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of the ostrich-skin loafers. William realised that he had not asked the price, but it was too late now to do so. He had to have a pair of Belgian Shoes. He simply had to.
“They look very good on you,” said the assistant when William put on the shoes and stood up to admire them. “You must have them.”
William nodded. There are some shoes that say to us: “Buy us and we shall change your life.” That is what these shoes now said to him—quite unequivocally. And William knew that the claim was true: his life would change once he had a pair of shoes like this. He knew it.
Of course, it all seemed so unlikely. Belgian Shoes! Nobody would associate elegant footwear with the Belgians of all people; the Italians, yes—they were destined to design and make elegant, life-changing shoes. But the Belgians? What were they best at making? Regulations?
He turned to the assistant. “Why are they called Belgian Shoes?” he asked.
She smiled. “They are made in Belgium,” she said. “And the Belgians are a great people for comfort. Belgians do not like to be uncomfortable.”
William thought about this. Did anybody wish to be uncomfortable? The British certainly lived in conditions of great discomfort, with their cold, draughty homes and their admiration for a culture of cold showers. But did they actually like to be uncomfortable, or did they accept discomfort as a constant factor in British life, like bad weather and run-down trains?
“So the Belgians are hedonists, are they?” he remarked.
He had not thought he would get an answer to this, and he did not. But what he did get was a sudden chilling of the atmosphere.
“You’re not … you’re not Belgian?” William stuttered.
The assistant shook her head. “I am Italian,” she said. “But I have nothing but admiration for the Belgians.”
She placed the Belgian Shoes in a dark green shoe bag and passed it over to William.
“These shoes will make a difference,” she said. “They will bring you a great deal of happiness. It is very clear.”
William paid—one hundred and seventy pounds—and then, collecting Freddie, he left. As he made his way back to the flat, he considered how his life had changed dramatically within a couple of days. He had acquired a dog. He had begun to resist his son. And he had acquired a pair of potentially life-changing Belgian Shoes. And … He was about to add: “And I’ve embarked upon my mid-life crisis,” but he stopped himself. It was not a crisis he had initiated, it was a rebellion—a full-blooded post-teenage rebellion. I am rebelling, he thought. I have never rebelled in my life—not once. Not as a teenager, when I was entirely compliant; nor as a young adult. Never. Now, at long last, I have started to rebel.
It was an intensely satisfying feeling.
42. The Morning Sun Was in Her Eyes
WHEN ASKED whether she was driving back to London, Barbara Ragg hesitated before replying. She looked at the young man standing beside her: what business of his was her destination? She appreciated his materialising from nowhere and helping to pick up the shattered glass from her wing mirror, but she did not think that it gave him the right to ask where she was going. She looked at him coolly—or in a manner she hoped would give the impression of coolness—but even as she stared at him she knew that the effect of her gaze was probably quite different from what she wanted. She felt flushed, rather than composed; suddenly unsettled, rather than determined. Only a few minutes ago she had walked out of the Mermaid Inn filled with resolve and firmness—a free agent once again after deciding that no longer would she endure the humiliation of being a mere adjunct to Oedipus Snark’s life. And here, within the space of a few minutes, she found that a pair of green male eyes fixed on hers had reduced her to a state of vulnerability and indecision. How she answered this simple question, she vaguely sensed, would in some way determine the course of her life.
That, of course, was absurd. The pattern of one’s life could not be changed by a chance encounter in the parking place of the Mermaid Inn. And yet, it could—lives, even our own, could be changed by such apparently insignificant events, and Barbara knew it. An apparently throwaway remark by one person could send another in a direction that would have profound consequences for what they did. “Why don’t you