Still. She can’t quite let it go. The image of him standing there, watching her as she walked away. A weird sense of loss – like she’s leaving something behind. ‘Ow!’ She’s not looking where she’s going as she heads out of security – which maybe explains the massive fuckoffspike that impales itself into her toe. Or okay, not quiteinto. But it bloody feels like it.
‘Ow,’ she says again, practically hopping when the stiletto is removed, accompanied by a woman’s ‘Shit, sorry!’
Ally whimpers in pain and hops to the side, so that countless other people can move out of security and towards duty-free. She thinks she can feel blood coating her sock inside her trainer. She perches on a bench, reaching to pull off the shoe she literally just put on again.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She looks up to see a woman – fifties, sixties maybe? – peering down at her. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
She glances down at the woman’s feet. Fucking red stilettos. Who wears those to an airport?
She ignores the woman, continuing the removal of her shoe, then her sock. It might be broken, she thinks.Of course it’s bloody broken.Don’t you break a bone in your toe every time you step down too hard or something?
It might beseriouslybroken, though.
Get a fucking grip, Ally.
‘Are you okay?’ the woman is asking.
Ally is too busy inspecting the injured toe to reply. It already looks bruised – though there is no blood, so she was clearly imagining that.
‘I wasn’t looking where I was going,’ the woman says unnecessarily, still hovering over her. She makes a face at the sight of the bruise. Then she clicks her fingers. ‘Here,’ she says, fumbling in her handbag, ‘I went to Boots just before we came through. I have a plaster.’ She pulls out a box, keeps fumbling. ‘And does it hurt? I have paracetamol. A bandage, maybe?’
Ally raises her eyebrows. ‘Handy, aren’t you?’
‘Oh sure,’ the woman says mildly. ‘Just call me Dr D.’
Ally frowns. ‘Like a supervillain?’
The woman stops rooting in her bag and stares at her. It’s such an odd look that Ally immediately wonders if she’s somehow offended her. Though to be fair, she’s the one who drove a stiletto through Ally’s foot, not the other way around.
‘What?’ Ally asks.
‘Nothing. Sorry.’ The woman hands over the pack of plasters.
Because it feels impolite not to, Ally takes it, pulls out a toe-sized one. ‘Thanks.’ She offers the pack back, but the woman shakes her head.
‘Keep it. You never know when someone else might be wielding a lethal shoe around you.’
Ally snorts and slips the plasters into her own bag – again, because it seems easier not to argue.
‘Are you accosting strangers now, love?’ A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind smile approaches them.
‘Well, my shoe is.’ The woman looks back to Ally. ‘Are you sure you’re—’
‘I’m fine,’ Ally says firmly, slipping her shoe back on and putting weight on her foot. She’s proud of herself, actually. This is something that not so long ago might have caused a panic attack. Turns out therapy actuallyishelpful.
‘This is Aaron,’ the woman is saying. ‘My husband.’
‘Hi, Aaron. I’m Ally. Your wife’s shoe took issue with my toe.’
‘Or maybe, to be fair, your toe took issue with my shoe. After all, a shoe is inanimate.’
Ally cocks her head. ‘Whereas a toe can think for itself?’
The woman snorts. ‘I’m Darcy.’
Ally smiles. ‘Nice to meet you, Darcy. I think.’
They gather their stuff – and of course they are all heading the same way, into duty-free, meaning it’s that awkward kind of situation where unless one of you thinks of an excuse quickly enough, you end up walking together.
