Page 43 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘Who’s with you?’
‘Nisha.’
Nisha perches on one of the stools beside the fold-out table and takes off her jacket. The apartment is stuffy with the smells of home cooking and a sweet, musky perfume. On the hob something meaty is stewing gently, obscuring the window pane with a fine, flavoured mist. It makes her realize how accustomed she has become to the nothingy, chemically cleaned smell of the hotel room. Then she remembers that she can no longer stay there after tonight. She has a plan involving the bed beside the laundry rooms at the Bentley but she is not sure how long she will get away with that.
‘Well, don’t be rude, Grace! Show your face!’
A girl of thirteen or fourteen pops her head around the door. She gazes at Nisha, who gives a hesitant wave.
‘Oh! You’re quite pretty.’
She hears Jasmine’s burst of laughter before she walks back in. ‘She’s training for the Diplomatic Corps.’
‘I meant it nicely! That Greek woman you brought in looked like she’d been run over.’
‘Did I bring you up to be this rude to guests in my house?’
‘Sorry.’ Grace is clearly not sorry at all. ‘Do you work with my mum?’
‘I do.’
‘Are you the one who didn’t know how to clean a toilet?’
Nisha thinks for a minute. ‘Probably.’
‘Did you put on the rice like I asked?’ says Jasmine, lifting the lid on one of the pots.
‘It’s in the bottom oven with the lid on.’
‘Thank God. I’m so hungry. Grace, clear your things off the table, please.’
Jasmine busies herself around her, pulling plates from cupboards and bustling past her to the living room where she lays the small table beside the television. Grace fetches cutlery, casting shy glances at Nisha as she sits in the middle of it all, unsure what to do.
‘You’re American, right?’ Grace edges past her. ‘Have you been to Disneyland?’
‘I took my son when he was your age but he didn’t like it much.’
‘Why?’
‘He doesn’t like rides. He prefers movies and computer games.’
‘Boys always like computer games. My mum won’t let me have them.’
‘She’s smart. His shrink says they are basically crack cocaine.’
‘What’s a shrink?’
‘A … a psychiatrist. A person who helps you with your head.’
‘Is your son crazy?’
Nisha hesitates. ‘Um. Probably a little. Aren’t we all?’ She smiles.
‘No,’ says Grace, and fetches a tea-towel.
There is a small settee in the room and an armchair on which a large pile of bed-linen teeters, its corners pressed with blade-like precision. An ironing-board stands on its end beside it. As Grace brings glasses and a jug of water, Jasmine places the laundry in clear plastic bags Nisha recognizes from the hotel, securing each with a small strip of sticky tape. Jasmine sees her staring at the Bentley monogram.
‘They throw them away after one use so I basically think of it as recycling.’
