Page 1 of Rescuing Rosie
Chapter One
Rosie glanced across the road as she waited at the pedestrian crossing. Those boots were still in the shoe-shop window.
They were cream coloured, with pink roses, blue cornflowers, and feathery green leaves sprinkled across the uppers. The soles were thick and black and stitched in yellow; the laces, criss-crossing their way upwards via a dizzying number of eyelets, were pink.
They were mad. They werebeautiful. They were calling to her.
You can’t afford them, said Rosie’s sensible side.And they’re silly.
They’re perfect; I need them, whispered Rosie’s frivolous side, making its voice heard for the first time since Rosie’s heart had been broken.
Oh, are you back?
Definitely not.I’d like to be, but I need a little help here.
As the green man beckoned Rosie across, she considered the arguments for and against. She no longer had a book deal. Her debut novel,Meet Me on the Champs-Elysées, a tale of love and survival scheduled for publication later this year, had beendropped by the new publisher who’d taken over from the old publisher. The World War II fiction trend would be over by the time the book was out, the editor had explained. So Rosie had only her subsistence-level pay as an assistant onHolistic Healthmagazine. And now that Reuben had left, there was no one to help pay the bills. She would need to be super-careful with money.
She didnotneed another pair of Doc Martens.
But dammit, Rosie was in desperate need ofsomethingto pick her up. A girls’ night out was likely to end in a drunken tirade against men, so she’d ruled that out for the time being. Whereas … a new pair of boots of such fabulosity might not heal a broken heart, but they’d sure as hell kick against the gloom of a cold, loveless, book-deal-less April.
She’d spent the morning editing a piece called ‘Beat the Blues the Natural Way’ and, noticing a crack in the ceiling of grey cloud that had hung over London for weeks, headed outside for her lunch hour in the hope that, as per that article, a burst of exercise and vitamin D might help her shuck off the colossal feeling of failure that was weighing her down like a backpack full of bricks.
A shaft of sunlight touched the windows above the colourful shop fronts on Camden High Street; they glinted like pairs of eyes blinking after their long winter sleep.
Rosie pushed open the shoe-shop door. A bell tinkled gently.
A pink-haired woman appeared from the back of the shop. She must have seen her staring in the window, as before Rosie had even opened her mouth the woman said yes, she was sure they had her size, and scuttled away to fetch them.
The floral boots were a perfect fit, and it was like walking on air.
‘They’re the very definition of flower power, and soyou!’ said the woman, as Rosie gazed at her feet in the full-length mirror.
What does she mean, ‘so you’?The boots were show-stoppers, whereas Rosie’s current look was resolutely dull – a black, knee-length skirt, plain beige shirt, denim jacket; her long blonde hair, unwashed since the weekend, pinned up in an unruly bun. It was a look that said,I no longer care.
In contrast, the shopkeeper was a living rainbow, with her sugar-pink curls, and a frilly blouse and tiered skirt in a chaotic swirl of purple, turquoise and green. She was tiny, and of indeterminate age. Forties? Fifties?
‘I shouldn’t,’ Rosie said, weakly. Her eyes rose to meet the woman’s, and she was struck by their unusual colour – sea green, with dark flecks. Then she added, ‘But Ireallyneed a cheer-up. I’m having theworstweek. My boyfriend left me, my publisher dropped me …’ Rosie blinked at her reflection in surprise. She was a private person; she wasn’t in the habit of sharing her woes with complete strangers.
A little black cat hopped down from a seat across the shop and trotted over.
‘Oh – hello, shoe-shop cat,’ said Rosie, bending down to stroke it, glad of a reason to avoid those all-seeing eyes. The cat tentatively sniffed Rosie’s shabby trainers lying nearby, backed away, then hopped up onto the counter where it settled into a tidy loaf position.
‘They’re on sale,’ said the woman. ‘Seventy-five per cent off.’
‘Seventy-five?’ said Rosie. The label in the window had said £170. ‘That’s …’
‘Forty-two pounds fifty,’ finished the woman. She smiled. ‘For today only.’
That was still a week’s-worth of food-for-one, but … ‘In that case, how could I not?’ said Rosie. ‘What a stroke of luck! Thank you. I think I’ll keep them on.’
The woman put Rosie’s trainers into a bag and nodded at the cat as Rosie handed over her credit card. ‘Her name’s Lucky. I expect yours to change. Enjoy your boots!’
Rosie spent the rest of her lunch hour walking them in. The retail therapy, the burst of spring sun, and a stroll would hopefully generate sufficient endorphins to see her through this afternoon. The magazine’s editor had asked to see her at 2.30pm and, given the sense of doom hanging over the office –Holistic Healthwas struggling, as subscribers and advertisers fled the sinking ship of print media – Rosie had a suspicion this was unlikely to be a pat on the back and a pay rise.
She wove her way through the shoppers and tourists at Camden Lock and onwards along the Regent’s Canal towpath, noticing people’s eyes dipping to her boots.
Sensible Side piped up again:What were you thinking? They’re ridiculous. Everyone’s staring.
