Clothes maketh the man. Shoes maketh the woman!
So Sibelle believes. But now she’s hit mid-thirties. Without the woman-making shoes. Definitely without a man!
If she can crack the shoe problem then the man issue should follow.
In theory!
In reality Sibelle needs an intervention! From someone capable of impossible feats. Or, more to the point, feets…
An irresistible tale of sweet romance found in a stunning pair of stilettoes.
“The Importance of Shoes” is available for the month of July 2026 on this site. The ebook is also available on most major online retail stores. You can also read this story in the collection Baverstock’s Allsorts Volume 2.
The Importance of Shoes
By Jessica Baverstock
THEY SAY CLOTHES maketh the man, but shoes maketh the woman. Something about the slinky lines they give your legs. I thought by my mid-thirties I would have found the shoes in question, but I’m still lacking the shoes…and the man.
And while I did have a man once, I haven’t ever had the shoes.
I guess you could call me large. I like to think of myself as ‘well-rounded.’ Why is ‘well-rounded’ a complement when applied to your personality and an underhanded slight when describing your body?
I’m not obese, really just a point or two over my recommended Body Mass Index, which no one can seem to agree on so I’ve decided to ignore. I have a ‘buffer’ if ever I contract a stomach virus, or have to fast for several days during an apocalypse.
I look at those matchstick-thin girls, whose elbows are thicker than their arms, and wonder what would happen to them if they missed a meal. Their blood sugar would probably plummet and they’d have to be brought out of the coma with emergency jelly beans or a tofu burger.
But back to the original subject: Shoes.
I have a problem with my feet. Something I’ve never properly worked out. Something about fallen arches, I think, although that sounds more like a prophetic omen for McDonald’s doom rather than a medical diagnosis. Anyway, me and stilettos never did see eye-to-eye, if one can see eye-to-eye with an inanimate object. By which I mean we don’t get on. Or I don’t get on. They just sit there inanimately digging into my sole while my feet scrunch up or slip down or sag over the sides. Not pretty.
Every girl dreams of being Cinderella. Most girls dream of the prince who will come and sweep them off their feet, or the dress that will transform them into the belle of the ball. Me, I dream of finding a shoe that actually fits!
Okay, okay, yes, I do have shoes that fit. They’re those grandma shoes you get at the pharmacy that are all nicely padded and promise that you can walk in them all day without feeling a single twinge. And they do their job. But why would you want to stand comfortably on your feet all day when there isn’t a guy in his right mind who would come near you? Ever?
I did have a guy come near me, once. The clothes-made-man mentioned above. But I was barefoot at the time.
It was at a wedding, and I was a bridesmaid.
You see, when I said I was large, I meant in all directions. I’m also tall. Not so tall that I knock my head on doorways and chandeliers, but tall enough that I can reach anything on the top shelf at the supermarket. I’m not talking about the top shelf with food on it. I’m talking about the boxes above that. Tall.
So when it came time to be bridesmaid for my best friend Vivian—five foot five with honey-coloured hair, the perfect tan, and a backside that barely makes a dent in a pencil-thin skirt—I wondered how I was going to fit in with her and the three other cheerleader-sized bridesmaids.
The answer was, they would all wear killer stilettos and I would go barefoot. The champagne satin dresses went to the ground so no one would notice, and seeing as it was a garden wedding set in the groom’s backyard I didn’t mind so much.
In fact, it worked to my advantage. While I glided down the aisle, relishing the soft, warm grass beneath my feet, the three girls behind me staggered like drunken sailors, their heels punching holes through the turf with every step. The bride herself found herself bogged halfway down the aisle and had to be helped the rest of the way with the father-of-the-bride on one arm and the groom on the other.
I was feeling quite smug until five minutes after the ceremony when the inevitable happened. I stepped on a bee.
I don’t deal well with pain. I’d like to tell you that I hopped around with a few light curses, but the truth is I bellowed.
And then there he was, the best man, dressed in a tux and matching champagne bow tie. He was even an inch taller than me, but lanky, although not in a goofy way, more a stretched way—like he could do everything slightly slower than everyone else because his strides were so much longer. His name was Jeff.
He sat me down on one of the fold-out chairs the audience had just vacated so they could congratulate the happy couple. He did something with the sting—flicking, not squeezing or something, I’m not entirely sure, I couldn’t hear him over the din I was making. Then after a few words of sympathy he disappeared. I was deeply disappointed. I might even have stopped yelling and just moaned for a bit. It hurts when for some crazy reason you were the centre of a good-looking guy’s attention and then just like that, you’re not. It hadn’t happened to me before that day, so I wasn’t prepared for the downer. But it only lasted a minute or two before he was back with some ice he’d secreted from the bar they’d set up in the gazebo.
It was heaven after that. The whole night. We talked and laughed and even danced a bit, once the swelling on my toe had gone down. A few people called him Jack Sprat and asked if I was ‘the missus,’ but I didn’t mind. I spent the whole evening barefoot with the man of my dreams.
And then the evening ended.
The next morning, when I came downstairs from my room in the hotel where we all stayed that night, I met him in the lobby.
He looked just as good in casual clothes—white shirt and dark jeans. I was back to my grandma, flat-footed shoes. He told me he was flying back to New Zealand.
I don’t know if my footwear and his departure were related. Probably not. But still, you can never be sure with these things.
He invited me to see him off at the airport, but I didn’t go. I didn’t have the shoes.
A month or two later, when Vivian got back from her honeymoon in Fiji, she asked the question. You know the one, where the eyebrows rise and the lips twitch and she leans over and says, “So, how did it go with you and Jeff?” and you want to say, “Mind your own business,” but somehow it all comes tumbling out about how he was so nice and asked you to see him off at the airport but you didn’t go.
And she says, “Why not?” and you mention the shoes.
She didn’t seem to get it. She said I was just making excuses, but every girl knows that the finishing touch to an outfit is what you slip on your feet. It gives you confidence, power, and does something cute and sexy to your rear when you walk. Without that, you’re nothing.
So it’s a year later when I get an invitation from Vivian. A One Year Anniversary Do. It’ll be a great party, so she claims, and Jeff will be there.
I’m just about to turn her down when she slips me a silvery business card.
“Tailor-Made Shoes,” it says.
I turn it over and on the other side it promises they can make any style for any size.
How can a girl refuse that?
The place isn’t really a shop. It’s in the industrial district, a newly built concrete warehouse with a silvery sign over the double glass doors, promising shoes.
I walk through the doors into a bright, carpeted room with shelves and shelves and shelves of shoes—one pair of every shape, size, and color imaginable as if this were the Noah’s ark of footwear.
This is no ordinary shoe shop, where the petite sizes are on display, lit from below through glass shelves and surrounded by matching purses and cans of waterproof spray and the shop assistant has to disappear into the back for half an hour to find your size. There aren’t racks of mismatched shoes, discounted to make way for this season’s ridiculous toe-pinching styles. Nope, this is shoe heaven.
The owner of the establishment is a short, balding man who emerges through a darkened doorway in the back corner of the room. He wears a gray coverall, which looks like a cross between a doctor’s coat and a chef’s apron, with dark smudges here and there. He stoops slightly and I wonder if this is the trademark of all cobblers, the posture of one who has dedicated his life to hunching over hidden glue and stitching.
“Can I help you?” he says, with the air of someone who is still getting the hang of this front-of-shop stuff.
“I’m looking for shoes,” I say. Which is obvious, isn’t it? I don’t know why I said it but it seemed the most logical response.
He sighs and says, “What kind?”
Ah, now here’s where we get to the nub of the problem. Because when you’ve never seen your ideal shoe, it’s so difficult to describe. I had kinda expected a fairy-godmother-of-a-person to come fluttering out of the back room, look me up and down, and then produce the modern equivalent of a glass slipper. Patent leather, I was hoping. My feet need to breathe.
But the man before me possesses none of the qualities I would have thought were essential to the role—fashion sense, the knowing look when you start mentioning the latest dress you bought which you now need to match to something in the store, and the air of one who can work transformations. Shoe salespeople should have the same flare as hairdressers. Both should listen to all your feminine travails, make suitably sympathetic mumbles, and then send you out of the store having raised you to a whole ‘nother level of awesomeness—one you’ll never achieve on your own, ever. They don’t ask questions like, “What kind?”
With my confidence waning, I say, “Pretty ones.”
“Do you see any around here that you like?” He gestures to the acres of shelves behind him.
Do I see any that I like? My knees go weak at the prospect. Um, how about all of them? Except for the boots. I’m not overly fond of boots.
“That’s not the problem,” I say. “I’ve got funny feet.”
He looks down at my current grandma shoes. “You’re not looking for these kind of—”
“No, no,” I assure him. “I want something slinky, stylish, not necessarily fashionable but definitely fit for a party. High-heeled but comfortable. And preferably in a purple, although I’ll settle for black.” I blink. Where did all that come from? I think about taking it all back and saying I’ll just potter around and see what he has. Maybe I can slink out the door without him noticing. Maybe there’ll be a busload of super models come clattering through and I’ll dash out during the kerfuffle.
“I’m sure we can manage that,” he says, smiling for the first time. His eyes sparkle with what I can only hope is the glint of a cobbler about to work wonders. “Is there a particular style of heel you have in mind? Take a look around at these shoes and let me know what appeals to you. We can mix and match any of these elements to create the perfect shoe for you.”
The perfect shoe for me? Really? I would swoon at this point, but I’m too busy drinking in the possibilities.
For the next hour we discuss everything from toe shapes to heel designs, covering buckles, types of leather, and, of course, color. The possibilities are endless and the only thing that forces me to make a decision is the fact that closing time is only five minutes away. By the time I finally leave I feel like I’m floating on air, already practicing the cute wiggle these new shoes will give me when they’re created.
Two weeks later I go back for a fitting, and they’re better than I ever imagined. Strappy and slinky, with a killer stiletto and a sparkling diamonte-studded buckle. They’re made from purple leather that looks like crocodile skin. Yes, it’s imitation, but I couldn’t resist. They pinch a little at first, but because the glue is fresh it’s the work of a moment for an adjustment to be made. Shoes! My shoes! Just like I always imagined they’d be.
The day of the party I go to pick them up.
“Are you happy with them?” he asks me as I strut up and down the room, getting used to the peacock movements necessary when you’re walking on chopstick-like heels.
“Ecstatic,” I say.
I don’t want to take them off, but I have to in order to drive home.
That evening, standing in front of my bedroom mirror, wearing my voluptuous evening gown and the shoes of my dreams, I wonder what Jeff will think of me. I try to imagine what I’ll look like standing next to him—he in his swanky tux and me…me in these shoes.
Suddenly I’m not so sure. Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight. Perhaps it would be better for me to spend a few years getting used to these shoes before I see him again. Yes, then I’ll be experienced in the fine art of stiletto strutting.
I’ve just made up my mind to order Chinese food and rent a movie when the phone rings.
“You’re still coming, right?” says Vivian’s knowing voice.
“Well,” I say, considering my possible excuses. I could say my cat is gravely ill, but I am inconveniently catless. A family emergency would be better. Mother, or possibly father. That should do it.
“The shoes look fine,” she says before I can formulate my relative’s demise.
“How do you know? You haven’t seen them.”
“Because he wouldn’t have let you walk out of his shop if they weren’t. Now stop stalling and get in the car!”
“Ah,” I say, “I can’t drive in these things.”
“No one can,” she says. “Drive barefoot and put them on when you get here.”
“I’m sure I read somewhere that you should never drive barefoot.”
I won’t relay to you her next words, but suffice it to say they were choice enough for me to bundle myself in the car and whiz round there quick smart.
I pull up in front of her house, where there’s already a promising thumping of music echoing down the street. I reach across to the passenger seat and grab my new shoes. They glint in the beam of the streetlight. I slip off the comfy flats I was wearing to drive over here and then try to put my new shoes on.
As a tall person, I drive with my seat all the way back. Even with that advantage, the contortions I need to perform to get anywhere close to fastening the buckles is impossible. Had the designers of my Honda Accord tried to create an in-car device to prevent a driver from reaching their feet, they could not have done better than the steering wheel—not only does it slide from side to side when you lean on it for support, but it also comes equipped with a handy face-rest-cum-horn which will announce your escapade to the entire neighbourhood each time you reach forward.
Giving up putting my shoes on in the safety of my car, I open the door, place my feet on the asphalt and lean down to secure the buckles. It is in this stance, skirt riding up around my thighs and neckline hanging so loose it’s touching my chin, that I hear a familiar voice.
“Uh, do you need some help there?”
It’s him. If the voice hadn’t given it away, the slim-lined, black leather shoes with impeccably tied laces which just appeared in my peripheral vision would have clued me in.
“I’m fine,” I say, slipping the end of the strap into the buckle on my right shoe before looking up.
He’s wearing a sharp, black suit with an open-necked white shirt. Perfectly ironed too.
“Could you just look somewhere else for a minute?” I say, conscious of my less-than-perfect appearance.
He obliges, staring off into space and even whistling the first few bars of some pop song I can’t place.
I stand up, get my dress back in order, grab my handbag out of the car, and then shut the door behind me.
“Right,” I say, doing my best to ignore the embarrassment that’s surely competing with the peony pink blusher I applied before leaving the house. Stupid girl. “Shall we go in?”
He turns back around and I find myself staring down at him. The three-inch heels that had seemed like such a good idea in the shop have shot me two inches taller than the man of my dreams. His mouth falls open and he blinks. Then he looks down at my feet.
“Nice…shoes,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say. I could kick myself, but in these shoes I’d probably do horrific damage.
I stagger up the incline of the driveway, not prepared for the havoc a simple slope plays with my balance in these things. I can’t think of anything to add to the conversation, so we make it to the front door in silence. Jeff presses the bell and Vivian’s husband opens the door.
“After you,” says Jeff, gesturing for me to enter.
I’m so intent on making sure I don’t trip over the lip of the doorway that I never see the door jam coming for my head.
If this had been the story of a regular-sized girl, now’s the point where the hero would catch his lady love as she fell. In my case, self-preservation kicked in and Jeff stepped deftly out of the way, while Vivian’s husband yelled, “Timber!”
Yeah, but who can blame them?
I always thought that seeing stars was a cliché they just made up for the movies, but let me tell you, it really does happen. Half an hour later I’m still lying on the couch with an icepack held to the egg-sized lump on my forehead.
“You looked like Goliath in those things,” says Vivian, sitting on the coffee table beside me and sipping her margarita.
“Yeah,” I say, finally able to crack a smile through the soul-crushing embarrassment. “But they did give me a slinky walk.”
We look at each other for a moment and then both burst out laughing, so hard that Jeff comes over to find out what the noise is all about. Vivian leaves to check on her guests and he takes her place on the coffee table.
“How’s the head?” he says.
“Still attached,” I say.
“I take it the shoes are new?”
I look at them, lying on the carpet a few feet away. “Tailor-made,” I say.
He grins. “I think you look better without them.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say sarcastically, unsure whether it’s a complement or not, so erring on the side of offense. It’s always better to have a guy talk you down off the ledge than to realize later he was just yanking your chain.
“You don’t need the shoes,” he says, his grin still there. “You’re the kind of girl who can make barefoot work for her.”
“Really?” I say.
“I’ll show you.” He stands up and holds out his hand. “Wanna dance?”
“The Importance of Shoes” is available for the month of July 2026 on this site. The ebook is also available on most major online retail stores. You can also read this story in the collection Baverstock’s Allsorts Volume 2.
“The Importance of Shoes”
Copyright © Jessica Baverstock
Cover and Layout copyright © Jessica Baverstock
Cover design by Jessica Baverstock
Cover art © Mikhaylova(Елена Михайлова)/depositphoto.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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