My father had one when I was young. A long thin blade he would use to punch careful holes through the stiff brown leather. He called it a stiletto. I remember that now, every time I buy a new pair of shoes, the heels longer and thinner than anything he ever would have seen or worked on. Women's shoes were flat and functional in those days. Or, at least, in my family they were. Awful things. Dead boring.
I would watch him bent over his work bench, in that old brown apron he always wore, hammering and stitching. Taking in the old worn shoes of his friends and neighbours and working away at putting them right. A nail here, a patch there, a square lump of rubber glued onto the sole to keep out the rain. He never charged them much. Did it as a sort of favour. And for fun. Other dads had hobbies. Fishing or football or a night down the pub with a set of darts. My dad mended shoes.
I wonder sometimes if that's why I have such a thing about shoes. I mean, all women love shoes, don't they? Own far more than they really need. A pair to match every outfit, in a rainbow of shiny leathery colours, and a few pairs of designer boots thrown in for the odd snowy day. But with me it's more than that.
I live shoes. I breathe shoes. I dream shoes.
Bob has never understood. He searches my purse for receipts to see how much I've spent, waves electricity bills at me and tells me I have no idea about priorities. He just doesn't understand. Never has. He smokes, he drinks, he has his little pleasures in life. Why should he deny me mine?
I think it must be hereditary, this thing about shoes. I would catch Dad sometimes, when he thought no-one was looking, sniffing at the leather with that faraway look in his eyes, as if it was cocaine. Touching and stroking the grain of the suede, drinking in the sheer feel of it, like some kind of weird orgasm brought on by a tin of shoe polish and a chunk of dead animal skin. I didn't get it then. Now I'm not so sure.
Bob is making a fuss again. Telling me I can't possibly need another pair of purple. Surely three is more than enough? It's not as if I have more than one purple dress to go with them. Don't I know that mortgage rates are going up again, and his boss is talking about redundancies? Have I no sense of priority? No idea of getting these things into proportion?
The shoes are beautiful. Perfectly proportioned. And they are not purple. They are violet. It's not the same. Why can't he see that? And the others all have kitten heels. These are true, true stilettos. The kind that make a woman feel six feet tall. With these shoes I can be anyone. Go anywhere. Rule the world.
I can't take any more of this. The constant nagging, the criticism, the threats to take away my credit cards, take away my only passion.
I'll show him about shoes. Gorgeous, incredible, powerful shoes.
I take one from its box, unfurling the tissue paper as if it is protecting the most precious and delicate egg. I lift the shoe up and hold it to the light, watching the patterns swirling in the grain. Beautiful, beautiful leather. I see Bob, just coming into my peripheral vision. He has his angry face on. I want it to go away.It doesn't. He opens his mouth to speak and I already know what he is going to say.
I hold the shoe higher. I tell myself it's to get it out of his reach, to stop him snatching it away. But that isn't why. I know it isn't why.
With an almighty crash, I bring the shoe down onto his head, the stiletto long and thin and razor sharp. What's the point in arguing any more? He would never ever understand. There is only one point that matters, and it is half in my hand and half buried in the top of his head.The shoe is ruined but for once I don't care.
Stilettos. My dad had one. He used it to make holes, to fix things. Those awful old flat shoes people wore back then. For boring.
Dead. Boring.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.