Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  “Smashing!” Izzie muttered. Feeling her hair starting to frizz uncontrollably in the rain, and offering a tea date as consolation, she urged the children through the throng around the school gate.

  “Let’s get home so you can see Daddy.”

  Charlie looked hopeful. “D’you think he’ll let me take some more pictures with his camera?”

  “Well, sweetie, cameras are very expensive. They’re not toys, you know. And no more close-ups of my backside, please.”

  Marcus had not returned by the time they got home. The answering machine, however, was flashing. Taking a deep breath, Izzie pressed the button.

  “Hi, Izzie! Maddy here. Thanks for your call. Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday—sodding plumber, driving me round the twist. Yeah—I’d love to come for lunch. I’ll be a bit tied up later in the week. Tomorrow any good?”

  The children came scampering downstairs when they heard the first yell. It took them a moment to get over their astonishment, then, whooping and shrieking, they too joined in the little dance Izzie was doing round and round the kitchen table.

  Maddy was pretty relaxed over the next few days. For the first time in ages she was feeling positive—the weather was warm for October and summer still hung in the air. The garden was tumbling with color, and they’d managed to eat the odd lunch outside on the mossy terrace. The house was really beginning to take shape—the kitchen was finished, and she’d even found a passably nice table lamp at the rather old-fashioned furniture shop in Ringford—but best of all, Izzie had proved to be what Maddy had so hoped she would be, fun and intelligent. They couldn’t be more different really. Izzie was sort of fluffy, with a mass of wild, dark hair and pale skin, and those amazing blue eyes. She wore combat trousers, tie-dyed T-shirts, denim jackets, and very ugly lace-up boots, clothes that Maddy wouldn’t have been seen dead in, but somehow the look worked for her. Effortless and eccentric. Maddy couldn’t quite imagine they had that much in common, but she just might become a friend. She cautiously let herself believe there was a chink of light in the long dismal tunnel here.

  It had started with Izzie’s lunch last week. Maddy had had a suspicion that she shouldn’t turn up late. It was one thing to keep La Templeton waiting, but something had warned her that she should not mess with the sensitivities of this rather vulnerable-looking woman with the slightly bobbled black cashmere sweater.

  She hadn’t really had time to imagine the sort of house Izzie would live in, but she was pretty confident that an executive box it wouldn’t be. When she’d called back the night before to give her instructions, Izzie had told her to turn into Hoxley and look out for a “tatty brick hovel with a far too narrow gateway.” When Maddy had pulled in, scraping the sides of the car down the unclipped hedge, somehow she hadn’t been surprised by the toy-strewn front garden and look of general chaos, but she recognized a pretty house when she saw one. An old-fashioned, deep-pink rose rambled around the casement windows, and mismatched terra-cotta tubs by the door overflowed with fading summer bedding plants.

  The overall picture of shabby chic, inside and out, seemed to fit with the little she knew about Izzie. The woman obviously had style and had certainly once had money: the bright modern paintings on the walls (painted by Izzie’s father, she learned later), the bookshelves heaving with intellectual stuff and the odd holiday read crammed in between, the heavy crewelwork curtains, mellow kilim rugs, unusual modern ceramics sitting on nice bits of oak furniture, and a baby grand piano. It had all the right ingredients, and blended with ease. But Maddy couldn’t help noticing the worn arms of the sofas and the walls scuffed and crying out for a fresh lick of paint. Things at chez Stock obviously weren’t as prosperous as they had been.

  Lunch in the cluttered, aqua-painted kitchen had been fun, once Izzie had a glass of Chablis inside her and had stopped flapping. She’d obviously faced a culinary crisis at the deli, and the kitchen table heaved under a variety of foods which would have better suited a buffet at a European Union trade delegation: the decanted contents of little plastic deli tubs containing tired-looking feta and olives, oily pasta salads, salami, more olives, and sun-dried tomatoes. Maddy freely admitted she was a food snob—it was either genetic or learned during her stays in Paris—and she had always loathed olives. Her heart had sunk. She was certain this wasn’t the sort of thing Izzie usually produced, and it had bothered her a bit that Izzie felt a ham sandwich wouldn’t have sufficed. But keen not to offend her hostess, she’d gamely forced down a couple of black olives and a shedload of French bread.

  The wine had loosened Izzie’s tongue, and she’d told Maddy about her life BC (before children). Izzie’s London was clearly very different from the one Maddy had inhabited—where the hell was Stoke Newington anyway?—and Maddy found herself uncharacteristically underplaying Milborne Place and the life they had led. What they were both agreed on, however, was the awfulness of La Templeton’s little coterie.

  “Blimey!” Izzie had shrieked, as she grappled with making two cups of coffee after lunch. “That lunch was hard going. I’ve had more laughs at a wake. I’ve got to admit they’re not exactly my type.” She’d suddenly looked a bit alarmed, as if she’d overstepped the social mark, so Maddy found herself agreeing quickly.

  “Mine neither! But at least I’d only met the women a couple of times at school. Why were you honored with an invite?”

  Izzie snorted, as she opened the fridge door for the milk. “I thought they’d let you know the moment my bum was out of the door. I got the wrong end of the stick and thought I had been invited for lunch, but when I saw the portion-controlled strawberry tarts, the penny dropped. I was only there to deliver the cake—that’s why Sue hustled me out. Miss Congeniality she isn’t!”

  Maddy had kept her face deadpan. “But she’s my new best friend, and I’m hoping Fiona’s going to give me the in on the gossip.” She’d watched with glee as Izzie’s face fell. “In fact, I’m having them all back to my place and I was hoping you’d join us.” She’d let a smile creep over her face. “I’ve just got to dig out my paper doilies.”

  “And don’t forget the quilted loo paper, love.” Izzie had giggled. “The amazing thing is Sue’s the style guru to her set—the Martha Stewart for the Stepford Wives.”

  “Stepford what?”

  “Oh, that’s one of Marcus’s nicknames—he comes up with something for everyone.”

  Maddy was intrigued. “And what’s mine?”

  Izzie had colored, so Maddy had quickly changed the subject by asking sheepishly if she could smoke. Izzie had dug out a saucer and hesitantly asked if she could bum one too. “I haven’t for years, but it’s just a poke in the eye to that lunch—thank God you didn’t light up there. Can you imagine the disgrace!

  “So,” Izzie had asked, trying not to cough as she coped with the novelty of the cigarette, “what brings you out to the frozen shires? Sue mentioned something about your husband setting up a new company.” Maddy had found herself telling Izzie about Simon’s dream of being the great IT entrepreneur and her horror at having to up sticks to the sticks. “He was pretty canny,” she’d said, laughing. “He put on a charm offensive and whisked me around the area, studiously playing up the good bits and omitting the bad. He’s always been good at that.”

  “How did you meet him?” Noticing Izzie had stubbed out her cigarette, half smoked, she had realized she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked her that. Once you have kids people tend to forget you were ever a single entity, and everyone she had met here was more interested in whether she was settling in or fishing for invitations to check out the house. It was fun to recall how she’d been introduced to him through a mutual friend, and how he’d wooed her in the old-fashioned way with tickets to Covent Garden and dinner at Quaglino’s. “Then he showed his true colors and took me to an England game at Twickenham. Well, I hadn’t a clue what was going on, except that it was very noisy and bloody cold. England lost and that was the end of my rugby-watching career,
thank God! We did the big white wedding in Richmond, where my mum lives, and then we procreated. . . . What about you and Marcus?” She’d hoped she’d got the name right.

  Izzie had seemed a bit dismissive somehow. “Oh, nothing so glamorous. I met him at an advertising party. I was working for Greville Dane, you know the children’s book publisher, as an editor, and a friend invited me along. Marcus was a copywriter for a big ad agency—Mitchell Baines McCormack—they did all those trendy jeans ads in the eighties with the big American cars. I thought he was a dish—all leather jacket and sparkly eyes, very witty and amusing—and he sort of swept me off my feet. Anyway we moved in together and did the eighties two-mortgage thing. We were far too trendy-lefty to get married or anything like that, but then I discovered I was pregnant with Charlie, and, well, I made an honest man of him!”

  Izzie had trailed off and had looked down into her coffee, smiling. Maddy, ashamed of her curiosity, had felt compelled to ask, “So why here then—did the agency move?”

  “Oh God no! Far too provincial.” She suddenly looked cautious, and Maddy was sorry she had asked. “No, there was a pretty aggressive takeover, and heads had to roll. In advertising you are only as good as your last campaign, and Marcus had had a lean period, so his head went on the block. It was all pretty hairy, so we decided to sell the house—and made a bit of a killing—and came here.”

  “Any sign of a job?” Maddy had winced at how different things were for her, with her big house being overhauled at huge cost by the builder, and here was Izzie clearly struggling. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone like this. It was a whole new experience.

  “Oh, he’s doing some freelance for an agency in Oxford, brochure writing, that sort of thing, but not quite so glamorous. And I’m still editing stuff here and there.” Izzie had suddenly seemed evasive and keen to lighten the tone. “So now you know why I don’t quite make the grade with Old Templeton. That and the fact that I don’t share her passion for plug-in air fresheners and coffee mornings.”

  They had both been gasping with laughter when the door had opened and Marcus Stock had come in. He had seemed surprised to find someone else there, but had kissed his wife and shaken Maddy’s hand.

  He was a good-looking man, and Maddy could understand the devotion with which Izzie had talked about him and his wonderful advertising career in London. He looked lean and fit, with keen eyes and thick, wavy brown hair down to his collar. But it was also clear that he was a bit drunk.

  “Bloody hell, it’s smoky in here,” he’d drawled. Izzie had jumped up and fussed around getting another mug for him.

  “Instant, darling?” he’d teased, draping an arm over Izzie’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t the real thing be a bit more suitable for our guest?” He’d turned to Maddy. “So how are you enjoying the frozen north?”

  “Oh, it’s grim but I can cope.”

  “Can’t say we miss London one bit, do we, darling?” He’d smiled warmly down at Izzie. “Moving here was the best thing that ever happened to us, wasn’t it?”

  Maddy wasn’t entirely sure that Izzie would concur, but she’d made some muttered agreement about how she thought she’d get used to it in time. Over coffee, Marcus had been witty and charming, dominating the conversation with little anecdotes about local life, and on the surface it had been all very jolly. But his arrival had put an end to the easy conversation between her and Izzie, who was now saying very little, and Maddy felt vaguely disappointed. Finishing her coffee, she had looked at her watch, and lied that she had to collect the dry cleaning before she got the children. But she had given Izzie a parting hug with a warmth she really meant.

  “Thanks, that was fun. Let’s meet in town for coffee soon. Have you got a mobile? Here’s my number. Let’s meet after the school drop-off one morning.”

  Over the next couple of days she had been tied up sorting out the electrician and the plumber, who had managed to chip one of the new C. P. Hart basins. Simon hadn’t come home until very late on either night—she’d given up and chucked his dinner in the bin—and he’d seemed distracted and even snappy when she’d tried to share her domestic crises with him.

  “God, darling, I don’t know,” he’d said rather brusquely, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Get the ruddy man to pay for a new basin.” Maddy was confused. Even on the most hectic days in the City, when the markets were teetering on the brink of Armageddon, he’d manage to find something amusing about the day and come home and regale her with it. He was always positive, taking her in his arms and kissing her hair. “Who cares what’s happening, my darling? It’s only money and someone else’s at that!”

  Maddy had put his mood down to the pressures of running his own business, assured herself it would all be fine as usual, put it out of her head, and cracked on with the house. The following Wednesday she had packed off Colette and Pasco to the local toddler group—run by Janet Grant, the vicar’s wife, and rather gruesomely called Ragamuffins—and treated herself to a trip to Burford. What pleased Maddy’s sensibilities most about this agonizingly bijou Cotswold town was that the shops sold antiques as good as any she would find up Kensington Church Street or on the King’s Road but at less ludicrously inflated prices. Burford was okay. It had kudos. It reassured her that there was civilization only a few miles away.

  She had felt a bit sick with guilt as she’d looked in the rearview mirror at the two rather delicious garden urns in the back of the car. She’d paid for them with the credit card as quick as she could to somehow lessen the pain—even her unfailingly generous husband would flinch if she came clean about how much they had been—but she’d felt pretty sure that if she positioned them somewhere fairly discreet in the garden, he wouldn’t notice them for a while.

  Feeling elated the previous morning, she’d called Izzie first thing before heading off to school, and they’d met for coffee in town. Now as she drove to collect Will from school—thankfully it was Friday and she had a couple of days’ break from the tedious trip—she thought about the morning they had spent together. Had she handled it right? Over coffee at Costa’s—well, you could smoke in there—Izzie had bemoaned her paltry wardrobe and Maddy had persuaded her to come shopping. Acutely aware that Izzie’s budget was probably pretty tight, Maddy had employed all her tact, and her unswerving eye for a pseudodesigner bargain, and was rather chuffed that she’d managed to find just the thing in Libra on the High Street.

  Libra exuded the superior atmosphere of a provincial boutique that is very generously bringing designer fashion to the masses, but its pristine chatelaine, who had a face like a prison warder in makeup, was smart enough to notice Maddy straight away. Izzie hung back—Maddy suspected that she had never set foot in the place before—but Maddy brushed aside the woman’s obsequious overtures, put on her best sod-you face, and headed straight for the sale racks, where, in among appliquéd T-shirts and casual slacks for the golf club, she had dug out a pair of gorgeous wide-legged woolen trousers and a powder-blue angora jumper. Izzie had taken some persuading to take off her jeans and T-shirt but, despite the rather dubious Italian “designer” label, the clothes had fitted her beautifully. When she’d looked self-consciously in the mirror, her twinkly blue eyes had lit up.

  “Honestly, Maddy, you are a genius. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was Armani!”

  Maddy had resisted the urge to investigate the real Armani on the new season rails, and the two of them had left the shop, Izzie gripping her new purchases with the excitement of a child, and had given Maddy a big hug of thanks.

  Maddy smiled to herself now. Yes, it had been fun. Will chatted all the way home about his day. He seemed to have made a friend called Sam whom he wanted to invite home to play, and despite Will’s alarming caveat that Sam be allowed to bring his Power Ranger suit with him and that he couldn’t eat dairy, Maddy felt happy enough with the world to promise that she would ring Sam’s mother on Monday and put a date in the diary.

  It wasn’t until much later, after she had un
loaded him and the weekend shopping from the car and gone to her bag to get out a fag, that she saw she had a voice-mail message on her mobile. It was Simon’s secretary.

  “Mrs. Hoare, it’s Lillian. Mr. Hoare has asked me to let you know that he will be late leaving tonight, as he has to put in a call to the States. Er . . . I wonder if you could call me back if you get a chance. I’m off a bit early, so if you get this before four could you possibly ring?” Maddy looked at the clock. It was four thirty. Damn, she’d missed her. And he’d be late again. She’d been asleep when he got home last night, and left, with a brief kiss on her hair, first thing this morning.

  Colette had asked for the weekend off to see friends in London and Maddy had concurred—she didn’t ask often and the poor girl needed her fix of urban life too—so she promptly forgot about Lillian’s unusual call as she ran headlong into the maelstrom of the children’s baths, story reading, and bed. With Florence and Pasco tucked up, she poured herself a glass of wine and curled up with Will on the sofa: he engrossed in a Star Wars video and she casting a casual eye over the paper. She only ever read the headlines, page three (just as saucy in the broadsheets in their own rather Tory way), and the features section.

  As she closed the paper, bored by an interview with an aging rock star about his battle with depression, a small heading on the business pages caught her eye. “Americans pull out of IT deal.” There were only a few lines:

  Regus, the leading U.S. venture capitalist, has had cold feet about backing a major software development initiative with Workflow Systems. Insiders say the Oxford-based company, which was to be floated on the AIM, is unlikely to survive the blow.

  Will felt his mother’s body stiffen beside him. “What’s the matter, Mum?” Maddy smiled reassuringly, but her stomach lurched with nausea and panic. “Just some rubbish in the paper. Come on, little man, off to bed.”