Shoe Addicts Anonymous (9 page)

“So you’re saying you bought them from a street vendor.”

Florence shrugged. “I know they’re probably stolen, but that doesn’t make them any less valuable.”

It was on the tip of Lorna’s tongue to point out that the fact that they were knockoffs
did
make them less valuable, but she stayed quiet. She’d been raised too polite for her own good.

Fortunately there was a knock at the door, and Lorna had to get up to answer it. Her fear of a dangerous man had gone, replaced by the fear of spending the evening with a bunch of crazies in her apartment, trying to trade orange man-made uppers for butter-soft leather Etienne Aigners.

Lorna didn’t even look first; she went ahead and opened the door to find a statuesque redhead in a fitted ivory linen dress and
exquisite
brocade Emilio Pucci mules. She had a Fendi baguette purse in one hand and a small Nordstrom shopping bag in the other.

It was obvious it had a shoe box in it.

Lorna could spot that kind of thing a mile away.

The woman smiled a bright white movie-star smile and said, “Am I in the right place? Are you Lorna?”

Lorna had been too dazzled by the woman—and the
shoes!
—to speak first. “Yes,” she said at last. “I’m sorry, you are—?”

“Helene Zaharis.” She held out a bottle of wine, revealing a slender, evenly tanned arm. “It’s nice to meet you. I wasn’t sure what this was going to be like, but I figured wine was always appropriate.”

“That was really nice of you.” Lorna shook her hand warmly and stood back to usher her in. “I
love
your Emilio Puccis. I don’t think I’ve seen that pattern before.”

“I haven’t seen it here either. I got them in London.” Helene smiled and looked at Florence. “Hi.”

“Florence Meyers,” Florence said briskly. “Don’t you think we should change the name?”

“I’m…sorry?” Helene looked puzzled.

“Shoe Addicts Anonymous.” Florence shook her head. “It just sounds bad.”

Lorna resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her own guest. “I don’t mind changing it. It was just sort of, I don’t know. A joke.”

“It’s cute,” Helene reassured her. “I like it. And I
am
a shoe addict. I’d be embarrassed to tell you the lengths I’d go to.” She hesitated, then smiled.

She looked familiar for some reason, but Lorna couldn’t quite place her.

“Me, I can take them or leave them,” Florence said, her voice still as crisp as ever. “But my customers like them.”

Lorna glanced at the clock on the wall. This had the makings of a really long evening. Wasn’t someone else coming? Sandra?

“What can I get you all to drink?” Lorna asked. “There’s beer, wine, soft drinks. Helene, we could crack open that bottle you just brought.”

“How about a Dubonnet?” Florence asked. “Do you have any of that?”

Dubonnet. Jeez, Lorna hadn’t thought about that in years. Like, since the seventies, when they played those “Dubonnet for Two” commercials all the time.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have that. But—” What
was
Dubonnet anyway? Wine? Brandy? “—maybe something else?”

“White zin and club soda,” Florence said, continuing to set one cheap, ugly pair of shoes out after another. “Like a spritzer? That would be all right, I guess.”

Lorna caught Helene’s eye as she went into the kitchen and asked, “Anything?”

Helene gave a sympathetic smile. “Not right now, thanks.”

In the kitchen, Lorna glanced out the window and noticed, directly below outside, there was a man leaning against a car—a small nondescript economy car—and looking up in the direction of Lorna’s apartment.

Her nerves tightened. Was he the guy who had called her about Shoe Addicts? Was he so pissed that she’d rebuffed him that he’d come to stalk her or something?

No, that was crazy. It was a largish apartment complex, and plenty of people came and went every day. She was letting her imagination carry her away. Still, she tried to make out his description, just in case she’d need it later: bland, blond, medium build. Could’ve been anyone.

She turned her attention back to searching the fridge for some club soda to make Florence’s drink. She mixed the club soda with chardonnay, since she didn’t have white zinfandel and she doubted Florence would notice the difference.

There was a knock at the door, and Helene called, “Do you want me to get that?”

“Would you?” Lorna asked gratefully. She could already tell Helene was fabulous. She was the kind of person who walked into a place and just felt right at home, taking command of whatever she could in order to make life easier for her hostess.

Now this was the kind of guest Lorna liked.

Florence, on the other hand…

Lorna took a generous gulp of the wine herself before putting it back in the fridge. In the other room, she could hear Helene talking to another woman.

Good. It was definitely a woman. There was no way a man could imitate one that well. She glanced out the window and noticed that, although the car was still there, the man who had been leaning on it didn’t appear to be around. So he was probably just visiting someone.

It was nothing for Lorna to worry about at all.

At least not this time. There was plenty of time to worry later, and she had all the reason in the world to do it.

L
orna took the spritzer to Florence and saw a short, heavy woman with long light brown hair hanging midway down her back. She wore granny specs under thick, dark eyebrows.

Lorna tried to hide her surprise, but the woman looked so unlike her voice that it took her aback. “Hi,” she said, overcompensating with a wide smile. “I’m Lorna. You must be Sandra.”

Sandra touched her ear with a hand that seemed to tremble slightly. “Yes. Sandra Vanderslice. I hope I’m not late. Or early?” She looked at the flea market–style shoe display Florence had just finished arranging. “I didn’t bring that many shoes.”

“I only brought one pair myself,” Helene said quickly. “Well, two counting the ones I’m wearing.”

Lorna’s heart quickened. Was Helene willing to trade those amazing Puccis?

“Would you like a drink, Sandra?” Lorna asked. She decided she’d have some wine herself. She needed it. “Beer, wine, soda?”

“Um.” There was definitely a tremor in her voice. The girl was nervous as a cat for some reason. “Soda would be good. Thanks.”

“Coke okay?”

Sandra nodded and took a breath.

“Helene?” Lorna said. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Some wine?”

“You know, on second thought,” Helene said, with a downward glance that went by so fast, Lorna almost missed it. “White wine would be great.”

“Oh, I’ll have one, too,” Sandra chirped, then added, “instead of the Coke. If that’s okay.” She reached up and touched her earlobe again, then, catching Lorna’s glance, went pink and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“You got it.” Lorna poured the drinks and brought them in.

Helene had taken the box out of her bag, and Lorna saw that it was a pair of pink high heels.

“Oh, my God,” Lorna gasped.

Helene looked startled. “What’s wrong?”

“Are those Pradas?” Lorna pointed at the shoes.

“Oh. Yes. They’re a couple of years out of date, though. I wasn’t sure what kind of thing to bring.”

Lorna was in heaven. “I
love
them! I wanted those so badly when they came out, but I twisted my ankle”—one of many embarrassing shoe stories she could tell later if things got too quiet—“and my crappy insurance didn’t cover it, so I couldn’t get them.” She looked closer. The shoes appeared to be in perfect condition. Like they’d never been worn.

“I have them in black,” Sandra said. “And some Kate Spades that look sort of similar, but the heel doesn’t suit me.”

Oh, this was good.

Lorna had had a very hard time picking out three pairs of shoes to bring out for trading—she knew, as hostess, that she’d be sort of obliged to trade at least one pair since the whole thing was her idea—but now she was thinking she might have to run back and get more.

“So.” Florence slapped her hands against her thighs. “How do we do this? Like an auction?” She picked up the purple fake Choos. “These are very special, as I was telling Lana here. I was thinking I’d need two pairs in exchange, but since everyone only brought one or two pairs, I’ll settle for one. This time.” She held them up. “Anyone?”

There was a polite silence.

Lorna got uncomfortable. “Can I see them?” she asked, although she didn’t have any genuine interest in looking them over.

Once in her hand, the lack of quality was even more evident, if possible. Clear glue had dried around the edges of the soles, and the stitching on the patent leather was uneven. Lorna didn’t know how to comment on that, though, without sounding too insulting to her guest. Fortunately, there was a
10
stamped on the sole—another giveaway—and it gave her the out she needed.

“These are size ten,” she said. Then, suddenly uncertain, she asked, “Didn’t I say seven and a half in my ad?” Oh, God. Had she messed up and wasted everyone’s time?

“Yes,” Helene said quickly. “You did. That’s what I brought.”

“Me, too,” Sandra said, finishing her wine. She seemed to be a little more comfortable now.

Of course, wine had a way of doing that.

“Oh, come on,” Florence said, “with nutrition as good as it is today, ten is the new seven and a half.” She looked down at her own Jurassic feet, for which she undoubtedly had to order shoes specially.

Lorna got up and went to the kitchen to grab the bottle, saying, “I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear, Florence. If we’re all the
old
size seven and a half, we can’t swap for a different size.”

“I’ve got a whole bunch of sizes here,” Florence said, a little snappishly. She began to rummage, roughly, through the shoes. “Here’s…let’s see…ten. You’ve made it clear that won’t do. Five. Ah—seven.” She set that pair aside. “Those might work. You never know if the sizes run large.”

“I’ve never heard of Bagello,” Sandra said, peering down at the label in the shoes.

“It’s a Super-Mart store brand,” Helene said, without judgment.

Florence turned a sharp eye on her. “Is there something wrong with Super-Mart?”

“Of course not.” Helene looked like she was suppressing a smile. “But I don’t think a size seven Super-Mart shoe will fit anyone here.” She waited a beat before adding, “They actually tend to run small.”

Lorna poured more wine into Helene’s glass and wondered how a woman so elegant and obviously cultured knew anything about Super-Mart fashions.

“Well,” Florence said triumphantly, pulling out a pair of gray flannel flats. “Ralph Lauren should suit you, then.” She handed them to Helene and gave a smug smile. “Those babies cost a whole lot.”

Helene turned the shoes over in her hand and nodded. “They’re Ralph Lauren, all right. Vintage, even. I’d say 1993 or ’94.”

Florence looked very pleased with herself.

Lorna looked at the shoes while she poured more wine into Sandra’s glass.

“So. Who wants to make a deal?” Florence asked.

Sandra, who had already picked up her glass and taken a sip, said, “I’m too short to wear flats.”

Lorna looked at the shoes in dismay. They were very scuffed. Still, she was afraid it might be her hostess-y duty to make an offer.

She was about to do so when Helene said, “All right.” It was clear she was just being polite. Her amusement still shone plainly on her face, and she didn’t even look at the Ralph Laurens again. “I’ll trade you these Puccis for them.”

Lorna felt an actual pain on her chest. “Oh, no, not the Puccis! Wait—I’ve got…” She thought frantically. “Some Angiolinis you might like better.”

Florence glanced from one woman to the other.

Helene just looked at Lorna. “Oh, no. Not the Angiolinis. Those are way more expensive than these.” She winked.

She knew.

Sandra, on the other hand, had an undisguised look of confusion.

Lorna kept running with Helene’s game ball. “You may be right….” She was
sure
Florence would leap at the chance to score shoes that were
too expensive
to give up.

So it was a shock when Florence shook her head. “Sorry, ladies. These suckers are worth
two
pairs. Two
designer
pairs,” she added, as if everyone else had brought shoes they picked up at the grocery store.

Helene gave a rueful sigh. “You’re too rich for my blood,” she said. She was really a master at working people. “I don’t think I can help you out.”

“Me neither,” Sandra interjected quickly.

“I’ve only got a few pairs myself,” Lorna said, hoping her nose didn’t grow or twitch with the lie. “I thought mostly we’d sit around and, you know, talk about shoes.” She hoped she had Sandra and Helene pegged right, because she really didn’t want to turn them off.

“Okay,” Sandra said. Her face was slightly flushed, probably from the wine, and she had loosened up considerably. “Did you know that ancient man invented the first sandals by strapping a flat piece of wood or animal hide to his feet with the intestines of his prey?”

There was silence for a moment, while everyone looked at Sandra with surprise.

“I read a lot,” she said with a shrug, her face turning red like the top of a cartoon thermometer.

Lorna smiled. “Tell us more.”

“Well, shoes came after that, for people in colder climates. They just took the sandals and added tops made from animal skins. It’s pretty much what we wear today, if you think about it.”

“So, sociologically,” Lorna improvised, badly, “we’re not as evolved as we think we are.”

“Exactly!” Sandra said. “We share a great deal with our prehistoric ancestors.”

“Fascinating. So—”

“Uh, wait.” Florence held up a hand. “Excuse me. I’ve got to get going.” She started throwing her shoes back into her bags without regard to organization. I didn’t realize this was going to be like a book club or something. This isn’t my bag.”

Lorna’s impulse was to feign disappointment and object, but she squelched that. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she said to Florence, walking to the door to prevent the woman from stopping and trying to cut a deal for Helene’s Emilio Puccis.

“Yeah, well…if you want some of my shoes, you’ll have to go to eBay. Look for ‘Flors Fashions.’ I’ll cut you a deal on shipping, since I know you guys live local.” She bustled out of the apartment. “Remember, that’s Flors Fashions.”

Lorna closed the door behind Florence and took a breath before turning to the other two women to see what their reaction was.

There was a moment of tense silence, during which Lorna imagined everyone was sizing the others up.

Finally, Sandra, on her fourth glass of wine, said, “Those poor shoes.”

“Don’t defend the shoes,” Lorna said immediately, parroting one of the funniest quotes from Tim Gunn on
Project Runway
. Immediately she remembered she didn’t know these women and they’d probably think she was crazy, so she tried to explain what suddenly seemed like an increasingly lame joke. “That’s from this show—”

“Project Runway!”
Sandra said. “Oh my God, I
love
that show. And when Tim Gunn said that about Wendy—”

“Pure gold,” Helene interjected. “And she totally deserved it, those shoes
were
dowdy…”

Everyone laughed, and the relief seemed to fill the room like warm water.

It was at that moment, over something as inconsequential as a television show, that Lorna decided this really might work. This was a bonding moment. The mood in the room had lightened completely, and everyone was laughing and chattering now about designers and would-be designers from the show, and about the moment they’d realized they loved shoes, and finally about Florence.

“You panicked when I offered her the brocade Puccis, didn’t you?” Helene said to Lorna. “I saw it in your eyes. I’m really sorry about that.” She took off the shoes and handed them to Lorna. “Here. Take them. You deserve them after what you went through to bring us all here.”

Once again Lorna found herself saying the
right
thing instead of what she meant. “No, really. Thanks, but I can’t just
take
them. That’s not the point of the meeting.”

“But I don’t mind.” Helene looked at Sandra. “Do you?”

Sandra shook her head. “Not at all. I’m ready to give you mine, too. You must have been really surprised when Florence came in here and started unloading.”

Lorna laughed. “I
was
a little nervous that I hadn’t communicated very well in the ad.”

“Honey, there will
always
be people who don’t get it,” Helene said, like one who knew from painful experience. “I thought you handled it really well. Are you, by any chance, in sales?”

Lorna shook her head. “I’m a waitress. At Jico, over on Wisconsin Avenue.”

Helene smiled. “That’s where your people skills come from.”

“What do you do?” Lorna asked, then shifted her gaze to Sandra. “Both of you, I mean.”

Helene was silent for a moment, so Sandra volunteered, “I work telecommunications.”

“Telecommunications?”

Sandra nodded but looked uncomfortable. “It’s not very interesting, but it pays the rent.” She gave a small laugh. “And the shoe bills.”

Lorna nodded. It seemed they were all in the same boat, basically. “How about you?” she asked Helene.

Still the hesitation. “I used to be a salesperson at Garfinkels. Before they went under.”

“Really? Garfinkels?” Lorna had always thought of that as a store for old people, her parents’ friends and so on. And that was back before it closed, which was, what, ten years ago now?

Helene nodded. “I worked in men’s suits. The department, not the clothing.” She smiled and shrugged. “I met my husband there, so I guess it worked out as it was supposed to.”

“That’s Demetrius Zaharis, right?” Sandra asked.

Helene looked startled. “Yes. How did you know?”

Sandra shrugged. “I read a lot. A lot.”

“I
thought
you looked familiar,” Lorna said. “Your picture is in the ‘Style’ section sometimes.” It was probably in other sections, too, but Lorna only read the “Style” section.

Helene looked down for a moment, but then said, in a voice more casual than the expression on her face, “Those pictures are always so awful that I hope no one recognizes them as me.” She laughed lightly, but there was something chilly about it.

Lorna doubted it was possible to take a bad picture of Helene, but she could tell Helene was uncomfortable with the subject, so she changed it entirely. “Let me just get those Angiolinis, then. And a mirror. And let the trading begin!”

The trading took only a few minutes, but the conversation went on for another hour, and all the women grew more comfortable as the time—and the wine—wore on.

When things began to wind down, Lorna said, “So tell me, do you all have other shoes you want to swap? I mean, do you want to come back? I don’t really know how to go about organizing this.”

“I have a million pairs,” Helene volunteered. “And, to be honest, it’s nice to have a social occasion that doesn’t involve stuffy political causes and publicity.”