knew the answer perfectly well. When Justin had first met Sergei – what, a year ago? – he’d made his feelings perfectly clear. He didn’t like him, didn’t trust him.
‘Amy? The bells?’ Sergei had stooped to look directly at her.
‘Pardon?’
‘I think I lost you somewhere between The Human League and Fad Gadget, did I not? I apologise.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry!’ The theatre bells rang again.
‘No need to be sorry!’ He waved his arms energetically. ‘But we must go back in: time for the second act!’
Monday morning, over a week later, and Amy rolled over in the otherwise empty bed, pushed the duvet covers away and forced herself to get up and pad over to the bathroom.
I am never going to go to the Isle of Wight Festival ever again as long as I live. I am never going out with Debbie and Jesminder ever again as long as I live.
Amy had just caught sight of her bleary, hungover face in her bathroom mirror.
Well, not until next year, anyway.
She shook her head painfully at the sorry reflection, and forced a dry-lipped smile. Thank goodness Justin had left yesterday to catch up with one of his bands in Manchester. Besides, he’d been a bit moody and preoccupied for most of the past week – the break from routine was bound to do him good. Now, all she had to do was drink lots of water, swallow some aspirin and get ready for work.
It was scorching outside, so after choosing the H&M wrap dress in shades of turquoise and lime green that looked, from a decent distance, not unlike a Pucci original – a sure-fire hangover-buster if ever there was one – Amy walked slowly and carefully to her shoe closet to pull out the Christian Louboutin wedges. They’d be perfect.
Thank goodness for my impeccable filing system, she thought to herself, pinpointing the Louboutin box immediately, thanks to the jazzy Polaroid on the outside.
But the box was empty.
Amy frowned. Had she kicked them under the bed one drunken evening? No, Amy was never, ever untidy where her shoes were concerned. Then, she remembered: perhaps Phyllis borrowed them after all. Still, she didn’t have time to ring her now. The white canvas mules from Russell & Bromley’s autumn sale would have to do instead.
But that box was empty as well. Crying out in dismay, Amy picked out box after box after box.
They were all empty.
Her shoes were gone.
For a few moments Amy couldn’t process the information her hands and eyes were relaying to her brain.
Now she was fighting for breath. She felt as though she might be sick, and she turned dizzily towards the bathroom. But the sensation passed and she swayed instead into the sitting room, where she sank onto the sofa and gave out a little wail. Then panic lent wings to her bleary feet and she shot up and raced back to the closet.
Take 2: My Hangover is Causing Hallucinations and My Shoes Will Be Here This Time.
They weren’t.
She had been robbed. It was the only explanation. Terrified, she lunged for the phone.
‘Justin?’ she sobbed into the receiver. ‘We’ve been burgled.’
There was silence on the other end of the line. Shock, probably.
‘Justin, are you there? Can you hear me?’
Then, at last, ‘I can hear you.’
‘My shoes are gone. Somebody’s taken them. Every single pair …’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve looked everywhere, but the boxes are all empty, and I’ve checked all round the flat and your stuff’s OK and it doesn’t seem like anything else has gone but I can’t be certain— What do you mean, you know?’
‘Abe, did you really think I wouldn’t find out?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I know everything.’
‘Wh … what do you mean?’
‘About your affair.’
‘My what?’
The phone reception wasn’t particularly brilliant. She must be hearing things. Amy pressed the receiver so close to her ear it hurt.
‘Remember Steve Roberts, my friend the arts journalist?’
‘Who?’
‘No, well, of course you wouldn’t, otherwise you might have been more careful last weekend at the Royal Opera House, mightn’t you? He saw everything, Abe.’
Now Amy really did feel that she was about to be sick.
‘You made quite a spectacle of yourself, by the sound of things.’
‘Oh, Justin, I—’
‘Don’t bother. Christ, you were seen groping the guy’s leg!’
‘What? Oh!’ With horror, Amy recalled her vigorous rubbing of Sergei’s thigh to get the wine off … ‘Yes, but no, but listen, that’s ridic—’
‘Save it, Abe. I rang Jesminder.’
Panic-stricken, Amy sank back onto the sofa. She may have told Justin that she was going to the pub with Jes that night, but she would never have dreamed of asking her friend to lie for her. Jes would have been baffled by a call from Justin, out of the blue.
‘She wasn’t half surprised to hear from me, given that she’d been out speed-dating that night, and not in the pub with you at all.’
‘I’m—’
‘Don’t worry, I covered for you. Made up some stupid story about a friend who was interested in going along and hung up. Then I went online and read all your emails.’
‘You did what?’
Now his anger was fizzing down the line. Amy didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that they weren’t doing this face to face. Glad, probably.
‘How?’
Then she heard him sigh. ‘Took me, oh, a whole minute and a half to guess your password. Maybe two? I started with “Manolo” and worked my way through every flaming shoe designer you’d ever mentioned until I hit on “Gina”. Bingo.’
‘Oh. Very good.’
‘Sergei, huh? I really should have known after that evening he came round for dinner that there was more to it than friendship.’ He spat the last word as though it tasted unpleasant.
‘Yes, but—’
‘I thought I was a bit on the old side for you but obviously that’s the way you like ’em.’
Amy began to cry. ‘Justin, will you stop? I am not having an affair!’
‘Sure, Abe, sure,’ Justin sneered. ‘Your emails to Sergei really show that, don’t they?’ He launched into an impersonation of a Russian accent: ‘Oh, my dear, I cannot wait until Saturday … meet me in the usual place … I’ve been thinking about you … For heaven’s sake!’
‘Justin, stop!’
‘I want you out, Amy.’
‘Listen to me!’
‘No!’
‘Justin, please!’
‘Just