A Shoe-In

With the awards night just 48 hours away, it’s getting towards crunch time. If I can’t finalise those shoes by COB today, I’m going to have to get serious, cancel the order and find a new pair, by which I mean send my assistant to find me a new pair. I really hope it doesn’t come to that, though – while Vanessa is competent at accessorising, she’s hardly a professional-level stylist, and I need to wipe the floor with this look. The company depends on it.


It would never have come to this if it wasn’t for the blasted combination of ingrown toe nails, Cheltenham traffic and Charlene writing down that note incorrectly. It’s a long and exasperating story that I don’t especially care to recount. Suffice it to say that I can’t wear open-toed shoes this week, and evidently I can’t rely on my staff to pay attention when I disclose vital details of that nature. It’s not like I want them to know the finer points of my foot health, but you’d think I was sharing such details for the fun of it. Idiots. 


Anyway, I’ve now given Charlene a stern talking to and briefed Vanessa on the situation, so I’m hoping that they’ll be able to manage it between the two of them. In the meantime, I’ve got Hans researching toe and shoe pads, just in case the size is wrong. I’ve asked him to liaise with my podiatrist – sometimes these numbskulls just need to hear things from the horse’s mouth.


My biggest concern is that, if the plan has to change, the hemline on my gown may be wrong, and there’s no time to get back to the atelier for another fitting. Now, that shouldn’t matter unless I win the award, in which case I’ll have to climb that stupid little staircase at the convention centre. Really, it would be ideal to rehearse some stairs in both the gown and the shoes, and that’s not going to be an option at this point.