Page 37 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘I’ll tell them it isn’t you. I’ll call them. Whatever.’
‘Nisha. I’m a Black single mother from Peckham. You just used my all-access housekeeping card to get into a room where – what? – ten thousand pounds’ worth of clothes have just been removed.’
‘More like thirty thousand actually,’ says Nisha, affronted.
‘We have to get these back in the room. We can sort it, babe. But not like this.’
‘No!’ Nisha protests, but Jasmine grips her arm.
‘Don’t do this to me. You know we’ll all be in trouble if you do this. I need this job, Nish. I need it. And I’ve worked bloody hard to get to where I am. Twice as hard as most people have to work. You have no idea, okay? You have no idea. Don’t you ruin this for me.’
There is a steely tone to Jasmine’s voice, but genuine anxiety too. Nisha feels a flicker of uncertainty. She thinks about Jasmine handing her twenty pounds when she had barely known her.
She lets out a low moan. ‘Please, Jas. You have no idea what it’s been like. He’s taken everything. I need my things. Ineedthem.’
‘If this is how you say it is, we will fix it,’ says Jasmine, quietly. ‘But not like this.’
The two women lock eyes. And suddenly it’s over. Nisha knows she cannot do this to the one person who has treated her decently.
‘Arrrrgh.Dammit!’ she yells.
‘I know, darling. I know. C’mon,’ says Jasmine, suddenly brisk. ‘Come with me. We have to get these back before they realize they’re gone. Jesus Christ, my stomach. What are you doing to me?’
They say nothing to each other in the elevator but Jasmine keeps stealing glances at her, as if she is totally reassessing everything she has believed. They reach the seventh floor and exchange a look. But as the elevator stops, they hear voices. Loud, male voices. Somebody is back in the room. Without missing a beat, Jasmine slams the down button with her palm.The elevator hesitates as the doors begin to open, as if not sure about this change in instruction. And then they close again and it lurches suddenly downwards.
They exit on the sixth floor. Nisha’s head is spinning. ‘What do we do now?’
Jas holds up a finger as if she has already worked it out. She presses a button on her walkie-talkie. ‘Viktor? Do me a favour, babe? I need … fifteen, twenty hangers. With plastic. Yes. Yes. Fast as you can. Thanks, babe. I’m outside six twenty-two. I owe you.’
Less than two minutes later Viktor, a tall Lithuanian with sad eyes, arrives at a half-run bearing the hangers.
‘Put the clothes in these. Quickly. Give us a hand, Vik, will you?’
Nisha does as she’s told, threading each outfit up through the plastic. The three of them work in silence, Nisha’s fingers turning to thumbs as she tries to straighten collars on hangers, to push the wire frames through the tiny clear plastic holes. When they are done, a huge pile of clothes is lying over the trolley. Jas wheels it back into the elevator and motions to Nisha. ‘Put your mask on. And keep your head down.’
The doors open at the seventh floor. Jasmine motions at Nisha to stay in the elevator.
‘Housekeeping!’ she calls.
A man – is it Steve? – she can’t tell with her head down – appears at the doors.
‘What’s this?’
‘I have your dry cleaning, sir.’ Jasmine sweeps an armful of the plastic-covered clothes off the trolley.
‘Dry cleaning,’ Steve yells behind him.
She hears Carl’s voice from the study area.
‘What dry cleaning? I didn’t order any.’
Nisha’s heart stops.
But Jasmine steps out. ‘Your wife scheduled for her clothes to be collected for dry cleaning, sir? We’re just returning them.Stay here,’ she murmurs to Nisha.
‘My wife? I told Frederik she wasn’t to charge anything on my room.’
‘This was arranged some time ago, I believe, sir. I’m just bringing the clothes now.’
