There are a pair of scarlet satin high-heeled shoes at the bottom of our stairs on Saturday morning.
I am the only resident female in our house, “Are those yours?” says my husband, a little wistfully. They are not, which means that unless one of my three teenage sons has taken to cross dressing, there’s a stray female upstairs, possibly in a bedroom. The issue here is whose bedroom is she in?
(I am skipping over the ‘who is she?’ question because as mum, I am often the last to know who the current group of friends consists of so am quite unfazed by meeting complete strangers in the kitchen, but they are always-until now- boys).
The spare bedroom door is firmly closed, but it was when I went to bed at a modest 11pm, (well before the kids, who are on half term and had friends over to ‘chill’ so probably didn’t get to sleep until dawn) so this doesn’t tell me much. The boys doors are also closed and I don’t wake them up at the weekend so can’t blunder in and draw the curtains as this would meet with a barrage of abuse, and anyway, what might I find?
I clatter around the kitchen trying to figure out what a cool middleagedmum.com would do. I make tea, unload the dishwasher and think about teenage pregnancy. And underage sex. Heavens! Surely the owner of such deliciously seductive shoes is over 16?
I loose myself in more domesticity and anxious thought so by the time I return to the stairs, the shoes have gone. And the spare bedroom door is open and the bed has been neatly pulled back to air. “Oh and she said thanks for letting her stay the night, too” said my husband, who caught a glimpse of her as she left and I am relieved that even if there was stuff I’d really rather not know about going on, her parents have taught her to take her shoes off at the front door and to say ‘thank you’. That’s ok then, right?