by Fox, Lana
Then after, as I lie collapsed and spread, I remember how Janey embraced my interest in shoes. Feeling suddenly aglow, I get up, flick on the light and wander over to my wardrobe. Opening the door, I stare down at the dozens of shoes that I adore – my bottle-green slingbacks; my strappy silver wedges; my Dorothy Ruby Slippers; my many pairs of kitten heels and stilettos for every occasion – and I feel sure, as I stand there, gazing down at my collection, that these are somehow an expression of me. I think about the drag queen too, in her yellow dress with her dark skin and her black hair piled up high on her head, and the way she told me, ‘I do drag, dear. And when I’m in a pair of heels, there’s no one more woman than me.’ If shoes make us feel sexy and proud, then surely shoes are important. And maybe they’re not much to Glads, but they mean a lot to me.
After all, Kitten, what’s more important than the way we feel inside?
Chapter Five
Bang Goes My Saturday Girl
Saturday, 10 March
Dear Kitten,
I’m too wiped to say more than this: I had to fire Cheryl today. Bang goes my Saturday girl. She was in tears, begged me not to do it, but I’m a businesswoman, Kitten, and she left me no choice. She actually laughed – yes, laughed! – at a woman who was trying on shoes because apparently the pair of leopard-print mules made her look ‘like a platypus’. This is what the poor woman told me. And when I talked with Cheryl, she didn’t deny it. I had to call in to head office who, it turns out, couldn’t have been less interested. So there’s a new ad in the paper and more work for yours truly. I was meant to go out for dinner with Guy, but I’m going to cancel and go home to bed.
Sunday, 11 March
10.15 a.m.
Good morning, Kitten,
I woke this morning to the sound of church bells – a reminder that I don’t go to church like I’m meant to. My mother, God love her, would scream her head off if she knew I didn’t go to Mass every week. Anyway, maybe this lapsed Catholic guilt is what makes me restless while the church bells are ringing – so much so that I have to get up. So the first thing I saw today when I pulled back the curtains was the sunlit back patio with the garden chairs and table pulled back, and Janey Prince doing yoga on a purple mat, in the skimpiest pair of exercise shorts I’ve ever seen. And every time she folds her torso downwards, touching the ground, or walks her hands forward, keeping her bum in the air, I get a glimpse of those wonderfully tight buttocks, smooth as eggshells in the morning sun. After a few minutes, she looks up and sees me watching, so I throw open the window and offer her some juice, making it look like that was my plan. ‘No, I’m good,’ she calls. ‘You should come out here. It’s gorgeous.’ And her body language is all warm and open, so I take her up on the offer. Well, why not? Landlord–tenant bonding, and that.
It doesn’t take long before I’m making her a smoothie, and blending bananas, yoghurt and apple juice, which I end up delivering to the garden. ‘That’s so nice of you,’ she says, serious as ever, as she rises up from her sun salutation, but when I sit at the side of the garden and place my glass on the table, Janey comes and joins me. We get to talking about shoes, of course. I tell her about the tiger-print stilettos I’m saving up for, and she watches me closely, asking question after question: What makes them so special? When would I wear them? Would I ever use them in the bedroom?
‘In the bedroom?’ I ask, flushing. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I would.’
Janey sighs, leaning back, taking a sip of her smoothie. ‘Good for you,’ she says. ‘I love shoes in the bedroom.’ Then she adds, ‘I’d love to work in a shoe shop. It’d be like seeing my dissertation in action.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Either way, I should get a job. Stop draining Mum and Dad’s money. It’s savings, you know.’
A switch inside me flicks on. ‘Well, are you interested in a job?’ I ask.
She sits up straight, eyes open, like a meerkat. ‘A job at Pussyfoot?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, ‘I need a Saturday girl, and pronto.’ She watches me, blue eyes growing large, as I fill her in on the job and pay, and as soon as I’ve got to the end of my spiel she says, ‘It sounds perfect. I can’t start this Saturday because I’ve got an appointment, but I can the week after. How should I apply?’
I tell her she doesn’t have to apply. ‘Give it a trial period,’ I tell her. ‘A couple of weeks with full pay, and if it doesn’t work out, no spilt milk.’
Janey watches me for a moment, eyes slant in the sunlight, before we shake on it. ‘It’s like a miracle,’ she tells me. ‘Like this was meant to happen.’
And I feel a strange tingling inside.
Chapter Six
Meaningful Stilettos
Monday, 12 March
Well, my goodness, Kitten, what a day! First, old Gladys pops in holding a small purple bag – the type you get from a gift store – that matches her stunning silk blouse. She’s sorry, she tells me, about what she said the other day. ‘Belittled your passion, I did.’ She shakes her head. ‘What a haggard old bitch I am.’
‘Look, I know shoes aren’t deep like psychology,’ I grumble, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself saying, Actually shoes are all about psychology.
Glads shakes her head. ‘I was a pig about it, lovey. And given the choice between Freud and some Karen Millen slingbacks, it wouldn’t be the doc who’d get my cash.’ Glads explains that when she was a kid, she was always pushed to be top of the class. She was the only girl, so she had to keep up with her brothers, who were told they had to be surgeons or psychiatrists and such. ‘I liked art best,’ she tells me, ‘but my parents didn’t care when I got good marks for my painting. “Who cares about paint?” they’d ask. It was horrible, really. And now, here I am, doing the same darn thing to you.’
‘Forgiven,’ I tell her, giving her a hug. And when we’re done with the hugging, she hands me the purple bag. ‘A make-up pressie,’ she says, but when I try to take the bag, she grabs my hand for a second and with big, excitable eyes whispers, ‘Open it alone.’
So I stashed it behind the counter, Kitten, but we had a run of customers, and Tanya, whose shift starts at twelve, only just arrived. So now, all intrigued, I get a minute to pop to the loo, and that’s where I dip down into the bag and pull out a purple gift box. On the lid of the box, in silver swirly print, are the words Pandora’s Box: Erotic Boutique for Women.
I catch my breath, Kitten! I know exactly what this is!
Sure enough, inside the box, lodged in a silky layer, is a small, black, bullet-shaped vibrator. When I take it out and press the tiny button at the end it purrs and hums in my palm, and when I hold it against my skirt so that it vibrates through the fabric, it feels so good that I let out an instant moan. In a matter of moments, I’ve dialled Guy’s number and we’re dirty talking. ‘I’m on my knees, jerking off,’ he growls, ‘and you’re in those perfect shoes …’
‘Describe them,’ I say, slipping the buzzing thing up my skirt and between my thighs, where it feels deliciously good.
And do you know, Kitten, he does describe them, feature by feature. The platform sole, the stiletto heels, the cherry-coloured suede and the stockings I was wearing. Henry would never have been able to describe my shoes from memory! But soon Guy’s back to the fantasy, reminding me how I raised my skirt and touched my pussy in front of him. So I press the buzzing plastic hard against my briefs, letting my pussy drink up all the wonderful vibrations, and I find myself grinding against the purring toy, letting out a moan as I fall back against the tiling. ‘I’m gonna come all over your shoes,’ cries Guy, ‘all over your fucking shoes.’ And in my head I can see him doing just that, and I push the buzzing bullet right inside my briefs, against my slippery sex. Again I moan, but more loudly now, and I’m pushing the bullet inside myself, unable to stop as I grind against its pulsing. ‘Oh, God,’ I cry out as I begin to feel the heat of my climax, and suddenly Guy’s moaning, ‘All over your shoes, yes, all over them!’ and I fill with a perfect pleasure that makes me buc
k in spite of myself as I slide down those tiles, coming again and again and again, until I’m utterly spent, with my bum on the floor.
I feel dirty. And cheap. Like I’ve ruined sacred ground. That’s twice I’ve come in Pussyfoot Shoes. What kind of manager does that make me?
‘You’re one hell of a woman,’ breathes Guy. ‘I’m gonna shower you in gifts.’
‘That orgasm was gift enough,’ I tell him. ‘Have to rush. Bye for now.’
Then I pull myself to my feet, clean myself up, and exit the bathroom hoping no one heard my moans.
As if the store is punishing me, Pearl and I have a spate of bad luck. One woman brings back some Gucci heels that cost several hundred pounds, saying the strap snapped the first time she wore them. She seems sincere enough, so I sigh and give her a refund. Then, to top it all off, I spend an hour – a whole hour, dammit – trying to convince a buxom woman that her feet are extra-wide and can she please stop trying on the expensive shoes because she is stretching them. Eventually, she leaves in a fit, dabbing her eyes. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having big feet,’ I call as she goes. Pearl gives me one hell of a look, in response. ‘What?’ I say. ‘It’s the truth!’
‘Some people,’ say Pearl, blowing hot air onto her glasses, ‘can’t cope with the truth. But we do like customers who don’t slam us online,’ she mumbles.
And what can I say to that? Pearl is right, as flipping usual. It’s hard living with someone ten years your junior who looks like a blonde Jessica Rabbit in preppy glasses, has a brain like a razor and isn’t afraid of speaking her mind.
But Pearl’s OK really. It’s me that’s a mess.
Anyway, things improve when I return from coffee break. Pearl produces a shoebox from behind the counter. ‘A rather dashing man popped in while you were gone,’ she says, with a wink. ‘He bought you these and told me to keep them for you.’
I lift the lid from the box, and my heart does a backflip. Guy’s only gone and bought me the tiger-print stilettos! I run my hand along the velvety uppers, the strappy backs and peep toes. I’ve handled these shoes so often, Kitten, longing for the day when I could take them away! And there they are, in my hands.
‘Gucci, no less,’ gushes Pearl. ‘Go on then! Try ’em on!’
So I do. And I feel like a princess as I strut up and down the shop, my new shoes sinking into the carpet. ‘How do I look?’ I ask Pearl.
She claps her hands. ‘They’re perfect! They make you walk like a tiger. You should call him.’
‘But I’m only just back from coffee break!’
Pearl flaps the air. ‘Do you see a swarm of customers?’ And when I shake my head she says, ‘Well, then.’
So this time I’m up in the kitchen while Guy orders me about. ‘Have you got them on?’ he growls.
I say I have, and he starts telling me how much he wants to come on them. And again I’m touching my poor wet pussy beneath the staff table, pushing myself to climax as he moans in my ear.
But you know, Kitten, while I’m fucking myself, it’s Janey I’m really thinking about. Janey has a cock this time. No, really. A cock. And I’m back in that hallway, modelling the shoes for her – the cherry platform stilettos – only this time, when she crouches down to look more closely at my feet, I raise my left foot and place it in her lap, resting the heel lightly just above her knee. She’s transfixed as she runs her hands up and down my legs. ‘Deborah, you’re gorgeous,’ she says. And that’s when I see the bulge inside her jeans. She looks up at me, and I’m so turned on I could burst. Still holding my stare, she rubs her hands over my shoe, running a finger up and down the stiletto heel, before pulling her jeans open and taking her cock in her hand. She stares up at me, fiercely, as if she could tear me to pieces, and murmurs, ‘I’m going to come all over them, Deborah,’ and when she says my name, I climax.
Oh, God, how I climax!
On the other end of the line, Guy says, ‘You’re too hot to handle.’
And I say, ‘Guy, I’ve got to go.’
And he says, ‘Talk to you later, baby.’
And frankly, Kitten, I feel like a piece of shit, having phone sex with him while I dream about my super-young tenant. So I return to Pearl, who’s got nothing to do, and she says, ‘Well?’
‘I told him how much I adore them,’ I say, but I glance down at the shoes, which are suddenly less glamorous than I remembered. ‘Think I’ll change ’em though,’ I tell Pearl. ‘Keep them nice.’
But sadly, I wonder if they’ll ever seem nice again.
7.45 p.m.
Oh, now I really have seen it all! But I’ll start at the beginning.
I got home half an hour ago and I’m in an awful mood. The place smells of incense and there’s a droning music coming from upstairs. One of those goth bands or something. So I march on up, thinking I’ll ask Janey to turn it down, when I see that the bedroom door is ajar. ‘Janey?’ I call, as I reach the top of the stairs. ‘D’you mind if I close the door?’
And a plaintive voice says, ‘Um … Deborah, I need some help.’
I pause at the door. Something tells me this is going to be weird. And when I step into her room, it turns out I wasn’t wrong! Kitten, the girl is splayed on her double bed in a grey bra and matching briefs (so scant, Kitten, they’re barely there at all), and she’s spread-eagled across the bed, with each of her wrists bound to the bed knobs of my Auntie Doris’s antique queen-size. Her breasts swell more than I thought they would, and I can see the shapes of her nipples through the grey Lycra, and her belly and thighs are delightfully pale, and there are tiny specks of freckles round her cleavage. She’s so stunning that I stare at her for far too long. ‘Sorry,’ she says, at last, with a sigh. ‘This is so fucking embarrassing.’ Then she tells me that she and Lil had a fight. ‘Let’s just say, once she’d tied me up, she decided to ask me a few tough questions.’
Suddenly, the truth hits me. ‘She didn’t leave you like this?’ I ask.
‘Looks like it,’ says Janey. ‘Never get all truthy when your lover’s got you trussed.’
This makes me want to laugh – and hard – but I bite my lip. But Janey catches the glint in my eye, and suddenly we’re both giggling away. In fact, after a minute, our laughter gets so raucous that I have to lean against the pine chest of drawers, Kitten, to keep my balance. (Never was one for yoga, you know.) And poor Janey’s got tears running down her face, God bless her, so I go over and wipe them away with the pad of my thumb, and we watch each other for a moment, and I think, Dear God, you’re beautiful, with that haunting face and those blue-blue eyes – ‘fuck-me blue’ as Glads would say – and your wonderful body, so sleek and unspoiled. And suddenly, things get awkward, so I offer to help and soon I’m picking my way round the clothes on the floor, trying to find the key that Lil apparently threw on the floor when she left.
As I release poor Janey, she says, ‘Learning point: only submit with someone you trust.’
‘Are you saying you don’t trust Lil?’
Janey’s eyebrows rise. ‘Would you trust Lil in the bedroom right now?’
‘Well, at least she hasn’t been unfaithful,’ I say.
Janey, who’s now free and rubbing her wrists, gives me a you’re-plain-crazy kind of look. ‘I’d call locking up your girl and tossing the key pretty damn unfaithful. Especially when she’s telling you the truth. And if Lil had ever screwed someone behind my back, you’d have just said something pretty fucking tactless.’
Oh, Kitten, I cover my eyes! Janey’s right! I’m a wreck! Tactless as they come. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m so full of tripe that I’d sink a ship.’ Then I sit on the bed, facing away from Janey, staring into my palms. I should say something more, but I don’t know what. Why do I feel so lost of all a sudden, as if everything’s wrong, as if I’m useless? The tears start to come. Is this what it’s like to be sexually in tune, Kitten? Is this what life does to you when you start to feel sexually free? I feel Janey’s hand on my shoulder – warm and firm –
and she says, ‘Are you worried that Guy isn’t faithful?’
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘It’s more to do with my ex.’
She squeezes my shoulder so sweetly that little sparks seem to shoot down my arm. Then she crawls round the back of me and begins to massage my shoulders. Oh, my, her pressure feels wonderful. ‘Tell me about this ex,’ she says. So I do. I start at the beginning. All those years spent making myself look sexy, hoping that Henry, with his steady brown gaze and delectable hands, would scoop me up in his arms and take me to bed. I tell Janey how many times I made him lovely meals at the end of my work day, even though I was tired and he never made meals for me. And then I tell her how Henry stopped meeting my eyes when he spoke, how he started working later and later, how when I asked his advice about how I looked, he’d say, ‘Always great,’ but wouldn’t even take the time to scan me.