Confusion. Damn it – Jemima Lowe was not a name she wanted to hear. Not ever. She tried to tell herself that the vague trembling in her legs was because of exhaustion. She would take just a few moments to rest her legs. It had been a hard day. She’d been chasing a story around the Black Country all day about a vicious assault on an elderly woman in Bilston. Right now she wanted to kick off her heels and hurry back to the safety of the car barefoot, but of course she wouldn’t. Her feet had been encased in five-inch stilettos since she was old enough to get a Saturday job and buy a cheap pair from the market. But the minute she had, her life had changed. Yes, people still pointed and laughed, thinking she’d chosen heels way too high to master. And that was fine. Because they were no longer calling her a spastic. Just the memory of the word brought colour to her cheeks and a rolling anxiety to her stomach.
