“Josephine!” Nigel-Manolete, reaching into the window for a pair of delicate satin boots in light baby blue, hailed her with the comfort of old familiarity. “What a sight for these sore old eyes you are. I was hoping you’d come by today—come in, I’ve got something to show you. Excuse me,” he added to the customer sitting patiently on a chair. “This here is a very important professional-type contact of mine, on account of which I just have to reach out and grab her whenever she does me the honor of passing by my shop.”
“How wonderful to be so important,” smiled the customer. “Are you someone amazingly high-up in shoes?”
“Hardly.” Surprised by the ambush, Emma perched herself on the edge of a chair. “He’s just kidding you, I’m nothing to do with fashion at all.”
“Well, you’re obviously very special anyway,” said the customer. She had a vibrant contralto voice, a great deal of blond hair, and a pretty, slightly old-fashioned face, which looked to Emma somehow familiar. As, of course, it would, Emma told herself then. This was Alice Weathers, Oscar winner and darling of the BAFTA crowd. Alice Weathers, who commanded more money per movie than Emma would probably earn in her entire lifetime, who famously lived with her film director husband in one of the most splendid of all the Georgian houses in Canonbury Square. Alice Weathers, who was about to buy the Josephine shoe that Emma now saw winking saucily at her from the counter, as it was only right and fitting that she should, because Alice Weathers was the sort of person who could afford it.
“I am absolutely heartbroken,” Alice announced to Emma. “I have the most fabulous party coming up, and I’ve just fallen head over heels in love with these perfectly exquisite shoes here, but Manolete says he doesn’t have them in my size. Don’t you just want to go into a corner and sob when that happens?”
“The problem with size five,” said Manolete, “is it’s a popular size in a shoe ’cause it’s the pretty size. Now, we do have a five in this lovely little boot here, which is a really very lovely little boot, and listen up, ladies, because you’re hearing it here first, it’ll be all over the place for the summer. How about you give it a whirl?”
“Mm.” Alice pursed her lips for a moment, thinking, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s my birthday party, and a girl wants to show off her legs, doesn’t she? Oh, what a shame. Well, I’ll leave you two to your important business and go off and sulk somewhere. Bye, Manolete, Josephine. Abrazos.”
She gathered her bag, and tripped out onto Upper Street. As soon as she had gone, Nigel-Manolete’s body sagged, and he gripped Emma’s arm, his mouth agape with emotion.
“Did you see that?” he demanded. “Oh, my Little Red Riding Hood’s Great-Aunty May, did you bleeding see that?”
Emma smiled: write-up in Grazia or not, Nigel-Manolete was apparently not above being impressed by a little celebrity glamour.