Chapter One

She couldn’t understand it. One moment she’d been sitting patiently in the lobby with her portfolio, alongside all the other girls in their starched white shirts and Zara trouser suits, waiting for her name to be called. The next she appeared to be suspended in some kind of alternate reality. The room, empty and dark with high ceilings and low-hanging chandeliers looked across between the hotel ballroom in The Shining and the decorated hall of her graduation ball. The red leather couch which had moments ago been occupied by two other girls, fidgeting and nervous, was now bare. Lacey made to stand up, causing something to rustle underfoot. She looked down to find the pages of her carefully constructed portfolio fanned out in a chaotic pile on the marble floor.

She tried to peer into the blackness and called out. ‘Is anyone there?’ But all that she heard was her own voice echoing back at her from the cavernous corners of the eerie gloom.

The job she had been about to interview for was as a Junior Copywriter within one of London’s top advertising agencies. Highly competitive, ruthlessly creative and the ideal beginning to her dream career. The application process had been a nightmare. As it turned out, thinking outside the box was not as easy as the woman on the phone had made it sound. ‘Just remember, she’d said. ‘You’re idea has got to be better than all the other hundreds of applicants.’ Lacey was sure she had meant it to spur her on, but she’d hung up the phone more apprehensive than ever.

The brief she’d been set was to develop a television ad campaign for Blue Star, the up-and-coming denim brand of the tweenage generation. So she’d brainstormed and called upon the prepubescent thoughts of her youngest sister and her friends and worked it all out on a big A3 flip pad from Rymans. Convinced she’d landed on a genius idea she’d run it past her Dad’s advertising pal who’d been in the business for ten or so years, and who had encouraged her to apply in the first place. He had tweaked and critiqued in red pen and handed it back to her to polish up. She’d cried with premature defeat and had then wiped her eyes, berated her self-doubt and got on with the task at hand. Happy now with the final result, involving gymnasts wearing the jeans and performing a series of routines in them to reveal their elasticity and comfort before teaming them with the sparkly halter tops favoured by her sister’s generation to take them from day to night; Lacey had sent off her application to Wyatt and Sullivan with immense trepidation.

Hardly daring to check the post, her email or her answer machine messages, she had immersed herself in mundane chores around the house, helping her mother with washing, shopping, cleaning and cooking. Anything to distract herself from thinking about what the outcome would be. This was the first proper paying job she had applied for since leaving university. Of course she had managed to secure the required work experience, the first placement via her Dad’s advertising buddy, Phil, and afterwards, through sheer determination and initiative. She had proved herself a remarkable asset and all five placements had resulted in glowing reviews and reams of examples for her portfolio.

The call from Wyatt and Sullivan had come exactly eleven days later, not that she’d been counting, from the same woman who had filled her with doubt over her application. She’d been granted an interview and was to appear at the firm’s London office two days later. As soon as the line had disconnected, she’d emitted a scream of unadulterated joy. The nerves had soon set in however as it dawned on her that she’d only made it past round one.

Somewhere in the depths of blackness a ringing started up, muffled at first but gradually gaining momentum. Lacey shut her eyes.

Hilarious easyJet tube ad

The Art of Long Copy - The London Long Copy Challenge 2010
In association with CBS Outdoor and my former workplace, Campaign magazine.

Read this hilarious entry from Publicis London, for easyJet:

So I said to Sofia (from £35.99), I said, ‘What the Helskinki (from £27.99) are you on about? I’m not getting up at 4am. That’s taking the Mykonos (from £35.99). I’m Tallinn (from £29.99) you, with Speedy Boarding there’s no need for me to be up that Orly (from €28.99). I’ll have plenty of time at the airport to get Cologne (from £25.99) for Uncle Tel Aviv (from £101.99). And something Nice (from £25.99) for your Nantes (from €24.99). Corfu (from £41.99) girl! My first business trip, and you’re acting like a Catania (from €24.99) hot tin roof.’ So off I go, and Kos (from £35.99) easyJet only fly to main airports, the hotel wasn’t too Faro (from £25.99) away. I’m on the terrace in two Sharm El Sheikhs (from £102.99) of a lambs tail, having an ice cold Biarritz (from €29.99) at the Bari (from €19.99) with this German fella Bilbao (from £27.99). ‘Venice (from £27.99) your return flight to Gatvick?’ he asks. ‘And after the meeting, do you fancy Lyon (from £25.99) on the beach?’ ‘Sure’ I said, knowing that if I got Bordeaux (from £25.99) and wanted to Split (from £23.99), I could always catch an earlier flight home at no charge. What’s Toulouse (from £27.99)? Wherever you’re flying on business, it’s a Pisa (from £27.99) cake on easyJet.com.

Dior Illustrated: In Words

“To be inspired by Dior is to be inspired by René Gruau.”
John Galliano

Ploughing through the crowds streaming along London’s Strand, she clasped his hand tightly so as not to be plied apart. They bowed their heads against the burning winds, faces frozen with cold. With the weekend train lines operating a partial service, the journey had involved a multitude of different transport options. From overground rail to London’s red buses to overcrowded tubes they had battled their way into the capital. Passing an ongoing protest outside Zimbabwe House they observed a diverse mix of people flanked by white boards with varying slogans plastered across them. People stood to one side taking an assortment of photographs and video footage, but the couple continued forward. Tailored doormen ushered fur-covered guests of the Savoy Hotel into black taxis and groups of barely dressed teenage girls flowed out of the doors of Topshop and Pizza Hut.

Pausing to run into Tesco Express on the corner to grab some lunch, the couple spied a deluge of official cars and police horses fanning out around the juncture they were intending to go down. Exiting Tesco, complete with a £2 meal deal-a-piece, they crossed the road and headed toward their destination, watching as the police vans, cars and horses attended to maintaining a vehicle-free thoroughfare.

Seeing the entrance to Somerset House up ahead, they dove inside the arched passageway and made their way slowly into the courtyard. Standing to one side, they ate their sandwiches, watching as a group of workmen milled around the ice rink that was in the process of being assembled. Pieces of wood were being sawn and lights attached to the towering Christmas tree at the entrance to the rink. The word ‘SKATE’ had been applied in large lettering to the front of Somerset House and lunch eaten they continued down the right-hand side of the rink to the main entrance.


A gaggle of art students huddled together on the steps and the couple navigated past them, coming out into the warmth of the reception. A sign for the exhibition stood centrally, directing them towards the Stamp staircase where they were to follow the imprint of René Gruau’s trademark signature. Like fashion breadcrumbs the black star and symbol led them further and further down into the heart of the building, through a set of glass doors and into the atrium where a line of people was queuing to purchase tickets to the exhibit. She brandished their pre-printed tickets at the woman behind the till and they were ushered through. An introduction to the exhibition provided their first port of call within the empty space of black and cream. It spoke of the instantly recognisable and enduring fashion and beauty images created by Gruau throughout the 20th century and of the artist’s illustrious relationship with his great friend, Christian Dior. The couple read the full text and then turned to ascend the spiral staircase that would take them to the display proper.

On first impression, she was awed by the designs spread out before them along the narrow mezzanine of works on show. He pulled her attention back to the start, directing her to work her way round slowly, absorbing each element individually.


Starting with a collection of works entitled: ‘Flower Woman’, they marvelled at Gruau’s first advertising illustrations for Diorissimo, Dior’s perfume created in 1956. The image revealed the posterior of a woman clothed in a backless elegant black sheath dress, holding a bouquet of flowers. Text accompanying the group revealed Dior explaining his floral theme: “I was drawing flower women, soft, sloping shoulders, generous busts, a slim waist and wide skirts like flower petals.” The images were beautiful, she marvelled, and he too expressed his admiration of the diversity in presentation, from simple monochrome to sinuous floral compositions.

He enjoyed the playful and down-to-earth series for L’Homme Gruau, depicting a man’s hairy legs in a variety of poses and settings in advertisements for Dior’s Eau Savage aftershave. Gruau combined humour and near-nudity to transpose the age-old ideal of the femme fatale.


From the starkly modern illustrations featured in the series for line and silhouette, to the Pop Art-style impressions within gesture and attitude; Gruau’s designs revealed a sharp eye and intuition for coming trends and a wider awareness of the changing cultural landscape.

“I always seek to reproduce what I have come across in life. I record a pose, a look or a smile. It is almost photographic.”
René Gruau

The couple wondered along taking in the extent of works on display, coming to a selection of compositions at the far end of the exhibition that showed pieces created by a handful of modern artists in the guise of Dior’s central themes. Casting their critique on each of the works, they each agreed on one which certainly paid tribute to the exquisite genius of Gruau. She was drawn to a silhouetted sculpted work of black, yellow and white plastic, which revealed the outline of a woman holding an umbrella, while he recognised Gruau’s humour from the Eau Savage adverts, in an illustration by Richard Kilroy which featured a man attempting to extricate himself from his clothes leaving him faceless with just his torso on display.

They made their way along the opposite wall, stopping to admire a set of mannequins, behind glass, encased in various designs by Dior. Listening to the thoughts of other visitors to the works, the general consensus was one of praise and inspiration for Gruau’s flair and insight. The couple made their way out of the exhibition, deeply inspired by René Gruau’s line of beauty so intrinsically captured in the motifs and designs of Christian Dior.

A Fashion Night Out

Suave, sexy waiters bearing glassy black trays,
Of tubes of Prosecco and assorted canapés.

Furs and velvets, chiffons and silks, all crying out to be touched,
The spectrum of jewel tones in emerald, amethyst and ruby are this season’s fashionable must.

Complimented by soft greys and blacks, something shimmering catches my eye,
The black sequinned sleeve of a body-tight dress winks from the rail on my right.

Wellington boots with embellishments looking like equestrian overlays,
Ranging from leopard-print to sequins, makes light of rain-sodden days.

Perched on a black marble shelf I spy footwear that makes me exhale,
Shoe-boots emblazoned with buckles and studs call me over to check their details.

Too heavy to hold, let alone wear, I replace them and move onto the next,
Lace overlaid pumps in yellow and mauve, I consider bouncing a cheque.

Beautiful bags in leather and suede, buttery soft to the feel,
In browns and deep purples, camel and grey, I sense myself starting to reel.

The InStyle editor beckons us close to pay tribute to this incredible brand,
An assistant comes over and gives me history-in-brief of the polka dot shirt in my hand.

The shop-floor seems endless and I circulate further, roaming from one end to the other,
I step into the men’s side, forgetting myself, yet greeted by a hot Dolce lover.

But the one piece that repeatedly beckons me forth is protected by clear solid glass,
The most exquisite necklace I’ve ever seen, outstanding in look and in class.

Evocative of Tom Binns’ charm-laden creations, its amethyst stones twinkle bright,
Set in a chunky pearl and gold chain I imagine with which outfit it would look right.

A pear-shaped stone at the end of the chain, perfectly accenting the clasp,
My eye is suddenly drawn to a ruby version and unthinkingly I let out a gasp.

I stand and reflect if my desire is warranted to free these most beautiful things,
From their glass-cased enclosure of visual display, it’s a crime to keep them within.

Reluctantly though, I turn on my heel, taking one final look back,
At this wondrous trove of treasures and more, and assistants in top-to-toe black.

A black and gold bag is placed in my hands as I depart this most stylish soiree,
Filled with cosmetics and a magazine, unbeknownst to those glaring my way.

Sporting a bag bearing one of the most iconic of all fashion names,
I float home on a dream cloud of fabric and colour, now sure of my long-term aim!

Tunnel Vision

Monday morning.

7.10am
Severe delays reported on the Metropolitan line.

7.50am
Leave house and get on Met line train at North Harrow stn. Husband calls to say has just arrived at work (in Holborn) and to switch at Finchley Road because train took ages to get from Finchley Road to Baker Street on the metropolitan line.

8.30am
Arrive at Finchley Road and swap over the platform to get on a Jubilee Line train to Green Park. Sit for 5 minutes in the station.

8.45am
Train plunges into darkness… nothing. Can no longer read Metro article about alleged nookie between X Factor contestants Katie Waissel and Matt Cardle… damn!

8.47am
Driver announces there has been a power failure and assures us there will be information shortly.

9.30am
Driver makes his way down the entire length of the train. Announces once at the back that we will be walking back to St John’s Wood station… in the tunnel. But he has to isolate that end and the staff from St John’s Wood need to walk down to meet us.

9.45am
Passenger has asthma attack – calls for medical aid rumble through the cars like chinese whispers.

9.50am
Sporadic lighting comes on in the surrounding tunnel. Hmmm, try to resume X Factor gossip catch up. Give up, play Solitaire on iPhone instead.

10.00am
The driver – still at the back of the train – announces that actually he may be able to start the train and get us to Baker Street. Sighs of relief all round. He returns back through the train, thanking passengers for their patience: ‘Not that you have much choice, mind.’ Muffled laughter – heavy irony.

10.15am
Driver back in his car announces the train will most definitely not start and that instead we will be walking the half-hour track hike to Baker Street, but we must wait for the police and station staff to arrive first to guide us through the tunnel.

10.30am
Another girl has panic attack – fellow passenger gives up his seat to her (a bit late if you ask me). Offer her rescue remedy, she shuns it in favour of a bottle of water. Oh well, all the more for me then!

11.00am
The driver announces that actually we will not be walking to Baker Street – man on crutches emits sigh of relief – we will now be walking to St John’s Wood… hmmm.

11.15am
The police, station staff and our driver make their way through to the end of the train as some passengers verbally attack the police with exasperated cries of, ‘Well what the hell are we supposed to do now?!’ to which the police officers reply, ‘I don’t know… get a bus or something.’

11.30am
There is movement at the far end of our carriage – people are starting to move towards the end of the train. We start walking. Thankful for UGG boots – heels stowed in heavy gym bag slung over right shoulder with precious Zara bag carefully balanced on right arm along with scarf and coat – desperately in need of a shower…



11.35am
It’s dark, no sign of rodent life so far…



11.43am
There is a light at the end of the tunnel… literally!! Various voices echo this sentiment, laughing at their own wit… oh please people... get a grip!



11.45am
Nice man in orange vest offers a hand as I clamber out of the darkness up some narrow steps and onto the platform of St John’s Wood – am greeted by more men in orange, and a water fountain… with no water!

11.46am
Stop to capture one last image of epic tunnel journey…



11.50am
Am now out of the deserted station – smokers immediately block my path with furious puffing on assorted brands of cigarette. Try to call work – no answer on any phone. Leave message on one colleague’s phone. Mobile dies… regret amount of Solitaire playing on train. Wonder what to do now… need the loo and need to get to Green Park. Mum works at hospital two minute walk away, decide to make a pit stop… oh, what if Mum also stuck in tunnel. Call… she answers, is at work. Good – walk to hospital.

11.55am
Been to loo, been fussed over by Mum and Mum’s colleagues. Offered tea, coffee and biscuits. Have cup of water and one biscuit.

Midday
Try to call work again – still no answer. Google central switchboard number and call – get through to temp who informs me that everyone in meeting. Tell her to pass on message of morning tube hell and that phone has died. Will try to get bus.

12.15pm
Mum suggests cup of tea, decline and insist that I must go in search of a bus. Routes discussed. Leave.

12.20pm
Miss intended bus, no.13. Wait at bus stop with fellow Italian mothers and their precocious offspring, elderly people and assorted professionals.

12.30pm
Bus arrives – not mine, but going to Baker Street so hop on.

12.37pm
Arrive Baker Street – endure slight conundrum – waver between approaching no.13 bus and entrance to Baker Street tube station. No.13 doesn’t stop, forced to attempt the tube station. Accost station staffer who confirms that Green Park is open and Victoria Line is running. Thank him and make mad dash to Bakerloo line.

13.10pm
Arrive at work. Light-headed from lack of food and fairly traumatic experience.

Monday afternoon
Regale employees and husband (via phone) of said traumatic experience. Much sympathy and offers to leave work early if necessary. Cancellation of evening dinner plans and brief contemplation of intended trip to gym – think best to leave all until tomorrow. Am still in shock.

A Gallery of Shoes!!!

“I don’t know who invented high heels, but all women owe him a lot!”
Marilyn Monroe



LONDON - Tamara Drewe actress, Gemma Arterton was the envy of every girl, woman, shoe connoisseur last night as she oversaw the public launch of Selfridges' first ever shoe gallery and was given sole access to wander the cavernous trove of high-heeled treasures before the masses descended.



Created by renowned architect Jamie Fobert, shoe lovers can come visit, explore and indulge in the six unique shoe galleries, flanked by 11 beautiful boutiques featuring the world's most iconic shoe brands, and one hanging garden.

With 4,000 pairs of shoes on display at any one time, the new Selfridges shoe gallery houses in total a whopping 55,000 pairs from 150 brands, including 11 designer boutiques and stretches over 35,000 square feet. Every female's dream come true, the Selfridges’ new shoe hall is now officially open to the public!!

“I did not have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty”
Imelda Marcos



To celebrate the public opening last night, a Balmain military jacket-clad Gemma Arterton oversaw a parade featuring the release of exploding shoe-printed balloons outside the store, while a plane flying a banner half the size of a football pitch above the store announced the shoe mecca OPEN.



Apartments dedicated to Prada, Fendi, Jimmy Choo and Coco Chanel are juxtaposed to the UGG chalet, designer rooms, Tod's Loft and an array of 150 high street brands, with River Island and All Saints both debuting specially created collections. To rest your soles, and credit card, the Aubaine restaurant is on hand opposite Gucci, to provide you with a place to eat and recuperate.

The perfect antidote to the end of London Fashion Week, I know where I'll be indulging in some retail therapy this weekend!!!



Explore for yourself - http://www.selfridges.com/en/StaticPage/SG-Explore/

Trawling the new shoe gallery this weekend? Why not also savour the catwalk-credentials of the Regent's Street festival on Sunday (26 September) with offers at surrounding stores and fashion shows in homage of LFW.

What makes the world go round?

From Lily Allen's baby news to slightly pornographic art being shown at an auction house, I have been bombarded with an array of issues of a sexual nature in the past 24 hours.

Following the delightful news that 25 year old popstrel-turned-fashion designer, Lily Allen is expecting with her builder beau Sam Cooper, I of course took to Twitter to not only wish Ms Allen congratulations but also to note the multiple tweets of well wishing from magazine editors, celebrity baby websites and random tweetaholics.

Aside from the fact that I am in total brood-mode and am lapping up every baby-related TV programme, news blast, magazine article and book; it really seems as though it is on everyone else's mind too. In one form or another.

The September issue of Marie Claire invites readers to take part in a quiz aimed at analysing one's fertility fitness. From BMI and lifestyle to family genetics and menstral cycles - every area is covered. But it's not only female fertility that we are being made aware of, but male fertility also. The front page of yesterday's Metro called out the potential dangers of certain plastics used in food and drink containers in stunting a man's reproductive abilities and an article earlier in the week reminded us that regular jacuzzis and hot baths, not to mention the wearing of tight underpants, can affect a man's sperm count. Yes it seems everyone is thinking about or talking about ...or reading about, their sexual IQ (a.k.a ability to reproduce).



Sitting on the train yesterday afternoon heading home pre-rush hour, I noticed the man next to me had retrieved several pieces of paper and parephernalia from his suit jacket pocket. I didn't think anything of it until he unfolded one leaflet to reveal the header: How to make your erection stay hard. Double take... Ahem, surely one shouldn't be so freely reading what I'm sure is such a personal piece of literature on one of the most public places in London??

Albeit seemingly unrelated to babies, rather this experience (which slightly scarred me) divulges the (ideally private) thoughts of a mature man contemplating his options regarding sustaining his sex life. But what drives this in the first place? The need to reproduce, to procreate, to continue the existence of humankind.

Last night, as I sat and watched first, Look Who's Talking and then Knocked Up (both for probably the 55th time), it occurred to me how in both cases sex was the primary motive for the resulting offspring. A non-thought for both female protagonists prior to their sexual encounters. You're probably thinking, well duh, everyone knows you need to 'do it' to have a baby... Okay, but do we ever really think about the reason why we want to 'do it' in the first place. Yes it feels good, some individuals use it for domination purposes (no judgement), some abuse it for their own sense of power (major judgement) but for the majority it is the most intimate way of saying 'I love you'.



Sex provokes strong reactions in people - case in point, a piece of fine art to be sold at auction has elicited numerous responses from the people who have seen it this morning. Don't get me wrong, it is beautiful and not offensive (in my humble opinion) but it reveals a little more than bosoms. Some could not stop staring, some were bemused at the visual impact and some were anxious about the effect it would have on the wider public.

Sex in it's many forms impacts differently on people; from changing your life with the conception of a baby, to forcing you to consider your own sexual aptitude and to assessing how it will be received in different forums. So does sex, alone, make the world go round? I think it's safe to say it's a pretty strong driver...

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.