S1 E7 – Shoes
She's off-island shopping when she sees them; garish, unreasonable, not at all sensible, not even comfortable, but something about them calls to her. As she totters slowly up and down the fitting area, she suddenly remembers... These are the blue rose shoes, the ones that got such a strange reaction from him with the Solly case. Yes, that was odd, wasn't it? True, it had been a clue and helped solve the case but I've always wonder if there wasn't more to it.
So, on a whim, a hunch, and a sincere wish to wind him up, she buys the shoes.
Next day, at the station, she waits until they're alone before starting her jape. She takes the shoe box out of her desk drawer and goes to the break area. When she gets her coffee, he's watching. That's not unusual but something about the intensity of his regard tells her she has his full attention. She sits down with her back to him. Plausible deniability.
She sips coffee then pops the box top. If anything, the silence in the room deepens. She wafts the first layer of tissue paper aside. More sips. Quiet consideration of the box's contents. She feels the tension building behind her. She anticipates his reaction with glee. There will be an invigorating argument and she'll get the better of him again. Lovely. And so much fun!
She hears a small sound when she lifts out the first shoe. She frowns. It's too soon. His resilience to my jokes is stronger now, sometimes it takes whole minutes to get a rise out of him. Still... She picks up the other shoe. She hears another small sound.
She sets the shoes down on the table, sits back, thinks... Really, they're the most unlikely footwear I've ever owned. Where in the world will I wear them? How will I walk in them? What earthly good are they? All they do is garner attention, something I've never needed help with before. Then she realizes that she now has the attention she so desperately wants, something she DID need help with. She shakes her head... What a mystery he is. All my usual stratagems have failed... but this? This seems to be working somehow.
She snaps a quick glance back at him and is puzzled. He's not watching, he's looking sternly down at his hands clasped atop his desk, brow creased in consternation. She crinkles the tissue papers again just to see what he'll do. He flinches but doesn't look up. She frowns... That's odd, why is he upset? If he's angry, he'd say something. Curiouser and curiouser. Well, I don't have much time left, Fidel and Dwayne are due back soon, I'd best get on with it.
She slips off an eminently sensible shoe and lifts one of the blue roses down. As she inserts her foot, she hears a tiny sigh. Another check over the shoulder, he's watching again, almost as if against his will. She buckles the delicate strap, stretches out her leg, and admires the effect, both on her foot and on him. She can look directly at him now because he's oblivious to all else but the shoe. Time pauses then seems to slow down. She can hear the clock ticking.
He rises. He comes around his desk and crosses the floor right to her. His movements are slow, languid, somnolent, as he arrives and stands just out of reach. She turns her foot one way then the other. He seems mesmerized. To break the silence and start the spat, she smirks, "Nice, aren't they?" He doesn't respond and she frowns again. This isn't right, where's the English indignation? Where's the pulling of rank? What's he thinking? Is he sleep-walking?
She stretches out her long slim leg, arching her foot most cruelly. Honestly, these shoes are going right back to the store soon as he's done yelling! They're impossible! They're too expensive and they're useless, utterly….
His touch stops her thoughts in their tracks. He's knelt swiftly and runs a hand along her calf, the light stroke belying the intensity of his touch. Her foot needs no further inducement; it arches again without any orders from her. Her hands clutch at the seat of her chair as her head snaps back and a soft moan escapes her that mirrors his earlier sounds.
His other hand drops to lightly stroke her instep. Her leg is on fire, her calf rigid. She begins to pant. His eyes are strange, strange and wonderful, and maybe a bit scary as his lips part... He's finally going to say something! Oh, please, don't let it be 'The joke's on YOU, Camille, these shoes are awful' or 'How do you like being the butt of MY joke?' or… or...
But it isn't anything like that. His words catch her so totally by surprise that he's up and back to his desk before her brain catches up with her ears. The burning skin on her lower leg is the only proof that any of this has really happened. He ignores her for the rest of the day but his words echo in her head mercilessly… "My place, 8 o'clock, bring them."
When she leaves at 6pm, carrying the shoe box, she dashes home, her nerves jumping, her thoughts in chaos. What did he mean 'bring them'? The shoes? I can't possibly wear them; I'll have to carry them. In a breathless rush, she showers and dresses, picking her most official clothes in case he goes all over the proper English boss on her. Trying not to think why, she ignores underwear in case he goes all over something else on her... If nothing happens, he'll never know. If something DOES happen, he might appreciate my foresight.
She's at his door precisely on time but he doesn't answer. Circling around, she sees both doors wide open but he isn't inside. Peering down the beach, she sees him pacing stiffly in the shade of the trees. She calls but he doesn't hear her. She goes cautiously down and waits but he's oblivious, pacing and muttering. She calls again. His head jerks up and the look he throws her is desperate before his mask drops into place and he checks his watch. That alone alarms her more than anything... Richard Poole? Losing track of the time? Oh, mon Dieu, this must be more serious than I thought!
He motions for her to precede him back to the house where they sit on the veranda and regard each other nervously. She has to break the silence, he doesn't seem capable. "Why am I here? What's wrong? What do you want? Am I in trouble?"
Pale and troubled, he takes a deep shaky breath, "Everything is wrong. It was a mistake to ask you here tonight, I don't know what came over me. This is a very bad idea, please leave. Go home and we'll never speak of this again."
"What? No! I'm not leaving until I know what's going on." She picks up the bag she'd left on the veranda, "It has something to do with these, doesn't it?" She draws out the shoes.
His breath hitches and his eyes drop immediately, "No... don't be silly... no... I just.. I just..."
"You're a very bad liar." She holds the shoes out and it's many moments before he slowly takes them. He turns them, gently rubs them, then stops with a shudder. He tries to shove them back into her hands but she refuses. Instead, she slips off her sandals and holds out a foot.
He stares down as if hypnotized then kneels neatly . His head bowed, his hands tremble as he slides the shoe home and does up the tiny strap, his eyes unfocused and dreamy. He's so intent that he doesn't notice as she inches fingertips down to stroke his exposed nape.
His hands fondle her shod foot and calf once more, deft touches that burn. She lifts her bare foot to caress his thigh, inching up to where it's hot and hard to her questing toes. That snaps him awake and the world stills. His head comes up, his eyes worried, scared, ashamed. Before he can say anything, she cups his face and bends down to kiss him lightly, "It's all right, I don't mind, we all have little quirks." She kisses him again and he relaxes just the tiniest bit.
He pulls back, one hand stroking the shoe, the other curled around her bare foot pressing so intimately against him. He tries to regain control, she can see the struggle on his face. She also sees the exact moment he decides to be brave, "Oh, yes? And what is YOUR quirk, may I ask?"
She whispers in his ear, kneading him with her foot and running both hands down his back, "I like to be impaled on a hot panting policeman, top or bottom, doesn't matter."
Goodness knows what images whiz through his head before he gives himself a small shake and murmurs, "What a coincidence," as his hands come up to take her.
She kneels to straddle his thighs, "I don't believe in coincidences and neither do you."
He reaches past her, picks up the other shoe, "No, I don't, please let me put this on for you."
She does. He helps her to stand and she just has to laugh, "I don't think I can walk in these."
He smiles, picks her up, "That's alright, I don't intend for you to walk in them at all," and carries her over the threshold like a bridegroom.
She is proven right, he is VERY pleased at her foresight... and their quirks coincide perfectly.
END