Charlie Glass's Slippers (22 page)

The best thing is that, although they are indeed very serious Fashion People, they also happen to be extremely nice. I don’t know if this is because they’re such recent graduates and therefore haven’t had time to become obnoxious yet, or if it has something to do with the fact that both of them seem to regard Dad as some kind of incredible blend of Elvis Presley, Mahatma Gandhi, and those scientists who discovered the double-helix structure of DNA (when I first brought them up here to the stockroom, Suzy actually had to rummage in her bag for a tissue to blot eyes that had suddenly become all teary), but whatever the reason, we’re getting on like a house on fire.

“Oh, my God,” Leo is saying now, in the kind of voice you usually only use when you’re visiting a cathedral. He’s holding up a cobalt-blue Mary Jane in an awestruck manner. “Suze, have you seen? This was from the spring/summer collection in eighty-four!”

“Oh, my
God
,” Suzy echoes. “Didn’t Madonna wear a pair when she came to London to perform ‘Borderline’ on Top of the Pops?”

They both turn to me, eagerly awaiting confirmation of this.

“Er, well, I wasn’t actually born then . . .”

“Oh, no, neither were we!” Leo says (unnecessarily, seeing as they both look about fourteen years old). “But we both wrote our third-year dissertations on Elroy Glass—Suze focused on the seventies and I did the eighties—so we tend to get a bit overexcited when we see the
actual pieces
in the flesh, as it were.”

“You wrote dissertations on Dad?” I feel a lovely warm glow of pride—even more so than I usually do when people
say nice things about Dad’s work, because for the first time in my life I’m contributing to it. “You should have gotten in touch when you were writing them! Dad was probably too ill at that point to give interviews or anything, but you could have come over here and had a closer look at the shoes.”

“We tried.” Suzy looks rather embarrassed. “I mean, we wrote to Diana Forbes-Wilkinson—a couple of times, actually—but we never heard back. And then we tried the head of PR, but her assistant said she was too busy to deal with us . . .”

“I’m really sorry.” I’m embarrassed now, on Diana and Gaby’s behalf. “I hope it’s better late than never.”

“Oh,
Jesus
, yes.” Leo has put down the Mary Jane and is unwrapping the tissue paper from a stunning sparkly sandal, not unlike the ones of Mum’s that I wore to Jay’s party. “Oooooh, now this is exactly the kind of thing we were thinking about having in the collection. Proper Elroy Glass disco-inspired sandals. Nobody else ever did them as well as him.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” I beam at Leo. “What I’d really like, actually, is for you two to come up with sketches for a capsule collection of maybe six pairs, ones that we all feel really represent the brand from the old days, and then I can present the designs to the directors when we meet for the AGM in a few weeks’ time. Is that something you think you could work towards?”

This is Leo’s cue to need a tissue. He actually can’t speak for a moment, leading Suzy to reply for both of them. “Oh, Charlie, we’d . . . well, we might not
actually
kill for the chance, but we’d come awfully close!”

“That’s fantastic. Now, the most important three things about the Glass Slippers brand are glamour, comfort, and affordability.” God—this sounds even better when I say it aloud, rather than just scribbled in my notes. “You guys don’t need to worry too much about the affordability part—that’s going to be up to me and Maggie—but as you’re coming up with the
designs, I’d really like you to try to maximize both the glamour and the comfort factors . . .”

My mobile suddenly rings. It’s balanced on top of one of the shoe crates, so I can see that it’s Lucy calling.

Shit
—I haven’t had the chance to call her back. After she called when I was with Martin at the café, she called again—twice—while I was opening up the store for Leo and Suzy.

“Sorry, guys—would you mind if I quickly took this?”

Leo and Suzy shake their heads, and since I suspect they’d be happy up here going through Dad’s shoes until kingdom come, I don’t feel guilty about taking Lucy’s call and heading for the hallway outside the stockroom.

“Drainpipe?” Lucy demands, when I answer her call. “
Drainpipe?
”

“Sorry, how on earth do you—”

“I called Ferdy this morning, just to give him a heads-up on where I’ve gotten to with the bookings for his parents’ anniversary cruise. And wouldn’t you know it, he just so happened to give me a heads-up on how he spent his Friday night. Which, you know, it might have been nice if someone else had given me instead.”

She sounds annoyed. I can’t really blame her—I’d be a bit put out if she’d snogged a gorgeous man, escaped from him down a drainpipe, and then left me to find out all about it from a third party instead—but it’s not like I’ve been deliberately trying to avoid telling her. I pull the stockroom door closed for a bit more privacy and lower my voice.

“Sorry, Luce, but I’ve been manic all day! And in fairness, I did text you on Sunday asking you to call me . . .”

“You did. And I tried you as soon as I had some time to myself, without . . .” She breaks off before adding the word
Pal
. “But all you said in your text was
Call when you get a chance.
You didn’t say
Call me urgently because I have incredible news about my snogathon with a hot billionaire . . .
”

“He’s not a billionaire!”

“Aha! But you don’t deny you had a snogathon! And what was all that Ferdy was telling me about a torn dress? He didn’t rip your mum’s Yves Saint Laurent off you, did he?”

“No, Ferdy didn’t rip anything off me.”

“I meant,” she says, sounding confused now as well as annoyed, “Jay Broderick.”

“Oh!” Of course. “No, he didn’t rip Mum’s dress. I wasn’t wearing it, for starters . . .”

“Charlotte Aibhilin Glass!”

“No, no, I wasn’t naked, either!” I say hastily, realizing she’s got the wrong end of the stick. I lower my voice again and go down a few more stairs. “Robyn conned me into wearing this too-small Valentino dress of hers, and then Jay had set up this really low sofa in this private roof garden, where he took me for champagne . . .”

“Oh, my
God
!” She’s so excited at this new information that she’s forgotten to sound annoyed. “He took you off for private champagne?”

“Yes. And it was so wonderful, Luce, I can’t even describe it.”

“I bet! Okay, you have to meet me after work for a quick drink. I want all the details.”

“Sorry, Luce, I really can’t tonight. I have to go for a really long run . . .”

“
Run?
”

“Yes, Luce, a run. So that I don’t burst out of any more clothes when . . .” Now I can’t keep the excitement out of my own voice. “. . .when I go out with Jay again tomorrow night.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. It goes on so long that I assume I’ve accidentally switched it off or something. “Lucy?”

“You have to give me a minute, Charlie.” She’s sounding pretty breathless herself. “I need this to sink in. You’re going on a
second date
with Jay Broderick?”

“Is it a second date? I’m not sure the party counts as a first date. I mean, seeing as I pulled my whole eensy-weensy spider act and all that.”

“When are you going? Where’s he taking you?” she starts firing at me. “And what are you wearing? Because if you’re planning on giving that H&M monstrosity another airing . . .”

“I’m not. And I thought I’d just go casual. Jeans and a blazer.”

“And sexy lingerie! You have to be prepared, Charlie, for all eventualities.”

“Not
that
eventuality.” I can feel myself getting warmer.

“Oh, come on. What if instead of taking you to a restaurant, he drives you to a helipad, and whisks you off for a night in Paris? The Hotel George Cinq, I bet, and a huge suite, all covered with red rose petals . . .”

“That’s not going to happen! And even if it does, who’s to say that means I have to”—I lower my voice to a proper whisper this time—“to get down to my undies?”

“Charlie, I know you haven’t had sex in a while, but surely you remember that it does kind of help if you get down to your undies?”

“I’m not going to have sex with him!” I hiss.

“Well, that’s just stupid,” Lucy carries on. “What else are you going to do in a Paris hotel room?”

“I’m not going to a Paris hotel room! That’s only happening in your head!”

“I bet he’s amazing in bed,” Lucy is saying now, rather dreamily, and making me hope she’s gone to a quiet corner of the office for privacy herself. “I bet he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly how long to do it for . . .
I’d
have no problem thinking of stuff to do in a hotel room in Paris with Jay Broderick, let me tell you. Oh, not that I’ve got any complaints about my sex life, by the way!” she adds hastily, clearly realizing she might have sounded too wistful by half. “No complaints at all.
And anyway, even if I
did
—have any complaints, that is—Pal is really sensitive to my needs. I mean, okay, it’s a bit of a faff to actually go through the whole complaints procedure . . .”

Am I hearing this wrong, or has Lucy actually just admitted that Pal runs their sex life like the John Lewis customer services department?

“Um, complaints procedure?”

“Yes, it’s just this thing we do, since we moved in together, if either one of us has something about the other that’s getting on our nerves . . .” She’s sounding slightly sheepish. “Not just sex stuff. Like, Pal finds it annoying when I don’t wipe the shower down with the squeegee thing. And he doesn’t like it when I forget to switch the coffee machine off after I’ve used it. Writing it down in black-and-white is a much better way to bring it up than having a blazing row. I mean, Pal’s parents do it, too. And their marriage has lasted forty-one years.”

The thought of forty-one years with Pal makes me feel so suddenly and profoundly depressed that I have to actually sit down on one of the bare wooden steps.

“Luce,” I hear myself blurt, “isn’t there anything Pal does that gets up your nose?”

“What?”

“Well, you said he hates it when you don’t use the squeegee, or turn off the coffee machine. And he told me at your party that he can’t trust you with red wine because you’re so clumsy . . . and I’m just wondering if you ever tell him he does anything annoying.”

“I tell him plenty of things that annoy me.”

“Really? It just seems, sometimes, like . . .”

“What are you saying, Charlie? That I’m a wimp about confrontation?” Her tone is pissy again, the way it was right at the start of this phone call. Actually, it’s more than pissy. She sounds downright annoyed. “Because I don’t think I’m a wimp about confrontation at all, as it happens. I was perfectly
happy to call you just now, wasn’t I, and tell you how offended I was that you didn’t bother to share the details of Saturday night with me? I’m quite happy letting you know that I’m actually quite pissed off about that.”

“That’s not what I mean. Anyway, I did try to get hold of you! But I’ve just been too—”

“Too busy. Yeah. I know.”

“It’s true! I met this fashion stylist at the party, and she gave me this idea about maybe selling Dad’s vintage shoes, and I’ve been talking to Olly about the legal side, and I’m actually meeting with some designers today. Right now, in fact. Look, I should probably get back to them, and—”

“Oh, well, then I’m amazed you’ve had the time to take my call at all! What with stylists and designers and heaven knows what other glamorous people you’re chatting to.”

There’s an awkward silence, which—for some unfathomable reason—I choose to bring to an end by mumbling, “Olly’s not glamorous.”

There’s another awkward silence.

“Fair point,” she says, after a moment.

“Luce, look, I really am sorry . . .”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. Forget about it. I need to go now anyway.”

I don’t want to end the conversation still unsure if things are okay between us. We don’t usually bicker like this. In fact, the last time we had a proper bicker was probably about two decades ago, when we seriously fell out over ownership issues surrounding a Backstreet Boys poster.

“Can I call you tomorrow? Before I go out with Jay Broderick, I mean?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Charlie. Obviously you can call me before you go out with Jay Broderick. But only if you promise to call me right afterwards, too.”

“Of course I will, Luce.”

“And I warn you, I’m going to want every detail. Rose petals and all.”

“Rose petals and all,” I say, because I don’t want to get into another quarrel about the likelihood of every aspect of her Jay Broderick Fantasy Date coming true.

“And death-defying escapes down drainpipes?”

“And death-defying escapes down drainpipes.”

“Good. Can’t wait. Speak tomorrow, Charlie.”

I head back to the stockroom, but before I can carry on where I left off with Leo and Suzy, my phone bleeps with a text message. It’s from Lucy.

Btw I haven’t forgotten. I know what the date is today. But I know you prefer not to mark it. Just saying am here if you need me. Lx

Which is lovely, but inaccurate. It’s not that I prefer not to mark the day of Mum’s death. It’s just that all these years, I’ve preferred to do it alone.

• • •

The meeting with Leo and Suzy lasts well into the afternoon, and by the time I’ve tidied the stockroom and headed back home to change into my loathsome running gear, it’s already six thirty.

This doesn’t give me quite enough time for my loathsome run as I’d like. Especially since I’m trying out a new route today.

Well. It’s more of a one-off route, really.

Half an hour after I set off, I reach my destination: St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery, all the way up in Kensal Green. The same as every year, on this date, on Christmas Day afternoon, and on Mum’s birthday, I buy a half-dozen pink roses from the man outside the gate, then head into the cemetery itself.

It’s only when I’m actually here, making my way through all the headstones, that I start to regret my decision to run here. When I made the plan, I had this silly notion that I wanted to show Mum the new me: bouncy, perky Charlie, full of beans and vim and vigor.