Page 5 of Someone Else's Shoes
Is she drunk?
2
Nisha Cantor is running furiously on a treadmill. Music pumps in her ears and her legs are pounding like pistons. She always runs furiously. The first mile is the worst, fired by a choleric mix of resentment and lactic acid; the second makes her really, really angry; and the third is where her head finally starts to clear, when she feels suddenly like her body is oiled, like she can run for ever, and then she’s angry again because she has to stop and do something else just at the point when she’s started to enjoy it. She hates the run, and she needs it for her sanity. She hates visiting this damn city, where there are people all over the sidewalks, meandering slowly, so the only place she can run properly is this crappy gym, to which the hotel has siphoned its guests while its own superior facilities are apparently being renovated.
The machine informs her that it’s time for her to cool down, and she turns it off abruptly, unwilling to be told what to do by a freaking machine.No, I will not cool down, she thinks. As she pulls out one of her earphones she becomes aware of a ringing sound. Nisha reaches over to pick up her phone. It’s Carl.
‘Darling –’
‘Excuse me.’
Nisha looks up.
‘You need to turn your phone off,’ says a young woman. ‘This is a quiet area.’
‘Then stop talking at me. You’re very loud. And please don’t stand so close. I might be absorbing droplets of your sweat.’
The woman’s jaw drops slightly and Nisha presses her phone to her ear.
‘Nisha, darling. What are you up to?’
‘Just at the gym, my love. Are we still meeting for lunch?’
Carl’s voice, as smooth as butter, one of the things she has always loved about him. ‘Yes, but perhaps we could have it at the hotel. I have to come back to pick up some papers.’
‘Of course,’ says Nisha, automatically. ‘What would you like me to order for you?’
‘Oh, anything.’
She freezes. Carl never says ‘anything’.
‘You want Michel’s special white-truffle omelette? Or the seared tuna?’
‘Sure. That will be lovely.’
Nisha swallows. She tries to keep her voice level. ‘What time would you like it?’
Carl pauses and she hears the muffled sound of him talking to someone else in the room. Her heart has started to pound.
‘Midday would be wonderful. But take your time. I don’t want to rush you.’
‘Of course,’ says Nisha. ‘Love you.’
‘You too, darling,’ says Carl, and the line goes dead.
Nisha stands very still, her blood pumping in her ears in a way that has nothing to do with running. She thinks briefly that her head may actually explode. She takes two deep breaths. Then she punches another number into the phone. It goes straight to voicemail. She curses the time difference with New York.
‘Magda?’ she says, her hand raking through her sweaty hair. ‘It’s Mrs Cantor. You need to get on to your man, NOW.’
When she looks up, a gym attendant, in a polo shirt and cheap shorts, has appeared. ‘Ma’am, you cannot use a phone in here, I’m afraid. It’s against –’
‘Just back off,’ says Nisha. ‘Go clean a floor or something. This place is a goddamn Petri dish.’ She pushes past him towards the changing room, snatching a towel from another attendant as she goes.
The changing rooms are packed, but she sees nobody. She is running through the telephone conversation in her head, over and over, her heart thumping. So this is it. She needs to clear her head, to be ready to respond, but her body has gone into a weird stasis and nothing is working as it should. She sits down on the bench briefly, staring blankly in front of her.I can do this, she tells herself, gazing at her trembling hands.I have survived worse.She presses her face into the towel, breathing in until she’s sure she’s got the shakes under control, and straightens, pushing her shoulders back.
Finally she stands and opens her locker, pulling out her Marc Jacobs kitbag. Someone has placed their bag on the bench beside her locker and she shoves it onto the floor, putting her own in its place. Shower. She must shower before she does anything. Appearances are everything. And then her phone rings again. A couple of women look over but she ignores them and picks it up from the bench beside her. Raymond.
‘Mom? Did you see the picture of my eyebrows?’
