy tights that The Real Me usually wears.He looks up and smiles. It’s a heart-stopping smile, a wide, sparkly-eyed, face-lit-up sort of smile. But I don’t go to pieces, oh no. Instead, I allow the subtle trace of recognition to dance fleetingly across my face. “Hello Emma. You look beautiful,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Amazing shoes.”I have to physically restrain myself from falling to my knees and declaring my undying love for this man and his exquisite taste in footwear. Instead, I slide onto the stool and reveal a flicker of a smile. “Thank you. You’ve obviously got good taste.”I suddenly realise how that sounds. “I mean about the shoes,” I add hastily.“Um, not about me. Looking beautiful, I mean. Although, obviously, that’s not such a bad thing either. Clearly. But, you know . . . I’m not an ego-maniac or anything. Ha!” He looks bemused and concerned.“What can I get you to drink?” he asks, to my relief.“White wine, please.” I regain my composure. “A Chenin Blanc.”“Coming right up,” he smiles. Feeling decidedly hot – a sensation exacerbated by the presence of the ravishing Rich– I slip off the backs of my shoes and place my heels on the footrest of my stool. There’s no way I’m letting the over-zealous heating in this place make my feet puff up like they do anywhere more temperate than Blackpool.As Rich turns to catch the attention of the barman I surreptitiously scrutinise his features. He is stunning. I am so punching above my weight. “You Still busy at work?” he asks.“More than usual,” I tell him brightly. “But I can’t complain about that.”“Definitely not. Not when you’ve won all the best clients in the area.” Ha ha! He thinks I’m a high-flyer!“I’ve been lucky,” I say modestly. “But what about you? How’s life at Barclays?”We spend the next half-hour engaged in a tantalising mixture of work-talk (which I don’t mind as he seems to think I’m a genius) and lovely, flirty, pulse-quickening first-date talk.As he stands to whisk me to the restaurant across the road, I couldn’t feel more optimistic if he’d started musing about venues for our first child’s christening.“Shall we?” I take his hand and prepare to glide gracefully to his side.But as I go to stand, I suddenly realise that I’m not going anywhere. I realise that . . . oh shit . . . I’m stuck.Clamping both heels on the footrest of my stool was not a good move – not when there’s a big blob of bright blue gum on each. I try to pull the right one away but it stretches and stretches and, despite my efforts to disengage, it continues stretching until it’s flapping round my shins like a ridiculously-proportioned Hoover-belt.“Ermm, um, sorry . . . give me a sec.” With blazing cheeks, I plonk my head between my knees and attempt to untangle myself.“Erm, are you all right?” he asks, peering down in bewilderment. “Can I help?”“Absolutely not… no thank you.” I cry, dementedly winding up reams of gum and attempting to pick the remainder from my sole.“It’s just a little, um . . . shoe issue. I’ll have it sorted in no time.”“Please, let me help,” he says gallantly, reaching down.“No!” I snap, grabbing my left ankle and yanking it upwards as if wrenching a plunger out of the U-bend of a toilet.“Really, if you’d just let me help, I—““No!” I shriek, rather louder than intended.“I mean, look . . . I’ve got it now,” I declare triumphantly as I successfully unstick my foot and send the stool clattering to the floor, and follow it head first. I perform an ungraceful commando roll and bounce back onto my knees. As my knees hit the floor I put out my hands to catch myself and hear my dress rip at the seems. And if life wasn’t already bad enough I fart too. I cough in an attempt to hide the sound.“Sorry about that.” I straighten myself out as my eyes dart around the floor, attempting to locate my right shoe.“No problem,” he mutters, frowning as he bends down. He hands me my new louis vuittons’ with a disconcerting look.“Ohh, and thanks for that too,” I smile weakly, seizing it from his hand and shoving it on my foot. But there’s something about his expression that tells me I’ve blown it again. That, new shoes or no new shoes, nothing will rescue me now.“I have an important meeting tomorrow that I need to prepare for. Shall I call you a taxi?” He asks.“No, it’s okay. I planned to meet some of the girls after this,” I tell him brightly. My stomach sinking at another failed date.*** CHAPTER TRIGGER WARNING *** “It was a disaster of epic proportions,” I declare. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” says Katie. “I’m not. By the end of the night, the look on his face was exactly the same as Daniel’s”The girls look at me blankly. “The accountant from before Christmas,” I add. “Which one was he again?” Pavan asks. “You know – the one who looked like a skinny Jason Mamoa.” Pavan shakes her head, still baffled. “The one whose nose I broke doing my “YMCA” routine,” I say reluctantly. “Ah. Well, The Village People always have had a lot to answer for.” Despite the quip, I can’t help noticing Pavan’s sympathetic look. It is a look with which I am tragically familiar. “Do you think you’re going to see him again?” She ventures. “Not unless he is run over, suffers a catastrophic head injury and he has a bout of amnesia and forgets what a moron he went out with.” “It can’t just have been the thing with the shoes, surely,” Katie says. “I mean, the thing with the shoes so
* * * One Week Later * * * “Let me get your bags,” I say as Scott struggles to get out of the car. His leg is in pot and he’s struggling to use his crutches. “I’ll help,” Pavan says. “You really don’t need to do this, Miss Emma,” he says shyly.“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve considered you a friend for a long time and you also saved my life. It’s time for me to step up and be the friend you need. I should have done it sooner,” I tell him honestly.“I wouldn’t have accepted it before,” he replies truthfully.I know I’ll be eternally grateful and indebted to Scott for several lifetimes. Once Pavan leaves, I tell Scott I’m going for a shower. I spend what feels like hours sitting in the bath under the torrent of water as my tears escape. This is what I’ve resorted to since it happened, crying in the shower and letting the water wash my tears away. “Miss Emma, can we talk?” Scott says as he taps on the bathroom door.“I’ll just be a minute,” I tell him and turn off the shower
* * * One Year Later * * * * * * Emma’s POV * * * A year after starting at Herman Brown and I’ve just finished a huge career changing presentation. Something I never thought I’d have achieved two years ago after he who must not be named almost ruined my life. I thought I’d never be happy again, but today I feel life is finally going in the right direction. “How do you think it went?” I’m buzzing with adrenalin after one of my most important presentations ever. “I can’t believe you have to ask,” replies Danielle, perching on my desk. “The panel couldn’t have been more convinced if we’d bent down and given each of them a deep throat blow job.”I suppress a giggle and skim through the notes I scribbled during the meeting. I’ve worked for weeks on this pitch but if we win the client – a massive sports brand firm – it’ll be worth it. “You weren’t thrown by the question about contacts in the China?” I fret. “What’s with the lack of self-belief, Emma?” says Danielle, stuffing her red ha
My careers now on track, my life is moving forward and I’m order to stop Mark continuing to affect my life, I’ve decided it’s time to jump back on the dating wagon. But I haven’t practiced any self love since that night and my waistline shows it. My love-life will never get off the ground unless I endeavour to become thinner. Scott looks at me as if I am certifiably insane when I share this conclusion with him. I then explain that there is some logic behind the theory and I am not simply some Hello magazine-reading idiot who is obsessed with the size of her thighs, at which he points out that I love Hello magazine and spend more time contemplating the circumference of my legs than most people do inhaling oxygen. My argument is this: first, had I the bum of a seventeen-year-old gymnast champion and a washboard stomach that made Kate Hudson look like a pork-pie addict, I would radiate a level of self-assurance that would be irresistibly attractive. Secondly, were I possessed of such
Do you know those apartments in Changing Rooms with elegant soft furnishings, hand-made decorative items and room schemes that showcase striking colours with clean lines? Well, our apartment is nothing like those. I’d like it to be. It’s just never worked out like that, despite my considerable efforts. When we moved in, fired up with creative zeal, I attempted in earnest to recreate such a look. Only, when I painted the hall a deep shade of mustard, it looked brown. So I painted over it with ‘Blush’ and that looked brown too. I followed with a ‘Corn’, a ‘Yellow Meadow’ and an ‘Olive’, but the most appealing shade I ever managed just looked like the unwashed shorts of a dirty Boy Scout. When Scott pointed out that the walls mightn’t withstand much more, I went for broke and painted it ‘Duck Egg’. Every time I walk in now, I feel as if I’m being committed to a prison cell. Still, we’ve learned to live with it. The other reason our apartment is some way off those in Changing Rooms is
I’m so excited about Project Scott, I’m almost tempted to bring proceedings forward and rearrange my date with Jake tonight. But Dani’s out anyway, with a wealthy older man she’s been seeing recently, and Katie and her boyfriend Ryan have gone to the cinema. Besides, we couldn’t do it properly on a Friday night.Instead, we have the whole of tomorrow in which to hit the shops and begin Scott’s reinvention. Consequently, I have stuck to Plan A and arrived at the shabby-but-trendy bar where Jake and I arranged to meet. Judging by how sexy he looks when he walks in, it was the right decision.“Emma, how are you?” He smiles as he approaches me at the bar. Jake is a lecturer in Social Studies (whatever that means), so as well as having a bum I could keep under observation all day, he’s a chatty man too. He’s wearing fitted jeans, vintage trainers and a T-shirt showing off biceps that could have been inflated with a tyre pump. I’ve dressed in what could be the first thing to fall out of my
Dani looks as if she’s bitten a rotten apple and washed it down with lighter fluid. “That’s very weird and creepy.”She, Katie and I have hit the shops with Scott to begin his makeover. “I mean it,” continues Dani, frenziedly rifling through a rail of sweaters. “One phone call from his mother would have been suspicious. You deserve a medal to have lasted as long as you did.”I shrug. “I definitely won’t be seeing him again, that’s for sure.”“It just seems so unfair,” sighs Katie.“But, it wasn’t just the thing with his mother,” I complain. “I couldn’t understand a bloody word he was saying. And that was when he was talking about the plays I’ve seen. When he got onto Roger Vitrac and Power to the Children he could have been speaking Cantonese.”“Oh hell,” says Katie, concerned. “Don’t worry, Emma. I’m sure you’ve just been unlucky.”This is what she says after all my dates, but I don’t point it out. Besides, unfettered optimism must come easily when you’ve got a love-life like Katie’s
Scott isn’t the type of customer that the award winning and terrifyingly on trend salon GQ is used to. Even I feel intimidated, and unlike Scott, I haven’t got hair that could be home to several endangered species of wild bugs. Everyone here looks so perfect that they must get up at the crack of dawn just to style themselves. I only make it two steps into the salon before I dig out my beanie hat and pull it on my head, making sure to tuck in any loose strands so nobody can see them. It isn’t even that cold outside, despite it being early February, and it’s even warmer in the salon. But without it on, I have a sudden fear that I may be mistaken for a homeless person. After spending the whole morning shopping, Dani and Katie have left Scott in my capable hands for this part of the process. We plan to regroup this evening. We’re shown to the back of the salon, where we sit and wait like obedient school children outside the headmistresses office. “Aww honey. There’s no point trying to