Page 23 of Someone Else's Shoes
They stare at each other. The children gaze, wide-eyed, then look up at their mother.
‘This is ridiculous,’ says the woman, moving them behind her, as if she is dealing with a crazy person. ‘I’m afraid you must have the wrong address. Please leave us alone.’
‘Number fifty-seven,’ says Nisha. ‘That’s my house.’
‘It’s not your house.’
‘It is.’
Both women half laugh without humour, as if aware of the absurdity of the conversation. Nisha sees the woman take in her cheap clothes, the low-quality shoes, and she observes a flicker pass across her face, as if Nisha might be dangerous, perhaps recently released from a mental facility.
‘Who are you?’ says the woman, her voice tense.
‘My name is Nisha Cantor.’
‘Oh!’ says the woman, suddenly relieved. ‘Cantor! Yes! You are the people we bought it from!’
‘But – but we haven’t sold it,’ says Nisha. ‘He would have needed my signature. He would have –’
She realizes with a jolt what Carl has done. ‘Oh, God.’
The street starts to buck and spin around her.
‘Are you … are you okay?’ The woman’s demeanour has softened slightly. She steps forward and makes to touch Nisha’s arm. Nisha immediately snaps it away. She does not like to be touched at the best of times, least of all by someone showing visiblesympathy.
‘Four months ago.’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course.’
‘Look, I think you’d better speak to your solicitor. But this house is very definitely ours. I have the solicitors’ and land registry papers to prove it. I can get them from inside if you –’
‘Oh. No. I – I believe you,’ Nisha says. She feels winded. He must have been planning this for months. She lets out a small sound that might have been a groan, and tries to steady herself before she pushes herself upright.
‘Are you okay? Would you like me to –’
She turns before the woman can say anything else, and sets off at a brisk walk back towards the bus stop, feeling three pairs of eyes burn into her until she is out of sight.
‘Mom? Why are you calling so early? And why are you calling collect?’
‘I knew you’d be up, darling. I know you’re a night owl. How are you doing?’
‘Fine.’
She winces. ‘Fine’, in teenager-speak, can cover anythingfrom ecstatic to ‘Just been scrolling through a dozen YouTube videos about the best way to kill myself.’
‘How was your day?’
‘Fine.’
She hesitates. But this cannot wait. ‘Baby, I have a little favour to ask.’
She can hear a screen burbling in the background. He is probably playing one of those online games that involve wearing earphones and screeching at distant team-mates.
‘I need you to wire me some money.’
‘What?’ He says it twice, clearly perplexed.
‘I … I want to buy Daddy a birthday present and I don’t want him to see it come out of the joint account,’ she says smoothly. ‘You know how he is about watching all the financial stuff.’
‘Can’t you use your card?’ He sounds distracted. She hears the sound of distant explosions, followed by gunfire.
