“Nice legs,” said a friendly London accent. Emma started, and turned to see a young man, with a wide, good-natured Saxon face, lounging contentedly in the entrance to the shop next door.

“I said, you’ve got nice legs,” he repeated, indicating. “Very nice, in fact.”

“Thank you,” said Emma, smiling back—he clearly meant no harm, and she did, in fact, have nice legs. “My boyfriend likes them, too.”

“So would mine,” said the young man. “But I just wanted to say.”

“Well, thank you,” said Emma. “That’s a nice compliment. You’ve cheered me up.”

“You looked pretty chipper already,” said the young man. “Been inside my shop?”

She looked past the doorway to the shop behind. Shoes by Manolete, one of the new breed of Islington shops, and highly priced even for that section of the road. A shop into whose window Emma—who did know that her legs were nice and who liked to flatter them, within reason, with pretty shoes—had occasionally peered and wondered who on earth could justify paying such prices for shoes while people were homeless.

“Ah,” she said. “Nice try.”

“I’m not looking for custom,” he said. “I’m filthy rich, actually. I’m Manolete. I’m the next big thing—you might have read about me in Grazia.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sure you’re very popular.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “Actually, I’m really called Nigel, but you know how it is. I just thought you’d look nice in my shoes.”

“They’re lovely shoes,” she said. “I look at them when I go past. I’m sure anyone would look good in them.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I just sold a couple of pairs this morning.” He stopped and sighed, his face clouding. “Tragic ankles,” he said. “Just plain tragic. Lovely girl, mind you, and it’s not her fault or anything, but there’s nothing you can do about an ankle, is there? It broke my heart to see my shoes go off with her.”

“I’m sorry,” said Emma. “That must have been, um, difficult.”

“It was tragic,” he said. “Heartbreaking. Criminal. That’s why it’s nice to see a nice pair of legs like yours. Gives me back a bit of hope.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Emma. “Your shoes are lovely, really. But they’re way beyond my budget, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, my love.” Nigel known as Manolete clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Lovely shoes are in everyone’s budget. A private yacht, now that’s going too far, but shoes?” He brightened. “Tell you what. Why don’t you give him a treat on his wedding day?”

“Excuse me?” Emma blinked, unsure whether to be amused or offended.

“Well, you are getting married, aren’t you? I see them all the time, girls like you, stopping outside next door with the ring, the little smile, the looking at the flowers … I think it’s lovely. You said he likes your legs, so give him a treat on his wedding day—wear some really gorgeous shoes.” He narrowed his eyes and squinted appraisingly downwards. “Tell you what you’d look good in,” he said after a moment. “The Empress line. Now, I don’t say that to just anyone, ’cause the Empress line’s a bit of a challenge. You need nice feet, as well as nice legs, for Her Imperialship, but if you are up for it, they knock your socks off, and I think, yes, I really do, that you just might qualify. The Catherine, maybe. Or … no, wait. I’ve got it. The Josephine. Josephine’s the girl for you.”