Making It Up as I Go Along

by Marian Keyes

  All well and good, except she wanted me to accompany her and the thing is, I can’t ABIDE designer outlets.

  Yes, yes, I know most people love them and they embark with an empty suitcase and return with a lovely new winter coat, three pairs of boots, eight DVF dresses, a leather skirt, a Prada handbag and Tom Ford’s phone number, all for a fiver. But there’s something wrong with me – I am Bargain Repellent. I never find anything decent in the sales and more than once I’ve purchased something at full price, only to observe helplessly, five short minutes later, the price being slashed in half. (A subsection of being Bargain Repellent is that I’m the worst haggler on this earth and often end up paying more than the opening figure from the vendor. I don’t know what happens – figures bamboozle me and I’ve obviously got an eejity sort of a face …)

  Nevertheless, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t bought stuff at designer outlets. I’ve always felt that I sort of had to, that even if I didn’t like the stuff, because it was a third of the original price it was my duty to make a purchase and on my return to gather my loved ones around and display the spoils of my trip and instigate a game where I’d tell them the original price of the items, as opposed to the vastly reduced ones I actually paid, and we’d add up all the money I’d ‘saved’.

  However, although I’ve put in time in the likes of Bicester Village, Cheshire Oaks and Kildare Village, I can honestly say – even though I’m given to exaggeration – I can honestly say that I have never worn any of the garments I bought on those trips.

  The way I see it, there’s a reason they never sold in the first place – basically because they’re horrible or they’ve got three arms or no neck-hole or they’re a strange mustardy-khaki-ey colour that you wouldn’t dress your worst enemy in. Quite literally, the only bargain that I’ve ever got in a designer outlet was two turquoise Le Creuset saucepans in Kildare Village that were 40 per cent less than the price in Brown Thomas. But that, my amigos, is it.

  So I wasn’t enthused about going to the designer outlet with Caitríona. To make matters worse, I had actually visited the self-same Italian designer outlet three years earlier and found it to be so dispiriting that I renamed it ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’.

  But she’s my sister and I love her and Himself was commandeered to do the driving so I thought, ‘Ah shur, I’ll go along for the drive and I can sit in the car and read my book while she’s looking at all the rubbish.’ But I had to make my position clear and I said to her, ‘You do know that “Designer Outlet” is an anagram of “Shite for Goms”?’

  So off we went, Himself driving, and it transpired that Caitríona wasn’t just looking for a day out, but that she was on a mission – to buy a pair of Hogan sneakers. (Hogan, for those of you who mightn’t know, is a US company, the ‘little sister’ of Tod’s, and it does shoes and bags and that sort of thing.) Yes, Caitríona was obsessing about Hogan sneakers. They were all the go in New York, so she told me, but they were very pricey and she was certain that she’d get them for half nothing at the Hogan shop in the outlet.

  And you know, I must admit that my interest was piqued. If these yokes were ‘all the go’ in New York, surely I should be paying attention? So when we arrived at the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, instead of sitting in the car like I’d said I was going to do, I decided to go along for a gawk.

  Caitríona had hopped out before Himself had even finished parking the car and she was walking very fast and she had to pause to consult the map of the place but her leg was jigging and she was clearly coming up on an adrenalin surge and she was muttering, ‘It’s this way, it’s somewhere over here,’ and then she shouted, ‘There it is!’ and broke into a run.

  Sure enough, there was the Hogan shop and myself and Himself hurried in Caitríona’s wake and by the time we caught up with her she was already down the back of the shop where there were MILLIONS of sneakers. Millions and millions and millions of them in all kinds of colours – pink patent and cobalt suede and inky-navy leather – but they were horrible. They had a profoundly strange rectangle-shaped toe and they looked like the lace-up shoes that misfortunate, arthritic old ladies wear.

  I was seized with cold fear. This was my sister, my beloved sister – we agreed on everything, we liked and disliked exactly the same things. But clearly she’d been living in New York for too long. Unbidden, the memory swam into my head of how she hadn’t liked In Bruges, of how she just hadn’t ‘got’ it, when it was clearly such a magnificent film. ‘I’m losing her,’ I thought, ‘I’m losing her and it’s awful.’

  Caitríona was prowling up and down, still muttering to herself, and Himself gestured at the horrible sneakers and said, ‘As we’re here, do you want to try a pair?’

  As I’ve mentioned previously my feet are size 35 – whenever I say this, people seem to think I’m boasting, as if I’m saying something like, ‘Christ, I have the metabolism of a greyhound! No matter what I eat, I just can’t seem to put on weight!’ But it is a bloody scourge having size 35 feet. Because a shoe in size 35 is rarer than a unicorn sighting.

  Here in this Hogan place, though, there were walls and walls of boxes of sneakers and more size 35s than you could count. However, because all of them were horrible, I declined Himself’s offer and we both got out our phones and went on Twitter, prepared for a lengthy wait.

  But within moments, Caitríona was standing, wild-eyed, before us.

  ‘They’re dearer than they were in Venice,’ she declared. ‘They’re dearer than they are in New York! It’s a fecking swizz!’

  With all the compassion I could muster, I said gently, ‘Shite for Goms, Caitríona, Shite for Goms.’

  I put my arm around her shoulder and led her back to the car, and the mood on the drive home was very subdued.

  But anyway, she carried on as best she could and tried her hardest to enjoy the rest of the week, and in all fairness it was very nice: Seán made his pizzas and Oscar learnt to swim and I managed twenty-seven of the forty-nine gelato flavours – and our goodbyes at Rome airport were very emotional.

  And then I was home and facing into autumn, and about a week after we got back I was reading the Sunday paper when something caught my eye: ‘Hogan sneakers sell out in minutes.’ I seized the page and read with keen interest. Apparently, everyone fabulous in London was lusting after Hogan sneakers and hand-to-hand combat had almost broken out in the shop in Sloane Street. Already they were being sold for vastly inflated prices on eBay.

  With trembling fingers I went on the internet and discovered that it was all true, and I thought I was going to vomit. Suddenly I saw how wrong I’d been: the funny-shaped rectangular toe wasn’t horrible, it was directional, it was fashion-forward! And to think I could have bought twenty pairs of size 35s in a variety of colours and styles! What a fool I’d been, what a ridiculous, clueless eejit!

  I’d let a precious opportunity slip through my fingers and it was unbearable. Worse, there was no one I could talk to because Himself was away for the week (climbing Mont Blanc – can I just digress for a moment and say fair play to him).

  Almost in tears, I paced the house, trying to quell the feelings of loss. I should have trusted Caitríona: she lived in New York, for the love of God. New York! Of course she had her finger on the pulse!

  ‘This too shall pass,’ I repeated over and over to myself, ‘this too shall pass.’

  But the day went on and the grief – yes, it was actual grief – didn’t abate. So I rang the Italian shop! Yes! And the person I spoke to was snotty and pretended he couldn’t understand me and hung up on me mid-sentence, and when I rang bac
k, no one answered.

  My despair increased – then suddenly I knew what I needed to do. It was all very simple: I’d go back to Italy. Yes. No one need know – I’d fly in and out in the one day. Yes. I’d get a flight into one of them places – Rome, Palermo, whatever (my knowledge of Italy’s layout is very sketchy).

  And I’d hire a car. Yes. Granted, I’ve never driven ‘out forrin’ and the prospect normally terrified me, but not now. No. Like, how hard could it be? Admittedly the Autostrade were scary and the Italian drivers were nutters, but surely to God I too could try to drive like a nutter?

  Directions, now they were another thing that could be tricky. I can barely tell my right from left, but where there’s a will there’s a way, right? Maybe the hire car would have a sat-nav, even if I’ve never managed to program one and even if I did it would be in Italian and beyond Mi scusi I don’t understand a word of the language.

  But I was going, of that I was certain. Central to my plan was that no one must know: I was too embarrassed by my lunacy. Thursday would be the best day – it was when Himself was doing the final ascent of the mountain, so he’d be out of radio contact. I’d tell everyone else that I was ‘working hard’ and couldn’t be disturbed, it’d all be grand. Grand.

  So I started googling flights and I was a little aghast at the cost – but, I rationalized, if I bought enough pairs of the sneakers, I’d end up actually making money, because even though they were dearer than New York prices, they were a lot cheaper than the London ones.

  Also, the logistics of the whole business were far, far more challenging than I’d expected: no airline flew in and out of the same place on the same day. I tried airport after airport – Pisa, Bologna, Rome, Florence – and in the end I had it narrowed down to two options: fly to Pisa, hire the car, drive to the place, drive to Rome, ditch the car, fly home; or fly to Florence, hire a car, drive to the place, drive back to Florence, stay the night, fly home on Friday.

  At this stage, it was four in the morning and I’d been on the internet for ten hours, so I decided I’d go to bed and when I woke up I’d toss a coin between Pisa or Florence.

  So off I went to sleep, and when I woke up I was no longer insane.

  EPILOGUE: I managed to buy a pair from an Italian website. I’m still not sure about the toe …

  First published in RTÉ Guide, November 2014.

  Bono Boots

  I have to tell you about my Bono boots and this is a complete stream-of-consciousness, so please bear with me.

  Well! I needed new boots. I had a grand pair of boots from Ecco and they had served me well all winter long and worked their humble little socks off, but suddenly they went quare on me and please know I am not blaming them at all, they really gave everything they had, but out of nowhere they went badly stretchy and wrinkled, and started looking like mini-elephants on my feet and that wouldn’t do.

  So I went out to look for a new pair of boots and every shoe shop I walked into I was assaulted by flimsy yellow flowery sandals and I said, ‘No, I need boots!’ And the shop people said, ‘There ARE no boots, not any more, it’s spring now, buy these lovely yellow sandals,’ and I said, ‘But FTLOG (for the love of God) it’s ruddy well SNOWING out there!’ And they said, ‘Buy sandals, buy sandals, buy sandals!’ And I said, ‘No, I am going home and I will buy boots on the interwebs! And you are wondering why nobody buys anything from real shops any more!’

  So I went home and I tried to buy boots on the interwebs and the thing is, I have very specific things I require from a boot. They need to be quick-in-and-out, therefore no lacers. They need to have ‘spring’, a certain amount of bounce-back action from the sole. BUT!!! Mark me carefully here! They need to have a heel. Yes, a bit of a heel, for I am ’straordinarily short, a mere five foot, which I’m not sure of the exact amounts in metrics, but only thirty-seven centimetres or maybe thirty-eight. Or possibly forty-one, but not many at all.

  So I need a heel. But the heel cannot be too high. I do a lot of ‘short-walking’. That is to say, quick jaunts to the optician and chemist and the sobriety emporia and what-not, therefore I need city boots. However, I realize that saying ‘city boots’ sounds sophisticated and shiny and high and that is not what I need. I suppose I need suburbia boots. A little part of me has just died saying that, but let’s move on.

  So I went on the interwebs and looked up the Ecco boot but there wasn’t a single one left on the planet. Also, as you know, the boots must be size 35, which is a right pain in the hole, if you’ll pardon the vulgarity. Because (and you must be sick of me telling you) the size 35 is a rare and elusive beast and I have spent my life having to buy size 36s and eight pairs of insoles and grimly superglueing the insoles into the new shoes and then superglueing my actual feet into the shoes so they will not lift out.

  So there I was looking for a size 35 boot, in March, in a heel that is a little bit high but not too high. Oh yes, also it needs to be an ankle boot because my calves are so stout that a zip won’t close higher than my Achilles tendon.

  For old times’ sake I went on the Camper site, because Camper used to be my friend. Every winter I purchased the perfect pair of suburban boots from Camper, which had the perfect amount of spring in their step and looked well and had the right heel height. And then someone improved their website and now an engagement with it leaves me weeping with frustration and sorrow and without boots.

  I tried Clarks, who are SUPER-boasty about their comfort, but they don’t do smaller than a size 36. Then I tried countless US sites who offered ‘passable’ boots, but then the price quadrupled when they realized they would be posting to Ireland.

  And then … I went on Net-a-Porter … Lovely, lovely Net-a-Porter. Yes, there I was, acting like it was 2007. And I searched for black (another requirement, I forgot to mention) ankle boots, in size 35, and sat back and waited for the site to issue the sound of laughter. But to my great astonishment they produced a pair of black ankle boots with a reasonable heel in size 35. I thought I was hallucinating.

  And then I saw they were by Acne – and what do we know about Acne? Yes! They are Swedish. And what do we know about Swedishness? Yes! That it is fabulous. Yes! Acne = Swedish = Wallander = Saga from The Bridge = Fabulous!

  And then I saw the name of the boots – they were the ‘Pistol’ boots. And I already knew about them, without even knowing that I did. I had heard of them via the Grazias and the Sunday Times Style supplement and whispered on the air via the breaths of supermodels. The Acne Pistol Boot IN MY SIZE!!!!!

  I saw the price – I was swept along in a tsunami so enormous that I totally disregarded it. I would be cool! I would have Sunday-Times-Style-approved boots! That fitted me! I would be practically Swedish. I was so so so so so so excited.

  I ordered them! I tracked their little journey to me via Net-a-Porter’s DHL magicness. And they arrived this morning! I abandoned work and ordered Himself to accompanize me to the trying-on place (the bedroom). I was nearly sick with anxiety as I wondered if they’d fit. I slid my feet into them. They fitted. ‘They fit! They fit! They fit! They fit! They fit! They fit! They fit!’ I raced down the stairs and opened my front door and shouted at the passing cars and buses, ‘They fit!’ The entire top deck of the 46A applauded. People began texting and tweeting wildly, ‘They fit! They fit! They fit!’

  The day proceeded and at lunchtime I had to go out and sometime while I was out and about I caught sight of Bono. Just from the waist down. But it was definitely Bono. Those tight black jeans, those subtly heeled boots … And to my great horror, I realized that the person was not Bono. The person was, in fact
, me, reflected in a window.

  And the thing is, I have form in looking like Bono (e.g. when I was driving Himself’s Maserati – you’ll read about it later in this book). Badly shaken, I proceeded with my plans. My next port of call was to my convalescent mammy, who was recovering from pneumonia. She greeted me with warmth and I said, ‘Mam, do I look like Bono?’

  ‘You do not,’ she said stoutly.

  ‘No, Mam, I think I do,’ I said. ‘Look at my legs. Look, in particular, at my boots.’

  She looked. She looked and she looked. Finally she spoke. ‘Have you any sunglasses?’

  I replied in the affirmative.

  ‘Put them on,’ she says.

  I obliged.

  ‘Stamp around a bit there,’ she said. ‘Would you sing a little bit for me?’

  So I stomped around the sitting room and sang a few lines, ‘In the name of love. One boot in the name of love. In the NAAAAAME of love … lalala in the name of love, how’m I doing?’

  ‘You know,’ she said, sort of squinting at me, ‘you have the look of him all right.’

  A blow, my amigos, a bad blow. Bono is great and Bono’s look is great. On Bono. I am not Bono. I am a lady. I want to look like Alexa Chung.

  ‘What am I to do?’ I asked. ‘It’s these bloody boots, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ she replied, ‘but it might be. Were they dear?’

  ‘Very dear.’

  ‘How dear?’

  ‘I’m too ashamed to tell you.’

  ‘Dearer than Jimmy Choos?’

  ‘As dear,’ I admitted.

  She whispered something that might have been ‘Sweet Mother of the Redeemer’. Then she said, ‘And for them to make you look like Bono. That’s desperate.’