Page 8 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘So would those terms be acceptable to you?’
The managing director steeples his fingers, briefly meets her eye. She smiles encouragingly.
‘Uh … yes. Sounds good.’ He can’t stop looking. His gaze slides from her face downwards, back to the shoe.
She pulls a contract from her briefcase. She tilts her foot and lets the heel strap slide slowly down her heel. ‘So, shall we agree terms?’
‘Sure,’ he says. He takes the pen and signs the document without looking at it.
‘Don’t say anything,’ she tells Ted, her gaze fixed straight ahead, as they walk out through Reception.
‘I’m saying nothing. You get us another deal like that, you can wear a pair of flippers for all I care.’
At the next meeting she makes sure her feet are on display the whole time. Although John Edgmont doesn’t stare, she sees that the mere fact of the shoes makes him reassess his version of who she is. Weirdly, it makes her reassess her version of herself. She walks into his office with her head high. She charms. She stands firm on terms. She wins another contract.
‘You’re on it, Sam,’ says Joel, as they climb back into the van.
They take an actual lunch break – something they haven’t dared do since Simon was put in charge – and sit outside at a coffee shop. The sun comes out. Joel tells them about a date he went on the previous week where the woman asked him what he thought of a wedding-dress picture she had cut from a magazine – ‘She said, “It’s okay, I only show people I really like”’ – and Ted spits his coffee through his nostrils and she laughs until her sides hurt and realizes she has no idea when she last laughed at anything.
*
Nisha is pacing up and down the chilly sidewalk outside the gym, the bathrobe over her blouse and flip-flops. She has left nine messages on Peter’s cellphone and he is not picking up. This is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.
‘Peter? Peter? Where are you? I told you to be outside by eleven fifteen! I need you hereright now!’
The final time she calls, a tinny, automated voice tells her this number is unobtainable. She checks the time, curses loudly, reaches into her pocket and pulls out her room-key card. She stares at it for a moment then stomps back into the gym.
The bag outside her locker is still sitting on the bench. Of course it is. Who would want that? She rifles through it, grimacing at the thought of touching clothes that aren’t hers. She pulls out a damp swimsuit in a plastic bag, winces, and dumps it on the bench. Then she reaches tentatively into the side pockets, emerging with three damp ten-pound notes, which she holds up. She can’t remember the last time she held actual money in her hand. It’s the most unsanitary thing, worse than lavatory brushes, if some article she read was right. She shudders and puts them into her pocket. She rips one of the plastic bags from the dispenser above the costume spinner and wraps it around her hand. Then she picks up the kitbag by its handles and walks out through Reception.
‘Madam, you can’t take the bathrobe –’
‘Yeah, well, this country is freezing and you’ve lost my clothes.’ Nisha pulls the robe tighter around her, knots the belt, and walks out.
They can moan incessantly about how much trade Uber has cost them but it turns out no fewer than six taxi drivers will still ignore a woman in a bathrobe trying to hail a cab before one stops. He winds down his window and opens hismouth to say something about what she is wearing but she holds up a hand. ‘The Bentley Hotel,’ she says. ‘And just don’t. Thank you.’
The taxi journey costs £9.80, even though it took barely five minutes. She walks into the hotel, without acknowledging the perplexed glance of the doorman, and straight across the foyer to the elevator, ignoring the swivelled heads of the guests around her. A couple, middle-aged, him in a suit jacket and slacks, her in a badly cut dress that reveals two oysters of armpit fat – probably down from somewhere provincial for a ‘treat’ – are already inside as she sticks out an arm and stops the door closing. She walks in, stands in front of them and turns to face the doors. Nothing happens. She glances behind her.
‘Penthouse,’ she says.
When they stare at her, she flicks a hand at them. Then flicks it again.
‘Penthouse. The button,’ she says, finally adding, ‘please,’ and the woman reaches over tentatively to push it. The lift hums upwards, and Nisha feels the tension clawing at her stomach.Come on, Nisha, she tells herself.You can fix this.And then the lift shudders to a halt and the doors slide open.
She is about to step out into the penthouse suite but collides instead with a broad chest. Three men are standing in her way. She recoils, disbelieving. Ari, who is in the middle, is holding out an A5-sized envelope.
‘What –’ she begins, making to push past him, but he steps sideways, blocking her.
‘I have instructions not to let you in.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ari,’ she says, batting at him. ‘I need to get my clothes.’
His face wears an expression she has never seen before. ‘Mr Cantor says you are not to enter.’
She tries a smile. ‘Don’t be silly. I need my things. Look at me.’
He’s like someone she’s never met. Nothing in his expression registers that he has known her, protected her for fifteen years. This is a man she has shared jokes with. Jesus Christ, she’s even remembered to ask about his annoying wife occasionally.
‘I’m sorry.’
