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nabbing a forkful of my potato. ‘I love you, but you make a very odd queer.’
    Back at the store, Pearl calls in with a sore throat. It’s me, alone, with nothing to do except stare out at the rain, so when my phone goes off, I’m relieved. Turns out it’s Guy. As I answer, I feel lightheaded from this crush of mine, and as soon as I hear his swanky-smooth accent I’m melting on the spot. He asks if I’m busy and, when I say I’m not, he says he’d guessed as much, with this weather. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ he says, and when I ask what, he tells me he’s going to buy me a pair of shoes.
    ‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘sweet as that is, I can’t accept gifts. It doesn’t feel right.’
    ‘Well, I’m sure the manager of that lovely store of yours will give you back your money,’ he says, ‘especially if you decide you can’t accept the goods.’
    I laugh. He laughs.
    ‘All right,’ I say. After all, I could do with a lift.
    With that, he makes me walk him around the store, filling him in on the shoes I like. Something in black with heels, he says. Something where you can see a fair amount of foot. ‘Think cleavage,’ he tells me, ‘but the foot variety.’
    I’m about to remind him that defining ‘cleavage’ depends on my knowing which part of my foot is the ‘breast’, and he gives a sexy, slightly devilish laugh that makes me burn. I walk him through classic stilettos, sparkly wedges, kitten-heel evening sandals, spiky-heeled strappy shoes; and of course, seeing as shoes are some of my favourite items on earth, I get all chirpy and excitable. Soon, we’re having a good old naughty chinwag about how five-inch heels do lovely things to the calf, and whether wedge heels can ever be called ‘lickable’. I feel turned on and embraced for who I am, all at the same time.
    Henry was never interested in my shoes. He wasn’t the shoe type. But somehow, I managed to convince myself that this meant
I
wasn’t interesting – and suddenly, flirting with Guy, I can see how wrong I was.
    He opts for a pair of black pointy slingback stilettos, with silver reflective heels, and makes me model them in front of the mirror. ‘Good,’ he says, as I strut towards my reflection. ‘Now, tell me what you look like.’
    My cheeks flush and I check that there aren’t any customers. But the shop – in fact the whole darn street – is silent and empty, what with the rain coming down. So what the hell? If this makes me crazily horny, I can always slip round the back of the shop and … you know … go to the bathroom.
    (Dear God, Kitten. What a floozy I’ve become!).
    So I describe my legs in their flesh-coloured sheers, the calves pulled taut as I stride. And his voice becomes breathier, heavier, more strained. ‘Do your hips … move when you walk?’ he asks, making the word ‘walk’ sound like a controlled explosion. And when I tell him that yes, my hips rock a little in my pencil skirt because of how tight it is, he says, ‘I want you to know that I just unzipped. I’m sitting behind my desk, with my personal assistant just outside the door, and I’m jerking at myself like crazy. That’s how horny you make me.’ He pauses, as pleasure floods to my groin and I’m suddenly hot with arousal and shame. ‘Are you turned on?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes,’ I whisper.
    He calls on the Lord then and lets out a groan, before telling me to sit in a chair and run my fingers beneath my skirt before stroking all the way from the top of my thigh down to the bridge of my foot. When I do this, it feels like my hands are his, and my legs tingle beneath my fingertips. I glance up, in case someone is watching. And I’m surprised to find how disappointed I am not to see a voyeur beyond the glass.
    ‘I want to grab your foot,’ he tells me, ‘and press it onto my cock.’
    ‘Are you hard?’ I find myself asking.
    ‘Never been harder,’ he says, through a moan.
    Oh, God! The mere thought of Guy being hard makes my