A short story by Emma Milford (that's me!)....
Janet Evanovich wrote, ‘Men are like shoes. Some fit better than others. And sometimes you go out shopping and there's nothing you like. And then, as luck would have it, the next week you find two that are perfect, but you don't have the money to buy both.’
I concur, men are like shoes; they can be extremely sexy, high maintenance, comfy, boring or practical. We would all love a pair of sexy high heeled Christian Louboutin’s but how often are they really that practical? Exactly!
My name is Olivia, and I’m a shoeaholic. So, during my quest for the perfect man I’ve often considered my shopping tendencies whilst searching for the most amazing pair of stylish, sexy, high, yet comfy shoes. Tough as you can imagine.
‘Olivia, hurry up, we’ll be late’ shouted my flat mate Becks from the lounge.
‘I’m deciding which shoes to wear’ I called back.
‘WHAT? We’ll never get there if you start trying every pair on’. Becks sounded frustrated.
She had reason to be, I had spent over an hour trying on almost fifty pairs of shoes and there were at least another fifty in my purpose-built shoe cupboard. I grabbed my favourite; Louboutins, black patent, five-inch stiletto with the oh so glamorous trademark red sole.
‘Ok, I’m ready’ I rushed in to the lounge, Becks was perched on the edge of the sofa reading a fashion magazine, before casually chucking it on the coffee table. She got up and straightened her thigh skimming sexy pink dress. I tutted, grabbed the magazine and replaced it smartly in line with the others on the table. Becks rolled her eyes.
We clambered out of the taxi outside the Royal Oak, our local up market pub and cocktail bar, the place to see and be seen.
‘Right’ said Becks, ‘our mission tonight is to find a suitable, sexy, well off guy, who has a good job, his own place and a nice car’.
‘That’s a tall order’ I said.
‘Actually, we had better find two as I don’t fancy sharing’ we both laughed.
‘You know there are no suitable single men left on earth’ I paused as I thought about my statement. ‘Well apart from George Clooney of course’
Becks grinned at me, ‘Lighten up and have some fun’ she said, dragging me towards the bar.
The first ever pair of shoes I bought myself were two inch, blue denim strappy sandals. Oh how I thought they were the most fabulous shoes ever. And to be honest they completely matched my first boyfriend. His name was Andrew and I thought he was the most attractive and exciting guy I had ever laid eyes on. I must inform you at this point that I was only fifteen and rather susceptible to day dreaming and fantasies. On reflection though, like those rather dire shoes, he too turned out to not match my initial expectations or feelings.
We dated for 5 years, a long part of my young life, and had some of the most exciting adventures and shared many experiences. However, like my cute denim shoes, it soon transpired that first impressions were not as they appeared and soon the denim faded and the heel started to look frumpy as my girlfriends moved on to higher, slimmer heels and taller, more exciting men. So my first love and those denim shoes were history.
‘Champagne ladies?’ said a rather sleazy looking dark haired chap who had weaved his way through the crowd to proposition Becks and me.
‘We’re all set thanks’ I responded rather dismissively. Becks gave me that look.
‘That would be great, thank you. I’m Becks, this is Olivia’ I was so not impressed. He was like a tacky pair of Essex girl style stilettos from some cheap chain store. Yuck. I wouldn’t be seen dead in such a shoe and certainly not with a guy so obviously a bit of a tosser. Not ticking the boxes Becks had set, AND he was wearing trainers; trainers, in a posh cocktail bar. Hello.
‘Come here often?’ he drooled. Oh my God, do men actually think lines like that work? I sipped my champagne and smiled politely. Becks giggled flirtatiously; surely she wasn’t in to this loser? I scanned the room.
‘Just popping to the loo’, I said, ‘excuse me’, topping up my glass I made my escape.
After escaping Mr Essex Stiletto, as I have decided to name him, I took my champagne; well it’s champagne which should never be turned down; and went off in search of the elusive Mr Clooney type man, a combination of sexy patent leather knee high YSLs and comfy yet stylish Todd loafers.
Actually, I once dated a rich, sexy guy; not too dissimilar to how I imagine Mr Clooney to be. There was so much passion and excitement. Although he was less Todd loafer and more like my patent purple knee high boots; you know the ones with the sexy zips?
I met James whilst at a conference; it was very dull, you know the kind where you have to wear those awful tacky name badges and listen intently to some dull balding guy talking about what the government plan to do to solve the financial crisis. Lots of accountants and banker type people there. God why are accountants so very dull? They are like Birkenstocks, comfy, ugly and do the job but don’t satisfy you. I mean, they’re always Guardian reading, missionary position loving, muesli eaters, who think a roast dinner whilst listening to Radio 4, followed by five minutes of text book sex is an exciting evening. Yawn.
Oh, yes, James. Well, he was certainly not an accountant. He worked in the City for some new and upcoming funky IT company and earned a ridiculous amount of money, not sure what he did exactly, I got bored at the mention of IT. However, his charm, looks, height and shoes (black Paul Smith brogues, well cared for, polished, smart and worn well with his Boss suit) made me swoon and soon we were inseparable. He made me laugh, flattered me and I felt like the sexiest, most special girl in the World; well at the conference at least.
‘So, how about dinner; Gauthier?’ He asked over lunch on the last day of the conference. Wow Gauthier, a Michelin starred restaurant in town, (Scream).
‘That sounds delightful’ I was trying to play it cool like I went to posh restaurants every day. Oh, I would need to go shoe shopping.
‘Fabulous, I’ll give you a call tomorrow to confirm’ he said.
The date was amazing, the food was amazing, he was amazing, my new shoes (strappy pink suede Manolo Blahniks) were amazing. This was it, this was finally the perfect guy. We went back to his place, an amazing two bed apartment over looking the river at Battersea. I nearly fainted at the terrace, beautiful corian kitchen worktops, the open plan wood floored living area, the oh so gorgeous open fire...
‘Champagne?’ God he knew me so well; I think I was in love.
‘Yes please’ I said, still in a state of shock at this dream home. I wondered how long would be appropriate before casually moving my things in.
We walked out on to the terrace, the lights from the surrounding buildings dancing their reflections on the river. It was just so romantic and it got even more romantic and slightly steamy. Yes we did it on the balcony, yes it was just as good as I had imagined, yes I was in love, yes the guy was perfect.
But of course, he wasn’t otherwise I wouldn’t be roaming the Royal Oak having escaped Mr Essex Stiletto in search of the perfect man. It transpired that like those suede Manolos, they were beautiful, sexy, perfect on paper and on the shelf, but completely impractical. Looking after them was exhausting, expensive and caused me pain. Some days I just wanted to wear trainers, but with a man like James that’s not acceptable, you need to be immaculate every day, you can’t skip a wax, or not style your hair or wear trainers, no. It was just too much like hard work and soon I came to realise I just wasn’t happy, despite the lifestyle and love of such a guy. So unfortunately we went our separate ways and the Manolos were resigned to their shelf in my shoe cupboard to be admired from afar.
Oh wait a minute, who’s that? I made my way across the room to the area by the fireplace, gorgeous plump chesterfield sofas surrounded it, where a very cute chap in his mid forties sat, A-L-O-N-E.
‘Hi, I’m Olivia, is this seat taken’ I said gesturing next to him. He smiled, wow look at those teeth.
‘Hi Olivia, I’m Mark.’ His voice matched his smile. ‘Sure take a pew.’
I sat down, nervously rearranging my skirt so as not to flash too much leg but to make sure I flashed enough and to show off my shoes.
‘So, Olivia’ I loved how he said my name, emphasising the ah, ‘what brings you here?’ Um not a great line but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘I’m here with my friend but she’s deep in conversation with some guy at the bar’ I rolled my eyes in that ‘and I think he’s a bit of a tosser’ way.
‘Well her loss is my gain’ Really? Hmm, one more chance to say something decent. ‘So, what do you do?’
‘I’m a financial journalist, I write for the Telegraph’ I didn’t want to bore the guy.
‘Oh I’m more of a Guardian man myself’
‘Oh, and what do you do?’
‘I’m an accountant’ OH MY GOD ‘I work for a local family firm, been there twenty years.’
‘Lovely’ I lied, surely he must be different, I mean he was in a hip bar for goodness sake and he was sexy. ‘So what do you like to do for fun?’ I pried.
‘Well I work out and love to go skiing’ Yes, jackpot ‘but my favourite thing to do is relax at home, listen to Radio 4 and enjoy a good British roast, with a beautiful girl. Interested?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.
Right, time to go.
‘Um that sounds really lovely.’ I said, fake smile plastered on face. ‘Oh excuse me my phone’s ringing, it’s probably my friend asking where I am.’
‘Oh I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Well it’s vibrating, sorry I must go, lovely to meet you.’ Time to grab Becks and leave, there are clearly no suitable guys here.
‘Where r u?’ I texted.
‘With Allan’
‘Who?’
‘Guy from bar’ WHAT? Clearly she had her champagne goggles on.
‘K be safe, call me 2moro xx’
‘K. Luv u xx’
A short taxi ride later, shoes stored on their shelf, I got in to my pyjamas, removed my makeup and threw my hair in to a loose bun. What a night. Oh my feet ached, comfy slippers on. Uggs, so comfy for around the house and stylish enough if someone should drop by, not ok for wearing outside unless poorly. My rule.
Comfy shoes got me thinking of Ben, my last boyfriend, I loved him so much but I found him a little too comfortable and like my Uggs, or those Todd loafers I must buy; I mean every girl needs driving loafers; he was comfy, safe, reliable, and loving. Yes shoes are loving. Well comfy shoes are, tight stiletto boots are not as your toes are crammed in and you have all your weight baring down on them, but how sexy and delicious they look. Anyway, Ben. Two years of comfiness I started to ponder where this was going, I hinted at moving in, engagement, the future, which seemed to freak him out, and slowly I decided he was clearly lacking the adventurous spirit I so desired, the spirit to take chances, live by the edge of your seat, be spontaneous and passionate.
But now sitting here in my comfy clothes, on my comfy sofa with my comfy Uggs, I wondered whether I was too hasty in my judgement of sensible shoes and sensible men. Is comfy better than passion and excitement; I mean look where that got me with James.
Perhaps Todd loafers are the perfect shoes and perhaps a sensible, loving and comfy man is perfect. There’s no pretence, I mean they’re loafers, they’re practical, reliable, not going to induce blisters and pain.
No, I couldn’t live without my Louboutins. I need sexy shoes which fill me with confidence, make me walk tall, improve my posture, make my legs look long. I need the excitement a heel brings, but I also need love, comfort, and stability like a loafer. Hmm.
I stood staring at my shoe cupboard. Perhaps there is no such thing as the perfect man. I mean I need over one hundred pairs of shoes in my life to fulfil each element, perhaps the only way to find the perfect man is to have one to fulfil each need.
Food for thought. Right, I think I need to go shopping tomorrow.
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