The Black Patent Slipper
There was something about him that set him apart from the other men in the Grand Mandarin Club that night. Perhaps it was the mixture of authority and boredom in his voice when he’d ordered his martini (‘shaken, not stirred’). Perhaps it was the mysterious aloofness he exuded when he surveyed the room from his position by the bar. Or maybe it was his impeccable dress. The suit was perfectly tailored, but it was the shoes that caught her eyes. A pair of black patent leather Albert slippers that conveyed both eloquent simplicity and sartorial sophistication.
She decided introductions needed to be made.
He told her his name.
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘But what I really want to know is, who makes your shoes?’
‘Oh,’ he said, taken aback. ‘It’s Sleep. Arthur Sleep.’