Always Finding Mr Wrong

Chapter 3 - The Shoes That Ruined Everything

Some might say that I don’t need another pair of heeled black shoes with a to-die-for heel. Particularly when, to the untrained eye, there are several similar pairs fighting for space under my bed.

Others might point out that the success of a first date is never to do with the quality of footwear. That you’re just as likely to meet the love of your life in 99p flip-flops as in glorious sling-backs that cost . . . well, let’s not dwell on the cost. Let’s dwell instead on Rich, with whom I’m going on a date this evening.

The gorgeous, intelligent, chisel-jawed, tight-arsed Rich. That way, you’ll understand about the shoes – and why, despite my strict rule that a first date will never result in s*x, I have removed all trace of body hair so that my bikini area now resembles that of a French porn star. Just in case.

The to-die-for shoes and enthusiastic depilation are but elements of a routine with which I’ve been a stranger to for the past eleven months.

It was then that I was thrust back onto the dating scene with the eye-opening jolt of someone who’d spent the previous six years in a relationship.

A ‘steady’ relationship that turned out to be not as steady as I’d thought when I found out that my beloved was sleeping with his sister’s best friend. In my f*****g bed.

Still, being newly-single has its benefits, as my friend Amy never tires of telling me – though admittedly, she’s a nymphomaniac. “Think of the fun you’ll have looking for the next one,” she points out. “And. . . think of the shoes!”

I have to admit, the shoes always had their appeal. Trouble is, after a few years of not dating, I’m starting to realise that I have no idea what to do. In fact, judging by how few first dates I’ve ever had that have resulted in second ones, I’m positively abysmal.

It’s not that I can’t get people to go out with me, it’s what happens afterwards that’s the problem – the date itself.

Amy says I’m trying too hard. My other friend Katie insists I’ve just been unlucky. And Pavan – my roommate – tells me I should be myself. Let them get to know The Real Me.

Which is one of the reasons that I worry about her, because why would anyone want to go out with The Real Me? The Real Me doesn’t have a glass of sparkling water between every alcoholic drink, has never read anything by Hemingway, hardly ever washes her make-up brushes and doesn’t help out at a centre for the homeless each weekend.

That, obviously, is not the Me on show tonight as I prepare to meet Rich, whom I encountered last week at a networking event in Leeds. Even allowing for the fact that most of our conversation was about PR strategies for professional services, the chemistry was electrifying.

No, the Me on show tonight is the well-read, witty, charming Me, the one whose incredible shoes would make Sarah Jessica Parker look like Susan Boyle, pre-makeover. The me I want to be.

It’s a mild evening for March and I have a good feeling about tonight. My long curled hair is satisfyingly bouncy (which it should be, given I put in rollers four hours ago) and, after a drastic post-Christmas diet, my size twelve SilkFred dress just about fits.

As long as I don’t breathe out.

I see Rich the second I walk into the bar. It’s one of my favourite venues – a spectacular former barn converted into the most stylish drinking hole imaginable. It’s dimly-lit and incredibly warm, so much so that I feel beads of sweat prick on my forehead almost immediately.

I straighten my back and head towards him, imagining how Marilyn Monroe might enter a room. My feet stay firmly inside the new shoes instead of slipping up and down like they did before I followed a clever trick I saw on t****k– to stick a blob of Blu-Tack under my heels.

At least, it’s my own version of the trick: I couldn’t lay my hands on any Blu-Tack but I did find an old pack of HubbaBubba in the back of the kitchen drawer. After a few chews it stuck fast to the heels of my stockings and is working a treat.

Note that the Me on show tonight is wearing stockings, as opposed to the more practical but considerably less sexy tights that The Real Me usually wears.

He looks up and smiles. It’s a heart-stopping smile, a wide, sparkly-eyed, face-lit-up sort of smile. But I don’t go to pieces, oh no. Instead, I allow the subtle trace of recognition to dance fleetingly across my face. “Hello Emma. You look beautiful,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Amazing shoes.”

I have to physically restrain myself from falling to my knees and declaring my undying love for this man and his exquisite taste in footwear. Instead, I slide onto the stool and reveal a flicker of a smile. “Thank you. You’ve obviously got good taste.”

I suddenly realise how that sounds. “I mean about the shoes,” I add hastily.“Um, not about me. Looking beautiful, I mean. Although, obviously, that’s not such a bad thing either. Clearly. But, you know . . . I’m not an ego-maniac or anything. Ha!” He looks bemused and concerned.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asks, to my relief.

“White wine, please.” I regain my composure. “A Chenin Blanc.”

“Coming right up,” he smiles. Feeling decidedly hot – a sensation exacerbated by the presence of the ravishing Rich– I slip off the backs of my shoes and place my heels on the footrest of my stool. There’s no way I’m letting the over-zealous heating in this place make my feet puff up like they do anywhere more temperate than Blackpool.

As Rich turns to catch the attention of the barman, I surreptitiously scrutinise his features. He is stunning. I am so punching above my weight. “You Still busy at work?” he asks.

“More than usual,” I tell him brightly. “But I can’t complain about that.”

“Definitely not. Not when you’ve won all the best clients in the area.” Ha ha! He thinks I’m a high-flyer!

“I’ve been lucky,” I say modestly. “But what about you? How’s life at Barclays?”

We spend the next half-hour engaged in a tantalising mixture of work-talk (which I don’t mind as he seems to think I’m a genius) and lovely, flirty, pulse-quickening first-date talk.

As he stands to whisk me to the restaurant across the road, I couldn’t feel more optimistic if he’d started musing about venues for our first child’s christening.

“Shall we?” I take his hand and prepare to glide gracefully to his side.

But as I go to stand, I suddenly realise that I’m not going anywhere. I realise that . . . oh s**t . . . I’m stuck.

Clamping both heels on the footrest of my stool was not a good move – not when there’s a big blob of bright blue gum on each. I try to pull the right one away but it stretches and stretches and, despite my efforts to disengage, it continues stretching until it’s flapping round my shins like a ridiculously-proportioned Hoover-belt.

“Ermm, um, sorry . . . give me a sec.” With blazing cheeks, I plonk my head between my knees and attempt to untangle myself.

“Erm, are you all right?” he asks, peering down in bewilderment. “Can I help?”

“Absolutely not… no thank you.” I cry, dementedly winding up reams of gum and attempting to pick the remainder from my sole.

“It’s just a little, um . . . shoe issue. I’ll have it sorted in no time.”

“Please, let me help,” he says gallantly, reaching down.

“No!” I snap, grabbing my left ankle and yanking it upwards as if wrenching a plunger out of the U-bend of a toilet.

“Really, if you’d just let me help, I—“

“No!” I shriek, rather louder than intended.

“I mean, look . . . I’ve got it now,” I declare triumphantly as I successfully unstick my foot and send the stool clattering to the floor, and follow it head first. I perform an ungrateful commando roll and bounce back to my feet. I cough.

“Sorry about that.” I straighten myself out as my eyes dart around the floor, attempting to locate my right shoe.

“No problem,” he mutters, frowning as he bends down. He hands me my new louis vuittons’ with a disconcerting look.

“Ohh, and thanks for that too,” I smile weakly, seizing it from his hand and shoving it on my foot. But there’s something about his expression that tells me I’ve blown it again. That, new shoes or no new shoes, nothing will rescue me now.

“I have an important meeting tomorrow that I need to prepare for. Shall I call you a taxi?” He asks.

“No, it’s okay. I planned to meet some of the girls after this,” I tell him brightly. My stomach sinking at another failed date.