at my collection, that these are somehow an expression of me. I think about the drag queen too, in her yellow dress with her dark skin and her black hair piled up high on her head, and the way she told me, ‘I do drag, dear. And when I’m in a pair of heels, there’s no one more woman than me.’ If shoes make us feel sexy and proud, then surely shoes are important. And maybe they’re not much to Glads, but they mean a lot to me.
After all, Kitten, what’s more important than the way we feel inside?
Chapter Five
Bang Goes My Saturday Girl
Saturday, 10 March
Dear Kitten,
I’m too wiped to say more than this: I had to fire Cheryl today. Bang goes my Saturday girl. She was in tears, begged me not to do it, but I’m a businesswoman, Kitten, and she left me no choice. She actually laughed – yes, laughed! – at a woman who was trying on shoes because apparently the pair of leopard-print mules made her look ‘like a platypus’. This is what the poor woman told me. And when I talked with Cheryl, she didn’t deny it. I had to call in to head office who, it turns out, couldn’t have been less interested. So there’s a new ad in the paper and more work for yours truly. I was meant to go out for dinner with Guy, but I’m going to cancel and go home to bed.
Sunday, 11 March
10.15 a.m.
Good morning, Kitten,
I woke this morning to the sound of church bells – a reminder that I don’t go to church like I’m meant to. My mother, God love her, would scream her head off if she knew I didn’t go to Mass every week. Anyway, maybe this lapsed Catholic guilt is what makes me restless while the church bells are ringing – so much so that I have to get up. So the first thing I saw today when I pulled back the curtains was the sunlit back patio with the garden chairs and table pulled back, and Janey Prince doing yoga on a purple mat, in the skimpiest pair of exercise shorts I’ve ever seen. And every time she folds her torso downwards, touching the ground, or walks her hands forward, keeping her bum in the air, I get a glimpse of those wonderfully tight buttocks, smooth as eggshells in the morning sun. After a few minutes, she looks up and sees me watching, so I throw open the window and offer her some juice, making it look like that was my plan. ‘No, I’m good,’ she calls. ‘You should come out here. It’s gorgeous.’ And her body language is all warm and open, so I take her up on the offer. Well, why not? Landlord–tenant bonding, and that.
It doesn’t take long before I’m making her a smoothie, and blending bananas, yoghurt and apple juice, which I end up delivering to the garden. ‘That’s so nice of you,’ she says, serious as ever, as she rises up from her sun salutation, but when I sit at the side of the garden and place my glass on the table, Janey comes and joins me. We get to talking about shoes, of course. I tell her about the tiger-print stilettos I’m saving up for, and she watches me closely, asking question after question: What makes them so special? When would I wear them? Would I ever use them in the bedroom?
‘In the bedroom?’ I ask, flushing. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I would.’
Janey sighs, leaning back, taking a sip of her smoothie. ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘I love shoes in the bedroom.’ Then she adds, ‘I’d love to work in a shoe shop. It’d be like seeing my dissertation in action.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Either way, I should get a job. Stop draining Mum and Dad’s money. It’s savings, you know.’
A switch inside me flicks on. ‘Well, are you interested in a job?’ I ask.
She sits up straight, eyes open, like a meerkat. ‘A job at Pussyfoot?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, ‘I need a Saturday girl, and pronto.’ She watches me, blue eyes growing large, as I fill her in on the job and pay, and as soon as I’ve got to the end of my spiel she says, ‘It sounds perfect. I can’t start this Saturday because I’ve got an appointment, but I can the week
After all, Kitten, what’s more important than the way we feel inside?
Chapter Five
Bang Goes My Saturday Girl
Saturday, 10 March
Dear Kitten,
I’m too wiped to say more than this: I had to fire Cheryl today. Bang goes my Saturday girl. She was in tears, begged me not to do it, but I’m a businesswoman, Kitten, and she left me no choice. She actually laughed – yes, laughed! – at a woman who was trying on shoes because apparently the pair of leopard-print mules made her look ‘like a platypus’. This is what the poor woman told me. And when I talked with Cheryl, she didn’t deny it. I had to call in to head office who, it turns out, couldn’t have been less interested. So there’s a new ad in the paper and more work for yours truly. I was meant to go out for dinner with Guy, but I’m going to cancel and go home to bed.
Sunday, 11 March
10.15 a.m.
Good morning, Kitten,
I woke this morning to the sound of church bells – a reminder that I don’t go to church like I’m meant to. My mother, God love her, would scream her head off if she knew I didn’t go to Mass every week. Anyway, maybe this lapsed Catholic guilt is what makes me restless while the church bells are ringing – so much so that I have to get up. So the first thing I saw today when I pulled back the curtains was the sunlit back patio with the garden chairs and table pulled back, and Janey Prince doing yoga on a purple mat, in the skimpiest pair of exercise shorts I’ve ever seen. And every time she folds her torso downwards, touching the ground, or walks her hands forward, keeping her bum in the air, I get a glimpse of those wonderfully tight buttocks, smooth as eggshells in the morning sun. After a few minutes, she looks up and sees me watching, so I throw open the window and offer her some juice, making it look like that was my plan. ‘No, I’m good,’ she calls. ‘You should come out here. It’s gorgeous.’ And her body language is all warm and open, so I take her up on the offer. Well, why not? Landlord–tenant bonding, and that.
It doesn’t take long before I’m making her a smoothie, and blending bananas, yoghurt and apple juice, which I end up delivering to the garden. ‘That’s so nice of you,’ she says, serious as ever, as she rises up from her sun salutation, but when I sit at the side of the garden and place my glass on the table, Janey comes and joins me. We get to talking about shoes, of course. I tell her about the tiger-print stilettos I’m saving up for, and she watches me closely, asking question after question: What makes them so special? When would I wear them? Would I ever use them in the bedroom?
‘In the bedroom?’ I ask, flushing. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I would.’
Janey sighs, leaning back, taking a sip of her smoothie. ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘I love shoes in the bedroom.’ Then she adds, ‘I’d love to work in a shoe shop. It’d be like seeing my dissertation in action.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Either way, I should get a job. Stop draining Mum and Dad’s money. It’s savings, you know.’
A switch inside me flicks on. ‘Well, are you interested in a job?’ I ask.
She sits up straight, eyes open, like a meerkat. ‘A job at Pussyfoot?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, ‘I need a Saturday girl, and pronto.’ She watches me, blue eyes growing large, as I fill her in on the job and pay, and as soon as I’ve got to the end of my spiel she says, ‘It sounds perfect. I can’t start this Saturday because I’ve got an appointment, but I can the week
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