Running in Heels Read Free Page A

and—as I sit there frozen and speechless—unpins my butterfly clasp and rakes his hands through my hair, shaking it out so that it tumbles over my shoulders.
    Then he leans closer and closer until we are nearly touching and I can almost taste his bittersweet breath.
    â€œNatalie,” he murmurs, twirling a yellow curl around his finger, “you should let your hair down more often.”
    I am dazed and drooling at the delicious raw nerve of the man when a huge white moon face appears between us, forcing us apart, and Frannie sings, “Nataleeee! Where’s your boyfriend, Saul Bowcock?”

2
    I’VE KNOWN BABS FOR A LONG TIME. I KNOW WHAT makes Babs laugh—place names like Piddlehinton and Brown Willy. I know what makes her cry—anything, from news reports on starving children to the end of Turner & Hooch when Hooch dies but leaves behind a legacy of puppies. (She bawled, “It’s not the same!”) I know she hates small teeth and the texture of apricots. I know she gets a rash from underwire bras. I know she can beat Tony in an arm-wrestle. I know she has a tiny black spot above her left knee, from a childhood accident with a sharp pencil. I know her favorite words are “hullaballoo” and “pumpkin.” I know what Babs sounds like when she’s having sex.
    So you can imagine my pique when Babs reintroduced me toSimon a week after the seventies night fiasco and he said, “So, ah, how do you know Barbara?” I could barely believe he’d made such a blunder. Like asking God, “So, ah, how do you know Adam?”
    â€œHow do I know her!” I squeaked before lowering my pitch, as bats were falling out of trees clutching their ears. “I’ve known her for ages,” I choked eventually. “We’re very close friends.”
    I was too stricken to say more, but the question stormed round my head like a bully in a playground. How obsessed must Babs and Simon have been that in seven solid days of crash-course intimacy, she hadn’t mentioned me? I soon found out. Their enthrallment was mutual and total. There was endless fondling in front of me. I wanted to roar, “Stop it at once!” But they literally had eyes and ears for no one else. When I spoke, or smiled, they barely saw or heard. I was excluded. It was offensive. It was like a thief shutting you out of your own home. I couldn’t believe it. My boyfriend could have written a thesis on Babs within a fortnight of knowing me. But then maybe Saul Bowcock is less in love than Simon.
    Maybe Saul is too sensible to be in love. We are driving—at a sensible speed—to my mother’s solitary white house in Hendon to attend a celebratory dinner for Tony’s latest promotion. (From executive marketing manager to vice president of marketing at Black Moon Records. Although, as my boss Matt observed, “I’ll bet there’s a vice president of teabags at Black Moon Records.”)
    Saul likes seeing my mother, as she clucks and fusses after him in the vain hope that he’ll propose to me. “Should we stop off and get Sheila some flowers?” he says, slowing as the traffic lights turn amber instead of speeding up like a normal person.
    I nod. “Good idea.”
    That’s the trouble with Saul. He’s considerate but he’s also so screamingly proper . He is allergic to straying from his schedule. He thinks an impulse is a deodorant. I glance sideways at his face, and try to think kind thoughts. Saul is a nice man. Honest. Predictable. Safe. Affectionate. The only man I know who tapshis girlfriend on the back and says, “I need a cuddle.” “A willy cuddle?” said Babs suspiciously, when I told her. No! A fully clothed frisk-free cuddle . Saul isn’t like other men. We met nine months ago at the chiropodist’s and his chat-up line, I’m sorry to say, was “You have such an intelligent face. What do you do for