Perversion Process by Miranda Forbes Page A

to have them. Now I could barely last a week without buying a pair, even if I didn‟t really want them. As soon as I knew Jake wasn‟t looking, I was buying. And the sick part was I couldn‟t even wear the shoes, for fear Jake would notice the new pair.
    Once or twice I had managed to convince him that the brand new beauties on my feet were an old pair he had simply forgotten about. Since I own so many shoes it worked. But the rest of my collection shoes sat idle in a hiding place in my closet, waiting for the day when we could move, and my shopping ban would be lifted.
    I heard him stirring in the other room, and I quickly threw the accessories back inside the bags and hid them under the bed. The bag had just made it out of sight when the door opened.
    „What are you hiding in here for? I made dinner.‟ His smile was so sweet, so kind. I felt my stomach turn over with the thought of lying to him once again.
    „Nothing. I was just going to get changed. I‟ll be right there.‟ He walked out leaving me to endure a fresh pall of guilt. Gingerly, I pulled a bag out from under the bed and opened a box. The purple Kenneth Cole‟s looked up at me fetchingly. I was soothed by their beauty, their intoxicating leather smell. They would look fabulous with my new black dress. Suddenly, my guilt was gone, and replaced by the warm feeling only new shoes can provide.
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    Placing them back in banishment, I headed to the kitchen and my sweet, sweet man.
    I knew I had to stop, had to rein myself in. Sooner or later, Jake was going to find out, and I knew I was going to be sorry then. I hadn‟t set out to hurt him, but when he found out (if he found out) what I had done, he would be hurt. I kept telling myself he would never have to know, as long as I stopped now, thinking I could hide what I already had. But, by this time, the whole top shelf of my closet and under the bed had been taken up by my clandestine purchases. I knew I was on the edge of being discovered.
    Walking to the train station after work, I strode past the row of shops I see every day. Keeping my eyes forward, I tried to not notice the entire display of boots in the front window. I tried to untie the knot in my stomach as the black leather knee high boots called out to me from behind the glass. They sat proud on a pedestal, high above the other merely average boots. These boots were special.
    I was fogging up the glass of the window. The boots seemed to be specially lit, shining in all their 40 per cent off glory.
    Then my hand was on the door. Then I was inside.
    I promised myself these would absolutely, definitely, without a doubt, be the very last pair of shoes I would buy for a long long time. The very last thing I would have to hide. The very, very last pair of boots I would ever need.
    This time, when I went home, I didn‟t bother trying to hide anything. I walked straight into the bedroom, fearless. Jake had called; he was working late, so I would have plenty of time to enjoy my boots before they had to go into hiding with the others. I changed my clothes and poured a glass of wine. Pulling down the boxes and bags, I started putting on the shoes, admiring them one pair at a 49

    time. I had missed them all so much.
    The last thing I did was slide the beautiful boots out of the box and slip them on. But as I stood in my underwear, staring into the closet, trying to find a prefect outfit to go with the boots, I heard the doorknob turn. My heart shot into my throat.
    Jake walked into the room, his eyes wide with disbelief. All around me were shoes, and belts and new outfits too, all out of hiding, all exposed. Jake looked at me, and then the shoes, and back again at me. Finally, he found his voice. „Would you like to tell me what the hell all this is? Where did it come from, Tara?‟
    I felt sick. The look on his face made me forget every good feeling buying the shoes had brought. I couldn‟t think of a single thing to say that would make it better. He