Chapter Two

The clanging became more insistent. ‘I have to get out of here,’ Lacey thought. Suddenly, her eyes flew open. Heart thumping; her eyes roamed wildly, searching for the source of the ringing. She alighted on the illuminated device on her bedside table. It was 7am.

It was a dream. It had all been a dream.

Frantically, she threw herself out from under the covers and began pulling out garments from drawers and cupboards. A rush of dizzying nausea washed over her and she slumped back onto the bed for a moment, regaining her centre. She continued with her morning routine, slipping into her shirt and trouser suit, which she had ironed and pressed the night before. Her mother, a nurse, had already left for work, leaving Lacey alone in the house. Her head throbbed as anxiety and panic gripped her. Doing her best to ignore it, she shouldered her handbag and retrieved her portfolio from the dining room table.

‘I’m going to get this job. I’m going to get this job.’ She repeated her mantra the whole way down the road, inwardly buoying herself along as she made her way into the train station.

Plugging her headphones into her iPod she stood back as the train roared into the station. Joining the crush of people flowing on, she squeezed herself into a space and leaned against the seats of the train carriage prepared to just immerse herself in the music. No such luck, at the next stop an inordinately rude girl stepped onto the train. Lacey tried not to listen as she spewed profanities and verbal abuse into her mobile directed at some poor sod who was apparently at home and thereby unhindered by the affliction of rush-hour tube travel. Phone call over, angry girl then turned her fury on some poor fellow standing in front of her. Blasting him for his McDonald’s-own coffee breath and abject proximity to her in such a small and confined space; she muttered that situations such as this explained how people were convicted of ABH. Lacey exchanged an alarmed look with the lady standing opposite. Coffee breath tried to explain there was little manoeuvrability for him as angry girl pointed out some space behind him. To her irritation he refused to move into it. She huffed and puffed until the train finally pulled into Finchley Road where to everyone’s relief she alighted – Lacey assumed to wreak havoc for the community of the Jubilee Line.

A deluge of people replaced angry girl and others who got off and the train continued forward on its journey. A few minutes after departing the next station, the train heaved to an untimely stop somewhere within the tunnel. Most people didn’t particularly notice this fact, engrossed in morning headlines and assorted literature. Then the lights went out plunging the train into darkness. Lacey looked up at the carriage ceiling, expecting the overhead beams to come back on. But nothing happened. Trying to ignore the unease tugging at her consciousness, she studied her fellow passengers in the muted light. People on top of people. Bags pressed into the backs of others. Sighs of irritation. The hands on so many watches ticking down the minutes as they stood and sat in unfriendly silence, willing the train to move forward so they could attend to appointments, meetings and other working commitments.

The driver’s voice crackled through the intercom. It sounded alien and far away.
‘Sorry for the delay to your journey Ladies and Gents, I’m just waiting to hear what the problem is but hopefully we’ll be on the move again soon.’ A murmur of discontented grumbles passed through the carriage. Lacey tried to peer out, beyond the double layered windows into the tunnel but recoiled at seeing the red brick of wall mere inches from the train’s exterior. Breathing heavily she fished in her bag for the bottle of Rescue Remedy she had plucked from the bathroom cabinet before leaving the house. Her trusty aid for the nerve-inducing ordeal of the interview; she slipped a few drops onto her tongue now, relishing the taste of the calming ingredients as they dissolved in her mouth.

She swallowed and shifted slightly on her 4” black Louboutin heels. Discomfort was beginning to settle on her limbs as the time passed, slowly.

The Wedge Factor

I would like to share with you all, my stylistic saving grace - Wedges!

As a person of demure height who has gone through life at ground level, forced to ‘look up to’ my peers towering over me thanks to their reinforced stature – I would like to thank the shoe world for, wedges.



Whoever knew one could realise the joy of height and comfort. As I discovered, the beauty of wedges is the solid platform which joins the sole and heel together in one fluid sweep of leather, cork or wood. Gone is the need for unnatural balancing acts as you totter down the street looking like an ungainly gazelle, or shifting from one foot to the other in order to ease the burning discomfort, or throwing hard-earned cash at startled Boots and Superdrug cashiers as you stock up on so many pairs of Party Feet gel pads.



Akin to the slim-inducing properties of wearing black, wedges bestow upon individuals such as my 5”4 self, who cannot master the art of wearing high heels, the illusion of towering glamazonian stiletto prowess. The wedge could be said to be to shoes what stabilizer wheels are to bicycles; allowing clumsy young women and five year-old children alike the luxury of joining in with a trend already mastered by their contemporaries.

Like so many members of the female population I have, at times, an unhealthy obsession with all things Carrie Bradshaw. Not quite embroiled with my screen-queen to stretch to becoming a smoker and coffee drinker – I confess, I am a committed non-smoker and lifelong advocate of the green tea – the one Bradshaw luxury I wish to succumb to is “very high heels”. Though I may not be able to afford her coveted labels of Blahnik, Louboutin and Choo, I aspire to achieve the poise and skill of walking in high heels, which she makes look as easy as Serena Williams does winning a grand slam title.

Inspired by several trends endorsed by my style icon, I pillaged the virtual ASOS shoe lounge following the debut of the SATC movie in 2008, furnishing my already duly populated assortment of footwear with two pairs of skyscraper heels. Attempting to stand in my newly acquired 4 inch extreme black gladiator sandals (in the style of Christian Dior) was a feat of epic proportions (pun intended). However as I contemplated navigating the Kilburn High Road for the New Years Eve outing they were destined for, I felt a thrill of fear down my spine – not least for the impact my new shoes would have on it.



Leaning on my fiancé – who unhelpfully spent the majority of the 20 minute ordeal shaking quite uncontrollably with laughter – I hobbled to the bar. Honestly, if men had to experience the pain we go through to achieve beauty they would rethink the mockery! Once we arrived I thankfully sank into the sofa in our reserved area and remained there for the duration of the evening. Feeling like some royal or celestial being, friends attended to me, dutifully admiring my head-to-toe ensemble, forming a sociable cluster around the sofa while I observed and participated from my seated vantage point. Fearing the hobblesome return journey at the end of the night, I reluctantly admitted defeat and replaced my heels with the Feet Fairies I had earlier concealed in my handbag. Another fantastic fashion discovery!



I am inclined to blame this heel-intolerance on my mother, who on taking me shopping at age 13 for party shoes, allowed me to try on a pair of gorgeous black heels and then point-blank refused to buy them for me – despite my plaintive attempts to appeal to her good-will. She maintained that I would never wear them again and therefore they were not worth the £20 (it was the 1990s) she would have to pay for them. From that moment on, “high-heels” became the elephant in our North-London home, carefully side-stepped prior to every shoe-shopping excursion.

I sorrowfully looked on as school assemblies quickly spiraled into self-depreciative pity parties, as I mentally compared the heel-height on every other girl’s shoes parading past me daily. My tweenage years passed by in a blur of school discos, inconsequential dates and girlie weekend trips to town with only brogues, plimsols and pumps for company. I purposely surrounded myself with friends shorter than me to regain some of the confidence lost in developing a height-specific complex.

Until one day, I was presented with a large white box and inside was a pair of black knee-high velvet boots with, a wedge heel. It was a Eureka! moment; my mother had found a loophole in the ‘no heels’ clause and I was magically elevated a few inches beyond my then hobbit-adjacent 5ft frame. I wore them everywhere and still have a photograph of me wearing them, complete with cream roll-neck top and black mini, tacked to the inside of my wardrobe. In homage to this special discovery my shoe collection will always include a pair of knee-high velvet black boots, with a wedge heel.



Wedges have become my not-so-secret fashion indulgence as I purchase a new pair every season, ranging from the £50 high street pair to the £250 designer pair. Black patent wedge ankle boots à la Stella McCartney for shopping trips to New York, mustard peep-toe wedges for strutting down sunny Parisian boulevards and navy suede lace-up wedge shoes for London City chic. From spring to winter, there is a wedge to fit all.