Page 22 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘He shouldn’t do … Oh, no. Oh, no no no.’
‘Is that … is that the guy who gave it to you?’
‘No! He was much younger. And not … Ew.’
‘What is shedoingto him? Turn it off. Turn it off! I feel ill.’
They slam the laptop shut and sit there in silence for a moment. Andrea looks at Sam and shakes her head.
‘Is this a thing now? If you fancy someone, instead of sending a dick pic you hand them niche porn in a Jiffy bag?’ Andrea shudders. ‘Jesus. I’m almost glad I’m too ill to date.’
*
Few people are wearing smart dark suits in this scruffy residential neighbourhood, but this is a part of London described as ‘lively’ or ‘up and coming’ by estate agents, a place where it would not be unusual to see a man dressed as a goat, or a member of the Hare Krishna group dressed in flowing orange robes and waving a tambourine, so the few people who do pass Ari Peretz pay him little attention. He would not have noticed if they had: he is focusing intently on his phone, the screen of which is showing a pulsing blue dot that is growing ever closer to the travelling red one. He stops by a postbox, takes a step forward, then glances around his feet, as if he’s looking for something. He ducks, peers under a nearby hedge, then over a low brick wall, still scanning his phone. He gets down on his hands and knees, and squints under a parked car, using his phone as a torch. He edges closer, then reaches under the car and pulls out another phone, which he dusts off. He stands up, brushing down his trousers, and gazes around him. He lets out a heavy sigh, the kind one emits when one knows one is going to have to make a call that will likely not end well. Finally he dials.
‘I found it. She’s nowhere. We may have a problem.’
8
It had come to her in the small hours: the Chelsea house. Carl has bought and sold property compulsively during their marriage, and because this one had been under constant renovation, they hadn’t actually stayed there yet. In the chaos of the previous day, she had almost forgotten its existence. But she needs a base, while this is sorted out, and whatever state it’s in, it will be better than the Tower Primavera. The sudden recollection of it, at 2.14 a.m., had made her almost giddy with relief.
She has no key, but if the builders are still working there they will let her in. And if they aren’t, she will break in. No policeman in the world is going to object to a homeowner breaking into their own house. Nisha lies awake, planning her next move. Install herself in the house, get a lawyer, recover her bag, then kick Carl’s butt. It is this last thought that consoles her into a fitful sleep until seven, when she showers, climbs into yesterday’s clothes, and heads down to the dining area to eat the all-inclusive breakfast.
‘What do you mean, there’s no à la carte?’
Nisha stares at the server, who blinks at her and turns away. There are a million reasons why Nisha hasn’t eaten a buffet breakfast in two decades: the food is always the cheapest; greasy eggs sitting under hot lights, pallid sausages sliding in metal trays. Strangers lean over the stainless-steel containers, shedding hair or skin cells as they loom. It has always been her worst nightmare.
Until she was hungry.
This is not Nisha’s habitual hunger, low-grade, ever present, but a new variety that leaves her shaky and a little faint, unable to think about anything but food. She stands in the busy breakfast room, a gaudy yellow conference hall where the chairs are covered with plastic and the walls bear translations for ‘Good morning!’ in a dozen different languages. Despite her revulsion, her stomach growls and claws, like an animal about to loose itself.
She takes two tomatoes, something that describes itself as scrambled egg, and two hash browns. She adds a banana – at least nobody can get into those – and places some sealed rectangles of cheese in her pocket. A man to her right gives her a pointed look, and she glares at him until he colours slightly and turns away. She carries her plate to the furthest point of the room, sits and studies one of the free newspapers, though she barely takes anything in.
While she eats, she goes over and over the plan in her head. Once she has secured her base, she will need money. She will have to borrow some, just till a lawyer comes through. She wonders who she might possibly be able to borrow money from. Pretty much all her friends, these days, she recalls, with a creeping sense of dismay, are Carl’s friends. She thinks briefly about Juliana, but they have not spoken in more than fifteen years, and Juliana never had any money anyway. The man Magda had spoken to, the one who was supposed to provide her with insurance, has disappeared.
As she sips her coffee, she starts to feel a rising sense of panic:how has she ended up here?She forces herself to close her eyes and breathe deeply. She thinks of Carl’s bloated, self-satisfied face. He’s probably eating his eggs Benedict in the suite right now. She thinks of how it will feel to turn the tables on him. She has survived worse, she tells herself, murmuring under her breath. She will survive this.
When she opens them again a bored-looking kitchen worker is standing by the table. ‘You need to clear your tray into the bins when you’ve finished.’
Nisha stares at the woman for a full three seconds, some furious internal struggle just visible in her features. She takes a long breath, then picks up the tray and walks, stiff-backed, past the woman to the bins.
Using the last of her loose change, Nisha catches a bus and sits near the front, refusing to acknowledge the scattering of passengers around her. She gets off by Chelsea Bridge and walks the ten minutes to the little square. It seems acceptable: white stucco buildings, pretty boutiques and decent coffee shops. A florist sells exquisite arrangements of blue hydrangeas and she pictures a display of them on a dining-table once she’s in, and plans what she will book at the nearby beauty salon. Right now she would kill for a massage. But it’s fine. She will survive here for the foreseeable. She finally enters the little square, quietly satisfied at the evident peace of it, the sight of the nanny walking past with well-dressed children, the elderly woman with her dachshund. This at least is a place that understands how things are done, a million miles from the grease and noise and bustle of the hotel.
And there it is. Number 57. She stops in front of the gate and looks up, vaguely recalling its frontage from the real-estate agent details. It’s a fairly modest house by Carl’s standards, but he had chosen it for the location, and she remembers nodding and smiling and saying it was lovely, as she did with all his property purchases. He is a light sleeper and insists on living on roads where there is no through traffic or, preferably, surrounded by acres of their own land. The building work’s finished, she thinks, pleased, noting the neutral blinds, the carefully tended roses around the front garden.
She is just wondering if she can remember the name of the construction firm – Barrington? Ballingham? – when the front door of her house opens and a woman steps out. The interior designer, Nisha thinks, and steps forward, but almost immediately the woman shepherds out two small children. She looks up when she sees Nisha standing at the gate, and half waits. The two women stare at each other for a moment, blank, confused smiles on their faces.
The woman breaks first. ‘Can I help you?’ she says, when Nisha doesn’t move. She is whippet thin, her hair a straight curtain of natural hazel and blonde, clad in the expensive casual wear of the wealthy non-working mother.
Nisha is taken aback by her brazenness. ‘Uh … you can tell me what you’re doing in my house.’
The woman blinks. Half laughs.
‘This is … my house?’
‘It is not. We bought this house three years ago. I have the documents to prove it.’
The woman stiffens. ‘We bought it four months ago. I also have the solicitor’s emails to prove it.’
