A Pair of Shoes

As a teenager, I was just a little obsessed with shoes, with clothes and dressing up full stop to be precise. This was back in the days when underage drinking was the norm, and the law was rarely enforced. The whole week was spent planning outfits for Friday and Saturday night, and, of course, you could never wear the same one twice. A lot of my clothes were bespoke, created by my talented mother on her old sewing machine from patterns I adapted. Others came from the one boutique in town which always took a delivery of new stock on a Thursday, and we would walk there after school, my friends and I and spend an hour or so trying on, giggling, twirling and prancing until the owner ran out of patience. Then we would skip off to Woolworths, the English one, and find shoe dye to match the outfits. It was quite a mission, but we loved it.

Even as a child, Mum could easily bribe me by offering a new pair of shoes, a skirt, or a dress, rather than a trip to the fair or money to spend on sweets and soft drinks. I guess I should be grateful as it's probably the reason I still have all my teeth.

On Saturday afternoons, after working all morning at the library, I would meet my best girls and we'd head to the fancy department store. We thought we were so very cool, sitting on the stairs and smoking before spending an hour or so trying on shoes, designer ones. That is where I met my wolf in sheep's clothing. He was much older than I, draped in a sheepskin coat, holding two beautiful Russian Borzois on a leash. Like a character from a fairy tale, he appeared one Saturday as I was trying on a beautiful pair of Vivienne Westwood’s that I would have to work an entire year of Saturday mornings to afford. They were black patent leather with peep toes, stiletto heels and large red polka dot bows. I had seen him watching me, of course, and deliberately paraded in front of him, reaching out to pat the dogs as I passed. I turned to stroll back, and he grinned at me, then turned on his heels and left. I was momentarily disappointed but soon forgot about it. The shoes went back onto their shelf.

The following Saturday, when I walked into the shoe department, the sales assistant approached me and handed me a bag with a shoe box inside. "These are for you," she said. Confused, I sat and opened the box. The Westwoods nestled prettily inside, screaming, 'Put us on.' A small card had been left on top of the shoes. To my Aurora. These shoes are beautiful, but not as beautiful as you. I hope you enjoy wearing them. Nowadays, this would be considered creepy, but back then, when the pleasures in life leapt from the pages of a racy Jilly Cooper novel, it was thrilling.

Did I ever meet him, and if so, what happened? Well, that, dear readers, is another story entirely.