The F-Word

“Flats?” asks the Pretender to the British Throne.

“Heels.”

“Matthew,” Bailey says quietly.

I squeeze her hand. “Really high. Black. Or whatever you think will go best with my, ah, my fiancée’s dress.”

“I’m not—”

I squeeze Bailey’s hand again. “As quickly as possible, please. “

The woman motions us to a pair of chairs. Bailey sits and our salesclerk removes the right shoe from Bailey’s foot. She reaches for one of those measuring things. Bailey waves it away.

“I’m an eight,” she mumbles, as if the number is shameful. The work of Violet the Victimizer, I think, and I smile encouragingly at the clerk as I ease into the chair next to Bailey’s.

“Eight,” I say. “With what do you call them? Spiked heels.”

Bailey starts to speak. I clasp her hand and bring it to my mouth. Just as I’d hoped, she falls silent. At least, she’s silent until the Queen Mum walks away.

“Matthew,” she hisses. “I won’t be able to walk in heels like that. And telling that woman that I’m your fiancée…”

“You’ll walk just fine. And tonight is all about getting comfortable with each other, remember? We might as well start here.”

Bailey catches her bottom lip between her teeth. She does that a lot. How come I never noticed it before?

“Comfortable is one thing. But engaged…”

“Okay. We’ll stick with that we’re just dating.”

“I wouldn’t bring a man I was just dating to a wedding.”

“People do. All the time. What’s it called? A plus one.”

“This is a family function, Matthew. I wouldn’t bring a plus one to a family function.”

She’s right. She wouldn’t. Women do, but Bailey isn’t women, she’s Bailey, and she wouldn’t take a casual date to a family wedding.

But that’s just the point, I think, and that’s what I say.

“But that’s just the point, remember? We want Violet to think we’re involved.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“About what?”

“About pretending we’re, you know, we’re involved. It’s one thing to fool Violet—but we’ll be fooling my mom, too. I’m not sure that’s the right thing to do.”

She’s going to back out. And, dammit, I don’t want that to happen. I’m committed to this little charade. I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying her. And, really, who can it harm?

I say that to Bailey. Not the part about enjoying it. Hell. Or about enjoying her. I tell her that if she seems happy next weekend, her mom will be happy. It’s logical, but she looks unconvinced.

“It’s not as if we’re going to claim we’re engaged or anything,” I say, and before she can answer, our saleswoman is back. She has three boxes. She sits down before Bailey, who has already kicked off her shoes.

“Let’s see what we have,” the Queen says, and she says it gently, as if she knows this is going to be important and maybe even traumatic.

She opens all the boxes.

Bailey gasps. I shoot a glance at her. The expression on her face is the kind a guy hopes to see when his lady gets her first glimpse of his equipment. Women certainly have weird reactions to shoes. I mean, I’ve always heard they do, but this is reality TV at its best.