Free The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy by Emma Bowd

Christmas. (It’s SO amazing, by the way: comes complete with no less than ten pairs of shoes, shoeboxes, a Barbie-size seat, a working foot-measurer, display cases, shopping bags, four handbags, a cash register and a mirror. What more could a girl want? Have also put one aside for Millie – couldn’t resist.)
        Anyway, I thought I was rather clever, making sure that the box said it was for ‘3 years and over’ and that it would be perfect for Charlotte. It didn’t even occur to me that Hector would ram the sodding ‘tangerine twist’ mule in his ear AND narrowly miss perforating his eardrum. Like I was born knowing the bizarre antics of the human 2-year-old?!?! Must dash, Fi xx
 
From:        Liz (work)
To:                Fi (work); Jane (home); Rachel (work)
Subject:        RE: Shoe School
 
Ooh, count me in! Perfect timing too, as Harry will be away at a health-and-safety conference all weekend. Please tell me I’ve done the right thing ... When Harry saw my VISA bill I got an attack of the guilts about buying 20 (yes!) pairs of shoes at the Selfridges sale (I only went in to buy coffee mugs – promise) and have just sold half of them on eBay. (And even made a small profit!)
        See you soon
        Liz
        xx
 
From:        Rachel (work)
To:                Fi (work); Jane (home); Liz (work)
Subject:        RE: Shoe School
 
1. I’m up for it – as long as I don’t ruin my nails.
2. Will there be any men there (apart from Marco, of course)?
3. Shame on you Liz – and you call yourself a shoe princess?!
R x
     
    Oh, how I wish a shoe surplus was a problem of mine. Tim’s recently banned all new shoe purchases. Not through any particular act of meanness, but more because he has slipped rather too comfortably into Mr 1950s mode, now that he is the sole earner and we are still living in London with a ludicrous mortgage.
            He’s even taken to calling me from Bangalore, ahead of his flights home, and advising me of his food and laundry needs, before asking about Millie.
            Pre-Millie, it would have been hints of a magnum of duty-free champagne, a bottle of expensive perfume and a sexy little number procured from Agent Provocateur. Followed by veiled suggestions of nocturnal activities with a pair of red patent-leather stilettos and fragranced body oil. Now, it seems, I’ve turned into the catering manager, launderette and chief babysitter.
            Give me strength . One of the less empowering aspects of my new job, I have to say.
     
From:                Jane (home)
To:                Fi (work); Rachel (work); Liz (work)
Subject:        RE: Shoe School
 
Consider it a date! Tim’s back from India that weekend and will delight in minding Millie. Will have to work out how to organise the feeding – but leave it with me, will sort out something. Am really looking forward to it – cabin fever well and truly setting in. Am DESPERATE to get out.
        Am actually off to join the local new-mothers’ group today – wish me luck. Ha! Am SO nervous – what if it’s full of earth-mother fascists and competitive supermums? Anyway, enough of my paranoid ramblings.
        Much Love
        Jane
        xx
 
PS. Fi, at least Hector chose the funkiest shoes in Barbie’s shoe store to embed in his ear!
     
    At the end of yet another day in domestic paradise, I huffily decide that the bulging laundry pile can wait, and make myself a cup of tea and curl up on the sofa to watch some crappy TV, while flicking through my latest trash mag (a small reward I’ve been saving all day). But an unsightly headline reaches up and grabs me by the throat before I even get the chance to relax: ‘Cat Got the Cream’.
            It seems that The Cat’s not just a pretty face:
Motherhood has unleashed Catriona’s creative energies and bold business acumen, and she has great pleasure in announcing her