Page 19 of Someone Else's Shoes
She is almost at the hotel, her brain still fizzing, before she discovers that during the scuffle her phone has fallen out of the too-shallow pocket of the second-hand jacket.
She curses, then doubles back and runs the route she has come, ignoring the drunks weaving their way along the street. She scans the sidewalk but there is nothing. Of course there isn’t. How long does a cellphone last on an inner-city street? Nisha stands under the flickering sodium light, closes her eyes and wonders how much worse this day can get.
‘Magda! There are six different White Horses in London! Why didn’t you tell me? I just looked them up! He must have gone to a different one!’
She has borrowed the phone of the soft-voiced Nigerian man on Reception, and as Magda answers, she is standing in the corner by the vending machine, ignoring the anxious glances he is sending in her direction.
‘What? But he called me!’
‘What do you mean he called you?’
‘He said he handed it to you two hours ago. He got held up so he was late and he called me.’
‘He did not give it to me. He went to the wrong bar!’
‘No. No, Mrs Cantor. The White Horse. I told him what you would be wearing. I knew this was Friday’s outfit, because I have them all on the chart. He said he recognized you by your shoes.’
‘What?’
‘The Louboutins. He said there are too many women your age with dark hair, five foot six. So I said this would be the best way to recognize you. Because there’s only one pair in the world, right? Very distinctive shoes. I even sent him a picture of them just to be sure. I knew you’d be wearing them because you said Friday you were going to get your hair done after the gym and then straight to Hakkasan for dinner and you said Mr Cantor wanted you to wear them.’
‘But … my shoes were stolen. They were stolen this morning.’
There is a silence at the other end of the line.
‘… You weren’t wearing the shoes?’
Nisha stands up, her hand gripping the phone as she realizes what Magda is saying.
‘Oh, my God. Who the hell has he given it to?’
7
There is a particularly vindictive tenor to the kind of hangover that occurs in your forties, as if the body, not content with acting as if it has been poisoned, also decides to send furious signals across all nerve endings:How old do you think you are? Was that really a sensible idea? Hmm? Think you’re still young enough to play hard? WELL, TRY THIS.Sam, her eyes screwed shut against the light, and the terrifyingly loud noises coming from the kitchen, observes she is now having imaginary arguments with her nervous system. She knows she’ll have to embrace the day. Or at least touch it gingerly with her fingertips and possibly weep a little.
‘Good night, was it?’
Cat appears in front of her in a satin bomber jacket and huge clumpy black boots, and places a mug of coffee on the table with what feels like a malicious level of enthusiasm.
‘I – I think so.’
‘Sit up. Or it’ll dribble down your chin.’
Sam pushes herself upright, groaning softly at the pain in her head. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Still asleep.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Half nine.’
‘Oh, God, the dog –’
‘I’ve walked him. And I bought some more milk. And I washed up Dad’s stuff from last night. Can I borrow your gold stud earrings? I’m going to a fur-farm protest after work and I worry that my hoop ones will get ripped out if there’s trouble.’
Sam’s gaze slides towards her daughter. ‘The ones I said you couldn’t borrow under any circumstances? Hang on. “Ripped out”? What?’
‘Fake gold ones make my ears itch. Here. Drink your coffee.’
