by Sara Downing
I quite fancy wearing a pair of shoes that haven't had an outing for a while, so I spend an indulgent few moments gazing at the rows of neatly stacked boxes. Yes, real people like me really do put them in clear plastic boxes with a photo on one end, just like that scary, skinny posh woman with the glasses on that TV show tells you to do. If my shoes are tidy then life is good.
I am so lucky here to have so much space to keep my stuff. When we moved in, we had the smallest bedroom converted into a dressing room, just for me, and I now have everything a fashion-loving girl could want. Plus a whole side to the wardrobe just for my shoes. I remember going to see Sex in the City at the cinema with the girls. When I got back Mark had asked me what the best bit of the film was, and I had raved enthusiastically about her wardrobe, or rather her closet. He was a bit perplexed to say the least, but anyone who has seen the film – and loves clothes – would agree as to how eye-poppingly fabulous it was. There was an audible gasp from the entire cinema (largely female, or gay) when Carrie revealed her newly designed closet. I had mine first, though. It’s not quite as grand or extensive as Carrie's, but to me it’s fabulous and I love spending time in there, ogling and touching all my pretty things.
I do have a lot of shoes, I have to admit, but that doesn't quell the hunger for more. I can’t walk past a shoe shop without just a little trip inside, on the very slight off-chance that there might be something there a bit unusual or special. You never know what you might come across. And generally if I do go in, I don’t come out empty-handed. Ahh, there are the shoes I was wearing when I met Mark, a bit old and worn now, but I have kept them, they are the head of the wardrobe, a lucky mascot. They were what brought us together; to get rid of them would only be a bad omen.
Mark and I met seven years ago when I was living in a flat-share with a couple of girlfriends and taking the train up to London each day to my job in South London. He would set off in his smart suit and designer tie; I would be dressed as best as I could on a junior teacher’s salary. I couldn’t afford designer clothes in those days, but would still spend every penny I could on shoes. I even managed to save up for my first pair of Jimmy Choos in the first year I started work.
The shoes I was wearing the day I met Mark made an impression on him, quite literally. As the train pulled into the station that morning, there was the usual scramble to get onto the already busy carriage. Not a fist fight or anything, just some polite-ish jostling to make sure everyone got on (which sometimes they didn't and there was a half-hour wait before the next train came). My sale shopping experience always came in useful at moments like this. I was used to sharpening my elbows and foraying into a crowd of shoppers, all set on the bargain of the moment. Getting on our train was a bit like that, each man, or woman, for himself. Or on that morning, each three inch heel for itself.
I could run for the train in those shoes too, despite the heels, and without looking like a circus act. And run for the train was what I had to do that morning. Giselle, one of my flat-mates, had used all the hot water (again) so I'd been desperately boiling up water to have some sort of a wash and tidy my hair up a bit and at least pay some homage to hygiene. Not a great start for the morning, unbeknown to me, that I would meet the future love of my life. So that had made me late. I bolted to the station at break-neck speed and reached the platform just as the train was pulling in. As I did the whole polite jostling thing I felt the heel of one of my shoes land on something soft and this was followed by ‘Argghhhh, watch what you're doing will you?’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I mumbled. I looked up into the face of the man whose foot I had impaled and did a double take. Not that I knew him, or anything, I had never set eyes on him before. But I looked at him and recognised him, and had to stop myself saying ‘Oh, it's you’. I recognised him in that strange kind of subconscious way that must only be what they call Love at First Sight. It wasn't a Coup de Foudre and there weren't thunderclaps or anything like that. It was a feeling of being home, the total recognition of another person who is going to have a profound effect on your life in one way or another. Our eyes locked and I knew he had felt it too.
‘Are you OK, I'm so sorry’, I ventured.
‘Did you sharpen those before you left home this morning?’ he asked sarcastically, bending down and rubbing the front of his foot. Clearly it had hurt rather a lot.
‘Are your shoes OK?’ I asked. There was a nasty scuff on the top of one of his expensive looking work brogues.
‘It's my foot I'm more worried about’. By this time all the other passengers had got onto the train and we were left by the open doors, ‘But don't miss your train on account of me’.
Wow, such politeness in the face of such pain.
‘No, really, it's fine, I'll be OK, I want to make sure you’re OK first’. He hobbled onto the train; miraculously, there was an empty seat. I followed him and kept close by. If it had been anyone else I would probably have done a runner by now, out of sheer embarrassment. But I felt I needed to stay with him. Some greater force was at work here. I just needed to find out what it had in store for me.
He sat down just as the train pulled away from the station. I grabbed hold of the overhead rail to steady myself. I was totally shaken. He took off his shoe and rubbed the patch between his second and third toes.
‘You certainly made an impression’, he ventured at a joke. ‘I'm Mark, by the way.’
‘I'm Grace. Grace Connery,’ I replied ‘although I probably shouldn't be giving you my full name, you might be some big City hotshot lawyer and sue me for every penny I've got, now that I've ruined your budding sideline as a professional dancer’.
‘Well, I am a City lawyer, as it happens, but not so hotshot as yet, maybe one day. Don't worry I won't be seeking damages, and I may probably never dance again, but that could be doing the world a great favour’. This guy had a sense of humour. I loved it.
It turned out that Mark did the daily commute as I did, usually from a station further up the track, but on that occasion he'd been out with a friend (male, I had managed to ascertain almost immediately) and stayed over. How he could manage to look so immaculate after a night spent on someone's sofa I couldn't fathom, but then he'd probably had the luxury of a hot shower, unlike me, I suddenly remembered, and no annoying flat mates to get in the way.
He worked in the City for a big commercial law practice, Clayford Chalmers, in their property law department. It all sounded very glamorous but he explained that he was actually still training, and would be for another three months, finishing his last six month ‘seat’ before becoming fully qualified. Well he could finish my seat any time, or sue my pants off, come to that. The chemistry between us was electric. I loved his scent, a heady, gorgeously clean-smelling mix of fabric conditioner and musky after shave, which I inhaled deeply as he leaned in closer to talk to me over the hubbub of the train carriage. I was mesmerized by his huge brown eyes, and although I was trying to play it cool, he must have noticed how I hung on his every word. He seemed genuinely captivated when I told him about my own career, laughing with unfeigned sincerity at the stories of recent escapades in the classroom.
The train pulled into Waterloo. I honestly hadn't noticed the time passing; we had been so absorbed in each other. Suddenly there was a scramble for the doors and an awkward moment between us, neither of us sure what to do next. ‘Please don't just walk out of my life’, I prayed silently. ‘How’s your foot?’ I asked instead.
‘I think I'll live, but I may need to keep you posted on my progress’, he said. Relief. Big inward sigh. He wanted to see me again. Allelujah.
‘Of course,’ I replied, coyly, trying to hide my sheer jubilance. ‘My nursing skills aren't up to much but I do have a lot of experience in playground injuries.’ We walked side by side along the platform, with him still limping slightly, and through the barriers into the station, both heading for the underground.
‘Here, I'll give you my card. Will you call me? I'll be very disappointed if you don't.’
He added this with a fake stern voice, his eyes downcast, but a teasing smile playing at the corner of his lips. He knew damn well I would call.
‘I'm afraid teachers don't carry business cards, but yes, I promise I will call you,’ I replied. He leaned towards me and his lips brushed my cheek with the faintest of kisses. I thought I would pass out. I felt delirious. How was I to concentrate on a day's teaching after that? I wanted to go home, lie down in a darkened room, and put all my senses back into order. Each one felt heightened, more acute somehow; the station was dazzling in all its colours, the noises were like a cacophony of out of tune musical instruments, and I noticed every smell around me, from the heavenly aroma of coffee from the nearby vendor, to the fusty, unwashed smell of the dread-locked man selling the Big Issue.
And of course I did ring Mark, that same evening in fact. There was none of that ‘Should I, shouldn't I, will he think I'm too keen, should I make him sweat, keep him waiting’ type dilemma like I'd had with boyfriends in the past. We both seemed to know that whatever was going to happen was inevitable and we just had to do as fate instructed us to bring it to pass.
Mark and I had a wonderful courtship, to use that word at risk of sounding like my Gran. But that's exactly what it was. Because we both seemed to recognise that we had forever, there didn't seem to be any rush. The just holding hands and kissing stage seemed to last for an eternity, and that was lovely. We were young and in love and we enjoyed each step as it came. He would send me flowers and I would buy him those corny little teddies with the love messages attached. Our weekends were spent walking hand in hand anywhere and everywhere; in parks, around the shops, along the river, it didn't really matter as long as we were together. And in the evenings we would sit in pubs, still holding hands, and deliberate on where to go and what to eat, whether we wanted to meet up with friends or just be alone and go home and curl up in front of a DVD. It was blissful and uncomplicated.
When we did eventually take things further, which amazingly was a whole six weeks into our relationship, it was perfect. Mark had banned his housemate for the evening and transformed his home into a love palace. I arrived there expecting to meet him and have a quick drink before going out, but the house was in darkness even though I knew he was home. He opened the door and was silhouetted against a backdrop of candlelight. There were little tea light candles everywhere I looked, illuminating the hall, and leading a path through to the kitchen. Without uttering a word, he put his finger to his lips, beckoned me inside and led me by my hand through to the kitchen, where he presented me with a glass of champagne. ‘To us and to forever’, he whispered, and it didn’t even sound corny like it should have done. Wow, this was the stuff of Mills & Boon, I thought. No one had ever done anything this romantic for me before. Wait till the girls hear about this. ‘To us and romance’, I replied, equally cornily, kissing him on the lips. ‘Why are we whispering?’ I asked, ‘Is Joe upstairs?’
‘God, no’, he replied. ‘I paid him no small amount of money to go out for a meal with that girl he's been seeing from work. I'm really hoping he'll make a go of it and not come back. At least not until much much later. That leaves us all the time in the world’. He curled himself around me with a groan of longing and kissed me again. It looked like tonight was the night. I had wondered when Mark would want to take things further, but even so hadn't felt the need to push him. I would enjoy each moment as it lasted.
Just as I began to lose myself in his kiss he pulled away. ‘Right, dinner’, he said. ‘Everything is ready, please sit here madam’. Like the best trained maitre d' he pulled my chair out and as I sat down, placed my napkin in my lap with a flourish.
‘I didn't know you could cook, let alone all this’, I gestured to the table and the waiting food in amazement.
‘I’ll tell you all about my student job some time,’ he replied. I knew he'd worked in a smart London restaurant during his student years – he must have picked up more than just washing up skills from clearing tables and doing dishes.
Our meal was delectable. After the main course, Mark stood up and cleared away the dirty dishes before saying ‘Excuse me a minute, I just need to get dessert ready’. He threw me a mysterious glance and one of his flirtatious smiles over his shoulder, grabbed a box of matches from the ledge and headed for the hall. I could hear him striking match after match and smiled as I knew what he was up to. He was lighting all the tea lights that he had placed on the stairs, I presumed leading up to his room. I sat quietly and waited for him; he had planned it all so carefully I didn't want to spoil his moment. I knew how he wanted me to be amazed by all this, and I was. Completely bowled over in fact. It gave me a chance to take a deep breath and think about our relationship. I knew where things were heading tonight and I was totally and utterly happy about that. Both of us were ready and I wanted it more than anything. Being with Mark was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I knew I had found ‘the one’.
Mark came back to the kitchen to fetch me. ‘Would madam like to walk this way, please?’ He held my hand and led me slowly towards the stairs. ‘Dessert this evening will be served in my room, would madam care to partake?’
‘Yes please, madam would’, I replied in my best fake posh accent as he led me gently up the stairs. I had never actually been in Mark's bedroom, that chaste had our relationship been until now. There was none of the blokey bachelor pad feel to it that I had half expected, or that musty smell that seems to linger around men's rooms. Not wishing to sound like I have ‘got around a bit’, I have experienced a few of my ex boyfriends' bedrooms, and it has not always been pleasant. Instead Mark's room was decorated almost totally in cream, with tasteful brocade curtains draped at the window, matching cushions on the bed, and amazingly for a man, no clutter and no dirty boxer shorts or odd socks peeking out from underneath. I should have known, I suppose, he was always turned out so immaculately, his room simply mirrored his personality and appearance. Unless of course he had blitzed the room half an hour before I arrived, and his wardrobe was stuffed to bursting point with all the detritus that usually accumulates on a bedroom floor. Even mine. Oh yes, we women are not immune to a bit of bedroom clutter and dirty laundry about the place. Just as long as no one else sees it. I liked the fact that I still didn't know everything about Mark; there was still such a lot to discover, and not just the secrets of his wardrobe. There were more candles up here, and scented ones too. The smell was intoxicating and so was Mark.
And of course our lovemaking was as delectable as dinner. Mark's technique displayed all the attention to detail his cooking had demonstrated, ensuring we had all the ingredients for a perfect, romantic and exciting first liaison, and mixing them together with an expert's hands......and lips, and fingertips, and tongue, and..........well. I have to admit I had been slightly worried that things were so perfect between us on all other levels, emotional, spiritual, intellectual, we might not match that degree of flawlessness on the physical side, and in a way I had been prepared in my own mind to settle for less than full marks in the bedroom as we had such a brilliant relationship in all other aspects. You couldn't have it all, could you? Or maybe you could. I needn't have worried. Mark was kind and caring, warm and loving, and above all damn sexy with it. As he kissed and teased, caressed and nuzzled, he brought me to the extremes of endurance before I finally let go and gave into my senses. As I came again and again I clung to him knowing I would never want or need anyone else.
‘Why did we wait so long?’ I asked as I lay spent in his arms, my hair trailing across his broad chest.
‘Anything worth having is worth waiting for’, he replied, as I felt him stir again, ‘I wanted it to be special. I've never met anyone like you, Grace, you bring out the best in me. I love you so much.’
Right, that was it. I could start writing that romantic novel I've always been promising myself. I now had first hand experience of all the emotions felt by the heroines of love stories back through the ages, and been the recipient and deliverer o
f all the soppy, corny lines. Lizzie Bennett and Mr Darcy had nothing on us. Only they weren't corny lines when the man I loved so much said them to me and I knew he really meant them. I had never been one to wear my heart on my sleeve, but in Mark's company those little endearments just seemed to pop out unbidden. It was all so perfect, you couldn’t have scripted it any better.
Mark jumps out of the shower, all pink and scrubbed and glowing, and smelling of the gorgeous Molton Brown body wash I had bought him. He walks around the bedroom in that struttingly confident way that only men seem to have when naked. It must be something to do with the freedom of the swinging bits that gives them a bit more of a swagger, but I could never bare all with such confidence, and I didn't know any other women who would want to either. We girls can't wait to at least get some undies on. But I suppose men don't have all the hang-ups about their bodies that women do. You only have to look around on the beach or at the pool on holiday – lots of fairly fit and toned women reaching for their sarong to tiptoe the few steps to the pool, discreetly casting it aside as they slip into the water. The men on the other hand are happy to strut about, whether muscled Adonis or paunchy flab-wobbler. And it always seems, the bigger the belly and bum, the smaller the trunks. Yuk. There should be a rule about Speedos only being worn in the Olympics; anyone who breaches that should be locked up on the spot. And as for thongs, the sight of a piece of string disappearing between the wobbling buttock cheeks of a middle aged tattooed heavy-weight is enough to send anyone running for the shade.
‘My turn now,’ I say, heading for the bathroom and peeling off layers as I go.
‘Not so fast, young lady,’ Mark says, grabbing my arm playfully as I make to get past him. ‘We're not in any rush tonight are we? What time is Alex expecting us?’