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tour. Under the window, to the left of the patio doors is an old drawing desk. The wall next to the desk, above the shoe trolleys, is lined with gloriously detailed pen and ink drawings, painted in glorious colours: fuschia, lime green, tangerine, and magenta. I yearn to have wallpaper in my flat of his designs, they are truly astounding.
    Even without seeing them made up I can see the line, the balance and symmetry of the shoe, the silhouette is perfect.
    An old wire in-tray sits on top of a filing cabinet, to one side of the desk.
    ‘Twenty, even fifteen years ago, this used to be stacked with orders,’ David explains with a pensive smile. ‘My dad had three assistants and someone to run the shop because he couldn’t cope with the demand. When I took over it was just me and Maria but we kept business ticking over nicely to begin with. How times change, eh?’ He laughs ruefully.
    ‘Where are your mum and dad now?’ I ask.
    David tilts his head heavenward. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘You must miss them terribly.’
    ‘Not really,’ David says briskly and then catches sight of my horrified expression and laughs. ‘They’re upstairs – they’ve probably dozed off in front of the horse racing!’ He grins. ‘They’re quite a couple you know. Completely inseparable and have been for fifty years.’ He delves around his desk and pulls out an old black and white photo and hands it to me. He’s right. In the picture, a man – Gabriel Senior I presume – is standing with his arm thrown over the shoulder of a beautiful young woman. In stark contrast to him, she’s wearing a classic 1960s white crochet mini skirt and matching Peter Pan collar swing jacket. Her shoulder length hair is blow dried and sprayed in perfect place. She is looking out shyly from under her lashes, whereas Gabe is smiling roguishly, a younger, more carefree version of his own son. His teeth are gleaming white, his dark coal-like eyes confidently burning a hole through the lens. You can definitely see the Italian ancestry in them both. I glance at David who sighs and pins the photo back on the wall. ‘I thought I’d be able to look after them in their old age, it’s what they deserve, but now...’ He looks out into the garden. ‘I don’t even know how I’m going to look after my own family.’ Then he covers his eyes with his hand and I see his chin wobbling – a man truly broken by his misfortune. He composes himself and looks at me standing awkwardly, shifting on my feet, debating whether to comfort him or not.
    ‘I’m sorry, mate’ Sam says easily walking over to place a hand on his shoulder. ‘It must be really tough for you.’ I love how easy his genuine concern is, it puts everyone at ease, including David.
    ‘They’re devastated by what’s happened,’ he says sadly, ‘but they’ll never say I told you so. They’re convinced that something will happen to save the business. They keep saying we just have to wait for a little miracle.’ He snorts and for a moment, gruff David returns. ‘Some hope of that.’
    ‘Your designs are incredible, David,’ I say walking over to his wall display and running my fingers over them. There are styles of every description; stilettos, sandals, pumps, peep-toes, T–bars, and in every single colour tone imaginable.
    ‘No wedges?’ I enquire, glancing through the display.
    He shakes his head. ‘Dad’s always said that the 70s was the decade shoe design forgot – and he’s right. That style should be consigned to the Shoe Room 101,’ his pause is punctuated with a sigh and he adds, ‘instead, Angelo’s has been.’
    At that moment, I know exactly what I’m going to do.
    ‘David, I hope you don’t think me presumptuous but I’d like to make you an offer...’
    He shakes his head. ‘It has been great meeting you, Evie, you’ve said some nice things that have really cheered me up. But I told you already, I’m not selling those shoes in the window. And I stand