A/N I was reading this book and all I could think of while reading was Faberry, Faberry, Faberry. So of course I turn whole story upside down. Plot is from book and characters are not mine. Enjoy reading and tell me what you think!
Chapter 1
Someone would say that I don't need one more pair of black, shining heels. Especially because some inexperienced eye might think that there are eight similar pairs under my bed fighting for living space.
Someone else would say that the success of the first date doesn't depend on your footwear, and that the possibility that you will meet your true love in flip-flops is same the as in beautiful sandals…lets not think about that now. Lets think about my date, David. Lets think about his nice eyes and strong butt. That way you will better understand my problem with shoes and why, despite my strict rule that there is never sex on the first date, I remove every single hair from my body so that now my bikini-zone looks like it belongs to some Californian porn star. Just in case.
That's just another normal day for me in the last eight months. In that time I was pushed back into the dating world, which was like being awakened with a bucket of cold water after I spend last year in a relationship. In a serious relationship that wasn't that serious after all. Apparently my dear boyfriend was sleeping with his sister's best friend.
Still, freedom has its perks, as my friend Kurt says again and again. ''Imagine how fun it's going to be to find the next one!'' or ''Just think about all these shoes!'' It's true. Shoes always work.
The problem is that after six and half months of dating I'm slowly starting to realize that I'm not really good at it. Actually, judging by how many of my first dates resulted in second dates, I'm a lost cause.
It's not that I can't found someone who will go out with me. The problem is with the act of dating. And I do mean act.
Kurt says that I'm trying too hard. My other friend, Santana, says that I'm too weird anyway. And Quinn, who has been my best friend for almost twenty years and roommate for the last four, says that I should just be myself, that they need to know the real me. Which is why I'm concerned for her sanity, because really-why would anybody wanted to go out with me?
The real me doesn't drink water between drinks. The real me doesn't read any classical novels, barely cleans her make-up accessories, and doesn't volunteer every weekend.
As I'm getting ready for my date with David, I realize that tonight's real me isn't going anywhere. I met David through work. Despite the fact that we were talking about PR relationships, sparks were flying between us.
No. The me that will go out tonight is well read, funny and charming with shoes that would cast a shadow even on Sarah Jessica Parker herself.
I spot him as soon as I walk into the bar. This is one of my favourite places to go out, an old church turned into a bar is a good place to have a drink.
The lights are dim and it's incredibly hot. I stand up straight and make my way towards him, trying to imitate Audrey Hepburn. My feet are stable and they are not going back and front like they used to before I discovered a small trick in a magazine: place duct tape under the heels. Well, actually I didn't do exactly that. I couldn't find any duct tape, but I found bubble gum. It will do the trick for tonight.
David looks up and smiles. It's a smile that takes your breath away. But I don't lose mine. Oh no. Instead, I let a blunt expression of recognition cross my face.
''Hay Rachel, you look wonderful.'' He said and kisses my cheek. ''Nice shoes.''
It took all my self-control to not fall on my knees and express my undying love for this man and his outrageous taste.
''Thank you'' I say sitting down. '' You have good taste I see.''
And then I realize how it might sound.
''About shoes, I mean. Not because of me and my looks.'' I add quickly ''But, obviously that also isn't bad, just, you know, not that I'm full of myself or anything. Ha!''
It looks like David is having a good time. ''What are you going to drink?'' he asks, to my relief.
''White wine, please.'' I say, '' Chenin Blanc.''
''On its way,'' he smiles.
I'm extremely hot, so I take my shoes off and put them next to my chair.
''Are you busy with work?''
''Oh yes,'' I say, '' but I can't really complain.''
''Of course you are. You won almost every audition.''
Yes! He thinks I'm a big player!
''I was lucky,'' I smile. ''What about you?''
We spend the next hour talking about work (which I don't mind since he thinks I'm some famous Broadway actress) and little bit flirting. As he stands up to take us to the restaurant across the street, I'm already planning which school our first child should attend.
''Shall we?''
I take his hand so I can join him. But, while I'm standing up, I realize that I'm not going anywhere. Because I'm…for Barbra's sake…stuck.
Resting my feet on the chair wasn't a good idea, if you keep in mind that I have a big piece of pink bubble gum on each heel.
I try to set my right foot free, but despite all my trying it only gets worse.
''Uh, I, sorry…just a second.'' I lower my head with blushing cheeks and try to detangle it.
''Are you okay?'' he asks, looking down in confusion. '' Can I help?''
''No!'' I quickly say, pulling miles and miles of gum from my feet. ''Just a little problem with the shoes.''
''No, really, I can help…''
''No!'' I protest and finally set my feet free. ''I mean, look! I did it.'' I say proudly and remove my leg from the chair, which falls to the floor.
''I'm sorry about that.'' I say trying to find my left shoe.
''It's fine.'' He kneels down and gives me my left shoe with a confused look.
''Ohhh, thank you for that.'' I smile weakly and take my shoe.
But something about his facial expression tells me that nothing can save me anymore, not even my designer shoes.
''My date was an EPIC fail,'' I state.
''I'm sure you're over reacting,'' says Quinn.
''I am not! All night long he had the same look on his face as Dermont!''
Quinn looks at me confused.
''The building contractor, from before Christmas.''
''Remind me.''
''You know, the skinny one who looked like Robbie Williams.''
Quinn shakes her head.
''I broke his nose while I was dancing the YMCA dance?''
''Oh! That one. Well, The Village People have always been responsible for a lot of things.''
Despite the funny tone, Quinn is sadly looking at me. I know that look all too well by now.
''Do you think you're going out again?'' she continuous.
''Unless he forgets with what a fool he went out with, no, I don't think so.''
''It couldn't be that whole thing was just about a shoe accident.'' She says, '' I mean, yeah it was awkward, but was it really just that?''
''It was only the beginning. After that, I drank too much trying to calm my nerves. Apparently I called him Davis instead of David the whole night.''
She tries to contain her laughter. ''You want some toast?''
Quinn is in her orange night coat preparing dinner. The coat is a gift from her mother. I honestly have no idea where she managed to find that awful piece of cloth. I could be in a mall the whole day and never find anything like that.
I wish I could say that this is an exception, but sadly, her mom still buys her clothes. I tried to hint that that is not really normal, but without success. And the small amounts of clothes that she buys herself are even worse. Think Polo shirts that nobody under fifty should wear or Pokémon T-shirts that nobody older than five should wear.
But that doesn't matter. Quinn is the best friend anybody could wish for. She is also a great roommate, does almost all the house chores by herself and pays rent on time. She is above average funny and a great shoulder to cry on.
Despite all that there is something about Quinn that I can't deny, no matter how much I love her-she's a dork. Nerd. Geek. Adorable. Lovely. I couldn't live without her but still she's still a geek.
Quinn butters the toast, puts it on a plate and places it in front of me.
'' Do you have any cute friends at work?'' I ask. ''Someone you could warn about my clumsiness but convince that I'm worth it?''
She thinks for a moment. ''William is the only single guy, but I don't think he is the right for you.''
''Why not?'' I ask defensively.
''He's sixty three.''
I roll my eyes.
''Besides him, there is only me.''
I look up at her and our eyes met. We both burst of laughing.
Don't get me wrong. I love Quinn. She's intelligent, smart, buys perfect gifts for birthdays. Not like Finn, who forgot three years in a row and then tried to make it up to me with a set of comforters (I was born in August). In short, I really love Quinn, but I still wouldn't sleep with her, and that feeling is mutual.
''I already told you, you have to loosen up,'' she says. ''You'd have more luck.''
''Ugh, not this again.''
''Just think about Anthony and Cleopatra, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Benet or Katnnis and Peeta.'' She continuous, ''Those women were all passionately loved by their man, despite their flaws.''
That's so typical Quinn. First, despite the fact that that statement is short, it has not one, but a few literary references. And second, she's a hopeless romantic. And still she isn't really experienced in that area.
''They are not real, Quinn,'' I say, '' they are fictional characters.''
She gives me a look. ''No, you don't understand,'' she sighs. ''And besides, Cleopatra was real.''
''I know that.'' I say under my breath. ''What I mean is that you have to believe me in this case. In our time men expect women to be smarter than Carol Vorderman, cook better than Nigelle, and have bigger lips than Penelope Cruz - all at the same time.
''Well I don't.''
''You're Quinn.''
''And besides,'' she says, completely ignoring my comment, ''I didn't mean that you don't have to be pretty, I just meant that you don't have to be perfect at everything.''
''I would be happy if I wasn't not perfect at everything.'' I scoff
''Cut it out Rach. You're not that bad.''
''Oh, thank you very much.''
''What do I have to do to convince you?''
''You don't have to do anything.''
''Rachel, you are good enough. You don't have to always pretend that you're somebody you're not.''
''I don't.''
''Right. So you didn't tell that chef a few weeks ago that you were a finalist on a quiz show fifteen years in a row?''
''You always bring that up.'' I say. ''I didn't tell him that! He kind of…just assumed.''
She raises her eyebrow.
''Of course, until I sat on his cake.''
