If the shoe fits

Carl Woolley lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The diminutive
Australian pop singer gazed down at him, pouting. But Carl had no time
for the sparkling eyes, the boyish hips, the small breasts: he looked
at her feet. A four, he thought. Definitely a four. Narrow, but with
perfect arches. The stiletto heels were just right, he thought, but he
would have sold her a colour other than white. Too tarty for her.

"Carly," his mother called from downstairs. "Mummy's made your
brekkie."

"Coming, Mum," he shouted. He looked at the double doors opposite his
bed and the light coming from under them and his hand strayed under the
sheets. "No, Carl," he said out loud. "No time this morning."

The breakfast table was laid with his mother's favourite willow pattern
china. At Carl's place, she'd arranged a boiled egg in a matching blue
and white egg cup on a saucer holding a silver apostle spoon and a
small pile of salt. To the left of the egg was a side plate on which
rested eight perfect toast soldiers, with the crusts removed. His
mother was already seated, wearing a purple quilted dressing gown and
smoking a cigarette, from the teetering ash of which a thin stream of
grey smoke curled into the bouffant blonde hair that framed her
face.

"Sit down and eat your eggy, Darling," she said.

"Oh Mum," he said. "Don't you think I'm a bit old for all this." But he
smiled and tucked into the egg anyway.

"Going to have a nice day at work today?" she said.

"You ask me every morning, Mum, and I tell you the same thing, don't
I?"

"But it's Tuesday today, Carl. The first Tuesday of the month. And we
both know what that means."

"If Mrs Hopkins comes in, I'll look after her the way I always
do."

"That's my boy. And mind that cheap little Jenks girl doesn't take
what's rightfully yours. Her mother's just the same."

"Sammy? Don't worry about her, Mum. She thinks she's got Greg's eye but
he's only interested in his career."

Greg was the manager of 'So Shoe Me', the shop in the centre of
Winchester where Carl worked. Greg subscribed to The Economist and
Management Today and believed in the power of positive thinking.

Carl finished his egg. "Sometimes I think you know a bit too much,
Mum."

"I just like to know you're happy, that's all Carly. Now then, my baby
boy. Come to Mummy."

As Carl sighed and went over to his mother's chair, she started
unbuttoning her dressing gown.

*

The bus was late. Carl stood at the stop for 20 minutes, cursing the
driver of the G12 cheerily under his breath.

"Come on, towel-head. What's the matter, bang your beak on your prayer
carpet?"

The middle aged woman standing next to Carl looked at him then turned
away as he caught her eye.

"Just joking," he said, holding up his hands in front of him, palms
outwards. "Some of my best friends blah blah blah."

He looked down reflexively. Sevens at least. And a bunion on the left.
Cheap chain store courts. He didn't waste any more time on her. Instead
he focused on the hairdresser's opposite the bus stop. From here, he
could see the girls arriving for work. He knew a couple of them by
name, but he preferred his own nicknames. Just as zoologists in the
field assign sobriquets to the animals they study - Kinktail, Notch,
Bluebeard - so Carl distinguished women by their footwear.

While he waited for the bus, he recognised three distinctive females
from the 'Curl Up and Dye' tribe: Pointy, Ankles and Beauty. The latter
- a slim, bespectacled girl with acne scars - was undoubtedly Carl's
favourite. Though he had never shod her himself, he felt an affinity
with whoever had, because she, or he, had placed Beauty's delectable
feet in a pair of midnight blue suede peep-toe kitten-heels. To Carl,
these were perfection, and he stored them away for future nocturnal
reference.

The blue, pink and green single-decker that clattered to a halt by the
bus stop interrupted Carl's fantasy in a cloud of diesel fumes and a
pneumatic hissing from the doors. Carl boarded, and was mildly
irritated to see not the regular driver - the turbaned Sikh he had been
gearing himself up to insult - but a young, crop-headed white man, who
glared at him from behind the grimy security screen.

"Town Hall," Carl said, putting 70 pence onto the black plastic coin
tray. "Where's the normal guy? Get fired, did he?"

"What's it to you?" said the bus driver. "You're holding up the queue,
mate."

"Just trying to be polite," said Carl, resisting the pushing of the
middle-aged woman as she crowded behind him to avoid the closing
doors.

It was 9.25 when Carl walked through the shop and into the back to drop
off his bag. Greg accosted him immediately, scowling at Carl's lilac
cashmere sweater and purple cords.

"Where've you been, Woolley? And what the hell are you dressed like
that for? One of your boyfriends coming in later, is he?"

"There's no need to be personal. I'll make up the time over my
lunch."

"You'll do what I tell you to do, Woolley. Don't forget, I'm the
manager of this store and I decide who works what hours."

"Oh, please! Do get off your haut cheval Greg. We all know you're
headed for greatness but for God's sake, this is a shoe shop, not the
Virgin megastore. Though you'd know all about that, wouldn't
you?"

"Just piss off and sell some shoes, Woolley. This is coming off your
pay: a full hour. Now get out there. I've got to sort out some
paperwork. Got some rejects that have go to back to the
manufacturers."

"Suit yourself," said Carl. Wind him up and let him go, he thought.
Carl turned away and went back into the shop, smiling solicitously at
his first customer of the day. From behind him, he heard the sound of a
box of shoes being kicked across a room.

The morning passed slowly for Carl, and he committed acts of wanton
cruelty. He sold a pair of high-heeled ostrich hide boots to a woman
for whose fat calves they were manifestly unsuitable. He persuaded a
teenaged girl that the black Mary Jane pumps he was recommending would
be much more fashionable in three months' time than the tractor-tread
sneakers she'd come in to buy. And he charmed a harassed mother with
two toddlers straining at the leash into parting with the best part of
a week's family allowance for a pair of clumpy brown spogs he described
as 'big at the Milan shoe expo', knowing no such event had ever
occurred.

Carl's attentions were devoted purely to the shop's female customers.
Greg had noticed this early on. So had Sammy Jenks, Carl's rival on the
sales floor. She didn't share Greg's sexual myopia when it came to
Carl's effete manners and androgynous good looks; she knew he was
straight, if, as she put it, a bit of a pervo.

Sammy also knew that the female customers usually spent more than the
men, thus yielding higher commission for the sales person who served
them. But lacking Carl's deft approach (and unable to best him
physically if push came, literally, to shove), she ended up, more often
than not, looking after the mumbling teenaged boys, indecisive
executives and boring old farts looking for "a nice pair of brown
brogues, dear."

She approached Carl, in one of the morning's quiet moments.

"'Ere, Carl, when are you going to let me get a few of the women to
serve?"

"I serve who I want, when I want, Dear. I'm the senior sales assistant
at this fine footwear emporium and I decide who serves which customers.
And don't you forget it."

Despite herself, Sammy giggled. When Carl started strutting up and down
the racks of shoes banging the odd stiletto down onto the polished
beechwood fitting, she cackled loudly then clapped her hand over her
mouth.

"I've got a diploma, you know," he said, sticking his chin out. "I'm
management material, I am."

She snorted with suppressed laughter.

"Stop it, Carl," she said, motioning him frantically to keep his voice
down and rolling her eyes. "I'll wet myself."

In fact, Carl did stop. But not because of Sammy's imprecations. He had
just seen his favourite customer approaching the double glass doors.
While Sammy was still dabbing her eyes and trying to prevent her
mascara running, he bounded to the front of the shop and held the door
open for the woman.

She was about fifty, wearing makeup but appearing not to, and dressed
in cream leather trousers and a three-quarter length buckskin jacket
with a Herm?s silk square tied at her neck. She smiled broadly at Carl,
showing the gums above her even white teeth.

"Mrs Hopkins," he said. "How are you?"

"It's first Tuesday, Carl, and I'm here for some shoes. How do you
think I am?"

"You look lovely, Mrs Hopkins. Are those new earrings?"

"I treated myself. You like them?"

"Beautiful. Come and sit down."

While Carl busied himself bringing Mrs Hopkins a magazine and a cup of
Earl Grey, he rehearsed a little speech. He'd decided today was the day
to ask her for something he asked of all his favourite customers at
some point.

The shop was quiet and Carl observed to his satisfaction that Sammy was
flirting, or trying to, with Greg, leaning over the cash desk and
giving him a good eyeful. Keep up the good work, Sam, he thought, as he
bent to Mrs Hopkins's foot and drew her perfume deep into his lungs. He
slid the short leather riding boot over her ankle and slowly pulled up
the zip, letting the weight of her lower leg rest deliciously in the
palm of his hand.

"How does that feel, Mrs Hopkins?"

She turned her foot this way and that, pointing her toe and flexing her
ankle.

"It's a little tight, Carl," she said. "Maybe I should have the next
size up."

"Oh, no!" he said, looking into her eyes. "A boot like this needs to be
snug. Just wear it round the house for a few days and it'll ease up
naturally. Try the other one."

With the first pair decided on, Mrs Hopkins became easier to manage.
Carl had realised this on her very first visit to the shop and had
tailored his approach to her rhythm. After half an hour had passed, the
tally stood at the riding boots, a pair of burgundy patent moccasins,
black ponyskin-trimmed loafers, caramel coloured backless mules and a
pair of completely unsuitable scarlet stilettos, "for Mr Hopkins" as
Mrs Hopkins put it, smiling conspiratorially at Carl and winking.

This was the point of no return for Carl; he had to force himself to
breathe slowly. Still kneeling in front of her, he leaned closer and,
very quietly, asked her the question he eventually asked all his
favourites:

"Mrs Hopkins, I wonder, would you would do me a great honour and let me
take your photograph?"

She smiled, furrowing her brow at the same time.

"Photograph? What do you mean, Carl - a portrait?"

"A portrait? Yes. Of sorts." He continued speaking in the low voice he
favoured on these occasions. "You have such good taste in shoes, Mrs
Hopkins, and I would so very much like to...recognise that with a
photograph."

"What on earth do you mean?"

He took a short breath and let it out quickly: a single pant that made
Mrs Hopkins lean back in the chair away from him.

"I have a professional studio, Mrs Hopkins. Your feet would look
wonderful. I'm compiling a book that I intend to have published."

Mrs Hopkins stood up and looked down at Carl, offering her gloved hand
and pulling him to his feet.

"I think not, Carl," she said. "Why don't you go and ring these up for
me?"

From his vantage point at the back of the shop, Greg had been watching
Carl. It was clear that Carl was a good salesman. As the boxes of shoes
mounted, Greg shook his head.

"Keep it up, Woolley," he muttered, doing a quick calculation on a
piece of notepaper. Four hundred-odd quid: almost half an average
morning's takings and from a single customer.

Carl approached the cash desk, cradling the boxed shoes. He couldn't
see, but behind him, Mrs Hopkins was crooking her finger at Greg.

She looked closely at Greg's name badge. She was not smiling any
longer. In fact, her lips were compressed into a thin line, the
shimmery brown lipstick almost disappearing.

Carl rang up the shoes, but he was watching Greg talking to Mrs
Hopkins. At one point she looked at him over Greg's shoulder and Greg
turned and shot him a cold look, holding it long enough to arouse a
faint prickle of anxiety in Carl's stomach.

After Mrs Hopkins left, the fizz went out of the day for Carl. She
hadn't agreed to his request, even after he'd groomed her so patiently
for months, flattering her about her delicate ankles - "better than
most of the twenty-year-olds we get in here", he'd said extravagantly
one Spring day. Now he had a vacant page in his album.

Greg seemed to be avoiding him, but Sammy noticed his lack of energy
and pounced.

"What's the matter, Mummy's Boy? Your special lady tell you to piss
off, did she?"

"I don't know what you mean, Samantha. Mrs Hopkins was very satisfied
today, and so am I. Five pairs at over 70 quid each - you do the maths.
Hmm, what shall I buy with my commission this month?"

"Satisfied, are you? I don't think so. I've seen the way you hold their
feet: it's disgusting. What d'you do, ask her for a foot job?" Sammy
uttered a short machine-gun burst of laughter that brought Greg out
from the stockroom.

"All right you two, cut the chat and straighten up the displays. It
looks like a bloody Oxfam shop in here. Then you can go, Sam. Woolley,
I want you to stay behind. I've got a bone to pick with you."

After Sam had gone, shooting Carl a triumphant look as she swung out
and onto the High Street, Greg grabbed Carl and marched him into the
stockroom.

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself, you pervert?"

Carl was worried now, though not overmuch. Mrs Hopkins had obviously
been indiscreet.

"What do you mean, Greg?" Might as well make him work for it, he
thought.

"You know what I mean. You asked Mrs Hopkins, a very good customer of
this store, to pose for fucking kinky photos, didn't you?" Greg was
blushing despite himself, and tried to cover by poking his finger hard
into Carl's sternum.

"OK, Greg, you win. I take art studies and I asked Mrs Hopkins to model
for me. It's just the feet that interest me, no above the knee stuff
like some people do. Not like those magazines you're undoubtedly so
fond of."

"Never mind what I'm 'fond of'; this is gross misconduct. It's just
gross, actually." Greg fell back on the standard management phraseology
he'd learned at night school. "You leave me no alternative: I'll have
to terminate your contract."

Greg was shaking as he said this: Carl could see his hand trembling on
the topmost box of Prada sneakers on the reject pile.

"Gross misconduct? Well, you may have a point there, Greg. But I wonder
what head office would make of your little sideline."

"What do you mean?"

"Rejects, Greg. Customer returns, credit notes. I know what you've been
up to. You're not the only one with a head for numbers. I've been
watching you. You've been cooking the books and I have your recipe, you
little tinker."

Greg was white-faced. He sat back on a pile of boxes that crumpled a
little under his weight. He loosened his Tom and Jerry tie and looked
down. There was a pause.

"What do you want?"

"I think, in the circumstances, a little trade-off would be in order.
Let me think. How about five hundred in cash and a lovely little
reference from you. After all, I am your best salesman. Even if she
does flash her tits at you back here, Sammy's never going to get you
that job in head office, now is she?"

After a little more negotiation, largely for show, Greg caved in to
Carl's demands. Carl left at 6.30, bowing deeply to the sharply dressed
business woman he encountered on the corner and drinking in the image
of her stockinged feet clad in malachite suede heels.

After supper with his mother, Carl retired for the evening.

"Got an application form to fill in, Mum," he shouted from the top of
the stairs.

Closing his bedroom door behind him and turning the key, he walked over
to the connecting door into his special room. Once inside, he sat at
the desk and leaned back, letting his eyes rove over the photographs
that covered the walls. Then, stroking his cheek with the heel of a
feather-trimmed pump, he settled down to work. He read the first
question aloud.

"Question one. Describe, in your own words, why you think you are
qualified to work at 'Sole Food'."

Carl laughed.

The end