Jerome Hartley was the same shoe size as his wife, Veronica. That’s where it started. Veronica, or Ronnie, as Jerome fondly called her, was a masculine size eight. Beryl. Veronica’s mother pointed out that men weren’t attracted to women with big feet. Imagine Grace Kelly with big clods of feet like that? You can’t, because it’s too ridiculous, Beryl would say.
Jerome didn’t seem to mind, in fact, he revelled in Ronnie’s generous foot size and the stunning shoes she found in spite of her oafish plates of meat, another of Beryl’s sayings. What Veronica didn’t know was that Jerome was fond of a twinkly something, or a sparkly bit or other. Ronnie, put on that chiffon number and pair it with those bejewelled heels, the red ones. Ooh nice, he’d say.
Don’t mind if I do, Jerome said as he slipped on the silver, Shirleys as he liked to call a particular pair. After Mistress Bassey of the booming voice, of course. They bring out my eyes, thought Jerome as he caught sight of himself in the freestanding, full length mirror
But wait, Jerome thought, where are those exquisite, feather-adorned vixen shoes? Made especially, like the others, for the larger footed lady. Plus sized shoes, for a lady a step ahead of the rest. Jerome put on his favourite shoes, admiring them, and his shapely ankles, when it occurred to him, that it would be an injustice not to team these ravishing beauties with an ensemble of equal glamour. The blue, sequinned dress.
Jerome was mesmerised by the gorgeous creature who stared back at him in the mirror. So delighted to meet you. Women have so much fun, he exclaimed loudly.
Ronnie’s cough, loud and deliberate, alerted Jerome.
“How long have you been standing there?”
(c) Liz Breen