by Ali Harris
‘David these are exquisite.’
He shrugs like he just doesn’t know anymore. ‘Dad was forever telling me to keep my designs simple and not too out there. “You’re not in London now!” he’d say.’ He exhales and I can see he’s mentally berating himself.
I continue looking around the workshop. It’s like I can imagine David working here – I can almost hear the noise of the workshop, smell the leather and visualise him and his wife, their heads bent over their work, desperately making more shoes as their money – and customers – frittered away. Just like the wife and the shoe maker in the famous Brothers Grimm fairytale. It makes me feel desperately sad – but also strangely excited.
In front of the pigeon holes is a medium sized trestle table with three steel framed, wooden backed machinists’ chairs. ‘My granddad replaced my great granddad’s benches with these in the 1930s. Granddad was not amused at the “newfangled designs!”’ David smiles sadly – as if he’s aware that every time he tells the story, it is fading into obscurity. ‘I’ve still got the other five chairs from when Dad used to have more assistants.’
‘Aren’t your shoes hand-stitched? The ones in the window had such intricate details.’ I ask, hoping he answers in the affirmative. “Hand-stitched” sounds so much better than “machine made”. But both are better than “factory made”.
He nods proudly. ‘Hand-stitched every single one – right down to the embellishments. I also do the pattern cutting, clicking, skiving, lasting – all of it by hand.’ He looks downcast for a moment. ‘It’s a dying art though. My wife has been nagging me for years to sell my designs off to someone who can run them off in a factory.’ He smiles sadly as he looks around. ‘Perhaps I should’ve listened.’
I can see there are clear areas designated around the room; his design area is to the left of the French windows, there’s a long wooden textile mill table in the centre of the room.
He walks over to it and picks up a cut-out of a pair of uppers. ‘This was what I was working on when our funds ran out,’ David says, showing me a piece of paper with a sketch of a glorious looking pair of peacock blue, satin stilettos with tiny crystals sewn over the toes. ‘There just didn’t seem any point in finishing them.’
‘But these are beautiful,’ I say. ‘I can imagine a glamorous MGM musical star from the 1950s wearing these, but they’re on-trend, too.’
‘Thanks,’ David smiles wistfully. ‘I was inspired by Doris Day’s outfit in Love Me or Leave Me. Helen Rose, what an amazing costume designer... Mum and Dad used to watch all the old films for inspiration – I was brought up on them.’ He gazes into the distance.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘no point moping about it. I’ve just got to move on.’
He continues with his tour. Under the window, to the left of the patio doors is an old drawing desk. The wall next to the desk, above the shoe trolleys, is lined with gloriously detailed pen and ink drawings, painted in glorious colours: fuschia, lime green, tangerine, and magenta. I yearn to have wallpaper in my flat of his designs, they are truly astounding.
Even without seeing them made up I can see the line, the balance and symmetry of the shoe, the silhouette is perfect.
An old wire in-tray sits on top of a filing cabinet, to one side of the desk.
‘Twenty, even fifteen years ago, this used to be stacked with orders,’ David explains with a pensive smile. ‘My dad had three assistants and someone to run the shop because he couldn’t cope with the demand. When I took over it was just me and Maria but we kept business ticking over nicely to begin with. How times change, eh?’ He laughs ruefully.
‘Where are your mum and dad now?’ I ask.
David tilts his head heavenward. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘You must miss them terribly.’
‘Not really,’ David says briskly and then catches sight of my horrified expression and laughs. ‘They’re upstairs – they’ve probably dozed off in front of the horse racing!’ He grins. ‘They’re quite a couple you know. Completely inseparable and have been for fifty years.’ He delves around his desk and pulls out an old black and white photo and hands it to me. He’s right. In the picture, a man – Gabriel Senior I presume – is standing with his arm thrown over the shoulder of a beautiful young woman. In stark contrast to him, she’s wearing a classic 1960s white crochet mini skirt and matching Peter Pan collar swing jacket. Her shoulder length hair is blow dried and sprayed in perfect place. She is looking out shyly from under her lashes, whereas Gabe is smiling roguishly, a younger, more carefree version of his own son. His teeth are gleaming white, his dark coal-like eyes confidently burning a hole through the lens. You can definitely see the Italian ancestry in them both. I glance at David who sighs and pins the photo back on the wall. ‘I thought I’d be able to look after them in their old age, it’s what they deserve, but now...’ He looks out into the garden. ‘I don’t even know how I’m going to look after my own family.’ Then he covers his eyes with his hand and I see his chin wobbling – a man truly broken by his misfortune. He composes himself and looks at me standing awkwardly, shifting on my feet, debating whether to comfort him or not.
‘I’m sorry, mate’ Sam says easily walking over to place a hand on his shoulder. ‘It must be really tough for you.’ I love how easy his genuine concern is, it puts everyone at ease, including David.
‘They’re devastated by what’s happened,’ he says sadly, ‘but they’ll never say I told you so. They’re convinced that something will happen to save the business. They keep saying we just have to wait for a little miracle.’ He snorts and for a moment, gruff David returns. ‘Some hope of that.’
‘Your designs are incredible, David,’ I say walking over to his wall display and running my fingers over them. There are styles of every description; stilettos, sandals, pumps, peep-toes, T–bars, and in every single colour tone imaginable.
‘No wedges?’ I enquire, glancing through the display.
He shakes his head. ‘Dad’s always said that the 70s was the decade shoe design forgot – and he’s right. That style should be consigned to the Shoe Room 101,’ his pause is punctuated with a sigh and he adds, ‘instead, Angelo’s has been.’
At that moment, I know exactly what I’m going to do.
‘David, I hope you don’t think me presumptuous but I’d like to make you an offer...’
He shakes his head. ‘It has been great meeting you, Evie, you’ve said some nice things that have really cheered me up. But I told you already, I’m not selling those shoes in the window. And I stand by what I said.’ I look at Sam who shrugs and nods his head towards the door as if suggesting we leave. But I’m not giving up that easily. No way.
‘I don’t want to buy them,’ I smile. ‘I’d like to borrow them’.
David looks at me warily and I take a deep breath before speaking again. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you I’m afraid. I’m not just a customer; I’m the creative director of a department store in London called Hardy’s. Do you know it?’
David’s dark eyes light up for a moment. ‘Hardy’s? Mum always bangs on about that place. Said it was the best shop in London, back in the day. The outfit she’s wearing in that picture was one she bought from there on her last secretary
salary, before she moved back to Tetbury to marry dad,’ he adds, his voice growing soft with love.
‘So you’ll let me borrow them?’ I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head decisively. ‘What’s the point?’ he says, his gruffness returning. ‘It’s not going to change anything for me or the business.’
‘That’s where I think you’re wrong,’ I smile. ‘I want to show them, and your designs, to my boss so I can place an order. I hope I’ll be able to get your business back on its feet by stocking your shoes at Hardy’s. What do you say?’ I throw my arms out excitedly and wait for his enthusiastically grateful reception.
But David just turns away. ‘Like dad always says, between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out,�
�� he mutters.
‘And like Marilyn Monroe said,’ I quickly retort, ‘give a girl the right pair of shoes and she – or rather, you – can conquer the world.’
David turns and looks at me in surprise. A shadow of a smile passes over his face but it is followed by a shake of his head
‘Oh come on, David!’ I admonish desperately. ‘I thought you’d be pleased! Surely this is the turnaround you’ve been hoping for?’
‘Oh Evie, you’re really naïve aren’t you,’ David says patronisingly. I fold my arms and stick my chin out. Sam comes and puts his arm around me.
‘Hey, come on now mate,’ Sam says gently, putting his arm around me. He knows how much I hate being called naïve. ‘She’s just trying to help. She’s really passionate about her work you know.’ I squeeze Sam’s hand. I’m so grateful for his support.
David holds his hands up. ‘Fair enough, I didn’t mean to be so dismissive, but she’s not the first person to come and offer me money to sell my designs exclusively to them.’ David sticks his goateed chin out proudly. ‘I’ve had Royal wedding dress designers ask me to close the shop and go into business with them making wedding shoes you know. One came in personally, bought a pair, and told me a particular high-profile Royal loved my designs-’
‘Who?’ I ask quickly, my heart beating wildly in excitement.
‘Sworn to secrecy.’ He taps his nose proudly. ‘But I have spotted them in my shoes on several occasions. ‘Other than that I’ve also had Paris, Milan and New York designers begging me to come and work for them. And I’ve turned them all down.’
I slump down on a nearby machinist chair. ‘Why?’
He throws his arms wide. ‘Because my life, my dad’s life – and my grandfather and great-grandfather’s before us – is this business, this shop. It’s everything I have here. It’s the name, it’s my memories, and it’s my family’s history. It’s this street, it’s everything I am and I am not willing to sell it out to the highest bidder who will most likely compromise my family’s history, designs and my artistic integrity, just for the sake of mass production.’
I shake my head vehemently. ‘But David, I wouldn’t. Hardy’s wouldn’t-’ but he holds up his hands, shakily I notice. I am guessing this is not an easy offer to reject. But his pride is too strong.
‘Now if you don’t mind,’ he says wearily. It’s been a pleasure and all that, but I really must get back to my wife and son. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to...’
‘Do it for them’ I say quietly, knowing that what I’m saying is a big risk. But it’s a risk I have to take to get through to him.
‘What?’ David turns slowly and looks at me. His mouth is pressed tightly shut, his eyes have darkened to soot black – just like in the picture he showed me of his father, and I see a spark of the arrogant, creative and assured young man I’m sure he was, before disillusionment and destruction befell him. ‘You can’t come in here and tell me–’
‘I understand you’re a proud, passionate man,’ I interrupt, ‘and I respect that completely. I also understand why you don’t want you to sell out your family business. But aren’t Maria and Gabe your family? Didn’t you just tell me it’s your job to provide for him? That you want to carry on the family legacy? What about leaving something for him? Or do you really want Angelo’s to fade into obscurity because of a couple of bad decisions?’ I know what I’ve said is a risk – I might have pushed him too far. But putting it all on the line is all I have left.
David stares at me but his eyes have misted over and I know I have his full attention. ‘Look,’ I say trying to keep the pleading tone from my voice. ‘I also have no intention of compromising your craftsmanship or artistic integrity. Why would I? It’s both those attributes that stopped me in my tracks when I saw your father’s shoes in the window and your designs in here.’
He grunts, which I know is his way of giving me permission to continue.
‘Once I show Mr Hardy these vintage shoes,’ I point at the window and then the wall in front of me, ‘and your new, modern-vintage designs, I’m going to propose that we pay you double your going rate for the first pair of shoes you make for us. If he’s happy with those, we’ll order more, in different styles.’ He opens his mouth to interrupt but I know what he’s going to say. ‘Mutually agreed, between the two of us, until we have a collection.’ Again, he goes to interrupt, but I’m on a
roll. I need to finish my pitch and not give him a chance to say no until he’s heard it all. ‘I have to have a say because I am more in touch with what sells in our store, but you’ll still have creative control.’ David closes his mouth and nods. ‘Once we have an entire collection of ten ladies shoes, in all sizes, we will unveil them at an exclusive event where we invite industry insiders, fashion editors and our most valued customers. But this collection of shoes will be strictly for display in the store – to try, not to buy.’ A frown crosses David’s face and I hurriedly continue my explanation. ‘You will be offering bespoke design at the event, advising the women on how to adapt each of the styles in your collection to best suit their shape, personality and needs. I think you demonstrated to me when I first came in just how brilliantly you’d do this!’ He smiles weakly. ‘I know this will create enough of a buzz for you to become our own personal bespoke shoe designer. No bulk orders, no selling out on your artistic integrity. We’d maximise the orders at a manageable monthly amount for you as well as giving them a realistic waiting time for their perfect couture shoe. Further down the line we may look into a ready-to-wear collection that would still be designed by you, but made elsewhere – in a factory, like your wife has always asked you to do. As well as Hardy’s, you could sell these in your shop, whilst you work on the bespoke shoes here in the workshop.’ I pause. ‘Come on David, you know it makes sense. Forget your pride – and think of your pension,’ I smile. ‘Angelo’s heart and soul will still be you. You’ll just have some help.’ I pause, cross my fingers behind my back and take a deep breath. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘I don’t want to move back to London...’ David says defensively. ‘My home is here now...’
‘You wouldn’t have to move!’ I cut in. ‘We could look into putting all the appointments on one or two days a month – on dates of your choosing. The consultations would be on the phone, or email. If our customers really wanted an appointment before the allotted date in London, they could even come and see you here, in your own workplace.’
There is a long, drawn out silence as David stares at me. He wrings his hands, looks around his beloved workshop. Finally he rubs his forehead. ‘I-I don’t know what to say...’ he begins.
I smile encouragingly, hoping I look more confident than I feel. ‘How about yes?’
‘I think...’ his sentence trails off and he gazes into the distance. I can see the machinery of his mind working my offer through in his head.
‘Yes?’ I say again, this time to prompt him to answer. I can’t bear the waiting any longer. ‘You think what?’
‘I think you must be an angel, Evie Taylor,’ he says at last.
‘Makes a change from an elf, I guess.’ He raises his eyebrows at me as he wipes his eyes, and Sam and I smile. ‘Long story,’ I laugh. ‘So I’ll take that as a yes?’
He turns away and walks out into the shop. I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far and he’s changed his mind but then he reappears with the precious pair of vintage shoes from the window. He pauses before handing them to me reverentially. With this exchange, I feel he is at once placing his faith and his family’s future in my hands.
‘I can’t wait to tell Maria,’ he says tearfully. ‘And Mum and Dad.’
Chapter 4
Monday 22nd July
9 days until the start of the new season
Hardy’s greets me seductively, like a movie star waiting for her close up, as I approach the store on my trusty bike. It is 7am but the sun is already lighting her up, casting long slithers of light down her sandy blonde façade and bounc
ing off her polished glass windows. Nothing seems to be able to weather her glow. I wish the same could be said of me. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept properly since Saturday. I woke up at 10pm that night with the detritus of our room service dinner still on our bed. Sam and I had decided against going out for dinner as I’d spent so long finessing details with David that Sam had left me to it. He said he was going for a walk and didn’t get back to our room till after 7pm. By then I’d already changed in to my PJ’s so room service and a film seemed the only way to go. Not exactly the romance-athon Sam and I had planned for our weekend away, but I like that we’re so relaxed together that we don’t feel any pressure. Anyway, I’d come to with the bedside lights still blazing and then immediately started thinking about David as Sam slept peacefully beside me. Not in that way. My mind was flooded with ideas; endless ways I could best present his designs to Rupert, and then imagining how we would display David’s shoes in the shop. I haven’t been so excited about a product for a long time. If ever.