drew back further, narrowed her eyes and raised a single eyebrow. An old trick, to be sure, but an absolute killer when it came to all things Justin.
‘I appear to be in the doghouse,’ he ventured. ‘Don’t tell me the colour’s run on the Marc Jacobs?’
Amy nodded.
‘Sheez, I hope it hasn’t faded out too much …’ He stopped when Amy whacked him. ‘Ooyah! OK, I apologise. I’m sorry I turned your shirt pink. I shall never go near the washing machine again.’
‘That’s not the solution I had in mind,’ Amy replied primly, stroking the fabric of her newly salmoned blouse. His flippancy was beginning to grate. ‘This blouse is ruined and I wanted to wear it this evening. Not to mention my knickers.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Justin smirked. ‘I was just about to mention those.’
‘Could you please at least pretend you’re concentrating on my crisis?’ Amy complained, capturing Justin’s wrists just as his hands began to travel down her body.
‘Spoilsport. OK, well, the blouse, let me think. Maybe I could dunk it in some bleach?’
It was impossible to tell if he was serious or not. ‘I’m sorry?’ Amy exclaimed. ‘Justin Campbell, did you just say the word “dunk” within twenty yards of my beautiful clothes? Would you ever dunk your precious threads in a bucket of Domestos?’
Bingo. An arrow to the heart. She may as well have asked: ‘Would you please jump off the balcony onto the concrete thirty feet below?’
Finally, he looked abashed. He freed his hands from her grip and laid them on her shoulders. ‘Come on, gorgeous, let me help you find something else to wear tonight. Tell you what, you can put on a fashion show, and I’ll be Simon Cowell …’
Amy awarded him a filthy look.
‘OK then, I’ll be Simon Cowell without the rude comments and dodgy strides.’ He led her through to the rumpled tranquillity of their bedroom, and flung open Amy’s double wardrobe doors.
It concealed an impressive collection. Not that much of it was particularly flash – Amy’s salary was definitely more High Street than Bond Street – but she’d made some impressive finds in Camden Market and Portobello Road over the past few years, and was secretly very proud of her bargain-hunting prowess. Justin, on the other hand, who could afford designer clothes a little more regularly than Amy’s once-in-a-blue-moon splurges, owned an immaculate capsule collection of casual work wear, which, for a straight bloke, was scarily tasteful.
‘Where is it you’re off to tonight again?’ he asked, stroking his stubble.
Amy turned and made a show of riffling through the rail. ‘Erm, just to the pub. With Jes. Shouldn’t be too late back.’ Slowly, guiltily, she risked a glance round. Thank goodness he wasn’t scrutinising her face; wasn’t aware of her lie.
Justin nodded. ‘OK, so no fancy gear, then?’
Colouring further, Amy breathed, ‘No, erm, I guess not. Nothing fancy.’
Before long she had tried on, and rejected, about seven different outfits. Silently she cursed her small frame. Come on! she snarled at the rail. I need elegant! Womanly! A bit of a chest! Nothing was right and Justin by now was lounging on the bed, unhelpful, mentally co-ordinating his own big night and paying little attention to her travails. Which should have been a blessing but, still, Amy found herself stung that he wasn’t being a bit more contrite, having just wrecked an entire drumful of her clothing.
‘Thanks, Justin, I’d never manage to get ready without you,’ she muttered sarcastically, tossing an Indian silk scarf towards the pile of discarded clothing and ‘missing’, draping it over Justin’s face instead.
‘Sorry, Abe, I was miles away.’ He leaped up and surged over to her clothing rail. ‘OK, pub night, yeah?’ He twisted his face. ‘Well, that’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?’ He plunged a hand into the wardrobe and pulled out her bootleg Miss Sixtys in triumph. ‘These!’ he beamed. Then he surged into the rail once more. ‘With this!’
Amy was aghast. Now he was holding out her old black polo-neck jumper.
‘And some trainers!’ he went on. ‘You’ve got some reasonably clean trainers in that shoe emporium of yours, haven’t you? Job done!’
‘I …’ Stumped, Amy did not know how to respond.
‘Well, what else would you wear to the pub?’ Justin went on. ‘You don’t want your fancy stuff coming back stinking of beer, do you?’
Amy had to concede his logic, even though she knew that his subtext was: ‘You, Amy Marsh, will go out tonight in the equivalent of a burka, and nobody will hit on you …’ however little he was prepared to admit it.
Still, in a last-minute save, she had her answer. ‘Justin, don’t be daft. I can’t go out in jeans and a jumper in June! I’ll melt into a puddle.’
‘But—’
‘Listen, you,’ Amy went on, firmly. ‘I am not Natasha, OK?’ She eased him towards her. ‘OK?’ she repeated, pulling him closer still. She experienced a momentary twinge of guilt – but really she was doing nothing wrong, not really.
‘I know,’ he mumbled, stooping and burying his face in her shoulder again.
‘I will not cheat on you, have you got that?’
‘Goddit,’ came from somewhere around her clavicle.
‘I’m going to wear something nice and cool, and when I come home, you can help me to take it off, OK?’
She felt his body relax. ‘Man, you make me do everything round here, don’t you?’ he growled, not unsexily.
Released, Amy swiftly slipped into her coral silk vest, and pulled the matching sheer chiffon blouse on top. The only thing to team with that was the chocolate suede Zara pencil skirt – despite the heat outside – so on it went, leaving only one more decision to be made.
The shoes.
Shoes entailed a short trip to the walk-in closet in the hall, the one most normal people use for suitcases and vacuum cleaners and ironing boards.
But this one was, as Justin had said, an emporium, a grotto, a shrine, a veritable sanctuary, a private working museum of all things footwear. It was Amy’s mother ship.
Amy collected shoes like other people collected photographs, or bundles of letters, or life lessons. Each pair had been chosen with care, with love, with reason, with style – and almost every pair could pinpoint something special in her past, her present, and maybe, just maybe, might hold out the promise of something in her future.
For these weren’t just shoe boxes for Amy; they were little treasure chests. Thirty-four of them to be precise. Yes, they contained wonderful leather smells, intricate stitching, supple straps, glorious heels … but the real treasure was the emotions, the memories, the turning-points that had somehow attached themselves to these tangible objects, making them such a vital part of Amy’s life.
Each box meticulously displayed either a digital printout picture or a glossy Polaroid photograph of its contents. There, look! There were the black Prada slingbacks – if only the suede skirt had been black, not brown, those would have been perfect for tonight! And there, the knee-length Gucci boots, bargain of the century from that nice Greek man in Portobello Road – briefly Amy longed for the evening to be cooler so that she could wear them …
A galaxy of beautiful colours and styles was showcased on these pictures, boasting of the treasure within each box. From pale peppermint to Moroccan amber, there was no footwear emergency that couldn’t be