It all started at, well, Start.
Start, if you don’t already know, is a designer clothing boutique in London’s Shoreditch, billed as, ‘Where fashion meets Rock ‘n’ Roll’ (not my capitals). Start is the place I would buy all my clothes if I wasn’t a badly paid journalist. Silky pink things from Miu Miu. Sexy skinnys from Acne. A gold David Szeto jacket. Skulls and satin and studs everywhere. Hold on while I have a small moment to myself.
Anyway. As I said, it all started at Start. It was November 2008, and I was on my way to a magazine photoshoot in Shoreditch. I got off the Northern Line at Old Street tube station, walked up the concrete highway and slipped into the relative silence of Start’s very own Rivington Street, tucked away behind the main road.
Finally I feasted my eyes on the delights in Start’s window. It was the usual riot of colour and texture, with the familiar pyramid-shaped rotating display. Not that I noticed any of these things on this day. Instead I was entirely focussed on the two visions of wonder circling slowly on top of the pyramid.
Boots. Green boots. Green ankle boots. Green and gold studded ankle boots. Green and gold studded ankle boots with three gold buckles and a 4cm cowboy heel. Never, literally never, had I seen such shoes. My life AB (After Boots) started to form itself in my mind’s eye. I would be The Girl In The Green Boots, a term uttered by West London sloanes and East London trendsters alike in hushed and reverent tones. ‘How daring!’ they’d whisper. ‘What a Statement!’ they’d opine. ‘Now there’s a girl who is not only Cool and Fashionable, but has her own Sense of Style,’ they’d say, shaking their heads in awe and wonder. ‘Green Boots. I wish <I’d> thought of that. Gosh.’
I opened the shop door and walked in.
‘How much are those green boots?’ I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Failing. The shop assistant looked at me and I felt that familiar sinking feeling of a TopShop Girl in a designer boutique: They’ve clocked me. They’re onto me. They know that I can’t really afford to spend more than £200 a month on clothes without having to sell my birthday presents on eBay and subsist on Tesco’s-own baked beans. I’m a fraud and they know it. People who are supposed to shop in here never ask the price of anything. It goes against the Rule of Cool.
Because the fact was that if the boots cost more than £100 I simply couldn’t afford them. And having just looked at them, smelled them and touched them close up (OK, fondled them in a semi-indecent manner), I’d spotted the tell-tale word that meant I might as well – in the words of Will Young – leave right now.
‘Chloe’.
Fuck.
These weren’t just green boots. These were fine-leather, hand made, celebrity-coveted, CHLOE boots. I knew it was hopeless, but nevertheless, like a Mississippi murderer minutes from lethal injection, I held my breath and waited for divine intervention (and the sales girl’s answer).
‘They’re about £720, I think.’
About £720. My fashion dream was confirmed dead. A slough of despond engulfed me, I thanked her and walked slowly and funereally towards the door. Turned the handle.
‘Oh, wait a second!’ the girl said. It was as though the corpse had blinked. I turned round, hope flaring in my heart.
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry, they’re not £720.’
Not £720. Which meant they could be less. They could be £100. Or maybe £72, hence the confusion. Yes, that was it. In the current crunchy climate, perhaps Chloe had sussed that their merchandise was heinously overpriced and realised they were never going to sell anything to anyone apart from Sienna Miller if they didn’t undergo a serious review of their pricing strategy. It was perfectly possible. I mean, Primark sells perfectly serviceable shoes for a fiver. And they’re doing really well, aren’t they?
The erstwhile corpse was now sitting up, smoothing down its hair and asking what the hell was going on.
The salesgirl spoke one final time.
‘No, they’re £680.’
The poison pulsed through the ex-corpse’s veins and hit the heart. Dead again, it slumped back on the bed. Flatline. Perhaps the innocent salesgirl hadn’t meant to be the harbinger of false hope. Or perhaps she had. Either way, I was past caring: too much tragedy for 10.30am on a Tuesday.
‘Ha! Well that makes all the difference, then!’ I retorted in a sarcasm-coated voice, and left the shop.
