Page 59 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘Your shoes?’
‘The Louboutins. Can you ask around? Is there any way you can ask your man if he can describe the woman who was wearing them in that bar? I need them to negotiate with Carl.’
‘I’ll ask him, Mrs Cantor. As long as he is on the same number – sometimes they change numbers, you know? Please – any news on my job? Turns out I am not so good at fitting tyres …’
‘I need those shoes back to give you a job, Magda. Okay? It’s very important. For both of us.’
‘I understand.No, we do not have any Michelin! Only Goodyear that size!You can rely on me, Mrs Cantor.’
Wishing that statement gave her more confidence than it did, Nisha ends the call, stubs out her cigarette and walks back through the kitchen. It is the peak of lunch service, and around her flames erupt from gas burners, while curses and yelling surge over the sound of pans and metal whisks. She ducks through the bodies in food-spattered whites, and spies Aleks bent low over a pan of scallops. He sees her and beckons her. He leans over to yell into her ear to make sure he is heard above the racket. ‘Come by later. I have something for you.’
She narrows her eyes.
‘You will like.’
‘What?’ she yells. It makes her uncomfortable, this constant giving of things. Like she is somehow becoming indebted to him in a way she has little control over. She does not want to be indebted to anyone ever again.
‘It’s to eat.’
‘What is it? And what do you want? For the food thing?’ When he doesn’t answer, she adds: ‘Like – what do I have to give you?’
He frowns, as if she has said something confusing. Then he shakes his head almost irritably and turns back to his scallops.
It is a duck. Aleks gives her a duck. The suppliers delivered too many, he says, as she gets ready to leave. The management will not notice. He hands her the surprisingly weighty bird wrapped in muslin. It is organic. Very good taste. She can make a nice meal for Jasmine and her daughter.
‘You know how to cook duck?’ When she looks blank he goes to the larder room and makes up a small package containing star anise, arrowroot, some green herbs and a small jar of orange liqueur, placing them all in a jute bag. He doesn’t look at her as he writes out instructions. He has beautiful handwriting. She doesn’t know why this surprises her.
‘It’s not difficult. Most important thing is let the meat rest ten minutes minimum when you have finished roasting, yes? Ten minutes minimum. That way it will be very tender.’
Something about this whole exchange puts her on edge. He definitely wants something. Why would he do all this otherwise? These delicious daily meals and little food gifts. But she doesn’t feel she can push him on this again without insulting him. This kind of confusion is new to Nisha, so that she is curt with him when she takes the package, her answers brisk and cursory. And when she heads back to the locker room his quizzical look makes her angry with herself.
Nisha does what she always does when faced with difficult emotions. She ignores them. She works her way through six rooms, like an automaton, fierce and thorough. She finds these days that she is oddly grateful for the distraction of cleaning. In the absence of running, or a gym, she finds the physical effort it involves calms her in some strange undefined way. The undemanding mental involvement of stripping and replacing linen, scanning for dust or dirt eases the whirringof her brain. The physical exhaustion it brings feels necessary. She is just ending the day sitting on the bench with a mug of coffee in the locker room when Jasmine texts her:
My ex says he can’t bring Grace back. Could you swing by and pick her up from my mum’s on the way home? I don’t like her travelling by herself.
She thinks of the bird in her locker, the mindless following of instructions, the prospect of a good meal this evening. She thinks of being able to offer something to Jasmine, which will make her feel less like the recipient of charity.
Sure, she types.And don’t eat before you come back tonight. I am doing a surprise!
She thinks about going back to the kitchen before she leaves, to thank Aleks properly for the duck. But something stops her: it’s too awkward, or maybe it will somehow make her feel even more weirdly indebted if she makes too much of it. It’s just a damn duck, she tells herself. What does she care about a duck in the grand scheme of things?
The bus is heaving. Jasmine has sent her a text reminder of which numbers to catch; she thinks she will never get to grips with London’s labyrinthine transport system, its huge, sprawling districts, which all look the same to her. She has mastered the art of disappearing into her thoughts while on the bus. They tend to be pretty dark but it’s better than listening to the coughs and irritatingly loud cellphone calls of her fellow travellers. So she doesn’t notice when the woman speaks to her initially, and only looks up when she is virtually sitting on her lap.
‘Excuse me?’ she says, as the woman’s coat flips over her leg.
‘I asked you to move. I need more room.’ The woman is tall, dressed in a large patchwork velvet coat and does not look at her as she speaks, as if Nisha is merely an irritation, an obstacle in her way.
‘I’m as far over as I can get. Hey. Hey! You’reonme.’
The woman just lets out ahmphsound and pushes further in. She has badly dyed hair and smells of patchouli.
‘Lady!’ says Nisha. ‘You are way over the line. Get back.’
‘I asked you politely. You didn’t move,’ the woman retorts.
‘I don’t want your damn coat touching me.’ Nisha picks it up with two fingers and flicks it off her leg.
‘Well, if you moved over I wouldn’t be touching you, would I?’
