Someone Else's Shoes(10)

She wipes, and flushes, and adjusts her clothes, feeling suddenly guilty and stupid for using the shoes and the jacket. Could you be prosecuted for wearing someone else’s clothes? She washes her hands and gazes at her reflection. All the confidence of earlier seems to have drained away. She sees a woman of forty-five, the past year’s sadness, anxieties and sleeplessness etched onto her face. Come on, old girl, she tells herself, after a minute. Push on through. She wonders when she started calling herself old girl.

The door of one of the cubicles opens and Miriam Price steps out behind her. They nod politely at each other’s reflection while washing their hands, Sam trying not to betray her sudden feeling of awkwardness. Miriam Price smooths imaginary stray hairs from her face, and Sam reapplies her lipstick, mostly just for something to do. She keeps trying to think of something to say, something that will convince Miriam Price to work with them, some magic few words that will casually betray what a great and professional company they are, and stretch those tiny price margins. Miriam smiles that small, serene smile. She is clearly not trying to think of something to say. Sam wonders if she has ever felt so inadequate in a Ladies loo before.

And then Miriam Price looks down. “Oh, my God, I love your shoes,” she exclaims.

Sam follows Miriam’s gaze down to her feet.

“They are absolutely gorgeous.”

“Actually they’re n—” Sam stops. “They’re great, aren’t they?”

“Can I see?” Miriam points at them. She holds the shoe that Sam removes, lifts it up under the lights and examines it from all angles with the reverence one would apply to a work of art, or a fine bottle of wine. “Louboutin, right?”

“Y-yes.”

“Is it vintage? He’s made nothing like this for at least five years. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve seen anything like it at all.”

“Uh . . . uh, yes. Yes, it is.”

Miriam runs her finger down the heel. “He’s such a craftsman. You know, I once queued for four hours just to buy a pair of his shoes. How crazy is that?”

“Oh . . . not crazy at all,” says Sam. “Not where I’m concerned.”

Miriam weighs it in her hands, examines it a moment longer, then hands it back almost reluctantly. “You can always tell a proper shoe. My daughter doesn’t believe me, but you can tell so much about someone from what they wear on their feet. I always dress from the ground up. These old things are Prada. I just felt like I needed an on-the-ground kind of a day so I’m wearing flats but, honestly, looking at those I’m overcome with heel envy.”

“I tell my daughter the exact same thing!” The words are out of Sam’s mouth before she even knows what she’s saying.

“Mine just wears trainers the whole time. I don’t think they understand the totemic power of shoes.”

“Oh, mine too. Enormous Dr. Marten’s boots. And they really don’t,” says Sam, who is not sure she understands the meaning of “totemic.”

“I tell you what, Sam. Can I call you Sam? I hate negotiating like this. Shall we speak next week? Let’s the two of us thrash something out away from the boys. I’m sure we can reach a deal that works for both of us.”

“That would be great,” Sam says. She wrestles the shoe back onto her foot, and takes a breath. “So . . . can I say we have an agreement in principle?”

“Oh, I think so.” Miriam’s smile is warm, conspiratorial. “I have to ask . . . is that jacket Chanel?”





four


Nisha sits in the depths of a plush rose-colored sofa in the foyer of the Bentley Hotel, a towering arrangement of birds of paradise in a torso-sized vase beside her, her cellphone pressed to her ear. Around her a few guests cast glances at the woman in the dressing-gown when her voice lifts over the sound of the chatter.

“Carl, this is ridiculous. I’m in the foyer. Come down and let’s talk.” The message ends. She redials immediately. “Carl, I’m going to keep calling until you pick up. This is not the way to treat your wife of eighteen years.” The message ends and she redials again.

“Nisha?”

“Carl! I—Charlotte? Charlotte? No. He’s forwarding his calls. I want to talk to Carl. Please put him on.”

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t do that, Nisha.”

Charlotte’s voice is as calm as if she featured on a meditation app. There is something new in her tone that makes Nisha bristle too, a faint air of superiority. And then she registers: Oh, my God, she called me Nisha.

“Mr. Cantor is in a meeting and has issued direct instructions that he can’t be disturbed.”

“No. You get him out of the meeting. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to be disturbed. I’m his wife. Do you hear me? Charlotte? . . . Charlotte?”

The line has gone dead. The girl actually put the phone down on her.

When she looks up, the people on nearby sofas are staring at her. She stares back, until their heads swivel away, in a flurry of raised eyebrows and murmurs. Her whole body is suddenly flooded with cortisol, and she might actually want to kill someone, or run somewhere, or scream. She is not entirely sure which. Nisha looks down and realizes she cannot get through this wearing a cheap robe and flip-flops. She thinks of her clothes upstairs in the penthouse and feels an almost maternal anxiety that she cannot get to them. Her clothes.