Someone Else's Shoes(11)

She glances around and sees a concession store across the foyer. She shoves her phone into her pocket and walks over. The clothes are predictably awful and hideously overpriced. Nisha rifles quickly through the rails, pulling off the least gaudy jacket and shoes she can find, trying to ignore the awful muzak being piped through the tiny store. She looks at the shoes in their size-delineated boxes and grabs a pair of plain beige pumps in a size seven. She piles them onto the checkout desk where a young woman is watching her with a faint air of anxiety.

“Charge those to the penthouse, please,” she says.

“Certainly, Mrs. Cantor,” the girl says, and starts ringing them up.

“I need to try the shoes. With a stocking. A new one.”

“I’ll just check if we’ve got—” She stops abruptly. Nisha glances up at her, then follows her gaze and turns. Frederik, the hotel manager, has entered the concession. He smiles at her and stops, several feet away.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cantor. We have instructions not to charge anything to Mr. Cantor’s account.”

“What?”

“Mr. Cantor says you are no longer authorized to charge anything to his account.”

“Our account,” she says, icily. “It’s our account.”

“I’m sorry.”

Frederik stands completely still, his eyes never leaving her face. His manner is unruffled, his tone completely implacable. It is as if everything is crumbling around her. An unfamiliar feeling of panic is rising in her chest.

“We are married, as you know. That means his account is my account.”

He says nothing.

“Frederik, how long have I been coming here?” She takes two steps toward him, resists the urge to grab his sleeve. “My husband is clearly in the grip of some kind of episode. He won’t even let me get my clothes. My clothes! Look at me! The least you can do is let me get something to wear, surely.”

The manager’s expression softens very slightly. There is a faint wince when he speaks, as if it pains him to do so. “He has given very . . . emphatic instructions. I’m so sorry. It’s not up to me.”

Nisha lifts her hands to her face. “I don’t believe this is happening.”

“And I’m afraid . . .” he says “. . . I’m also going to have to ask you to leave. The bathrobe, it’s . . . The other guests are . . .”

They stare at each other. Some distant part of Nisha registers that the checkout girl takes advantage of this moment to sweep everything swiftly off the counter. “Eighteen years, Frederik,” she says slowly. “Eighteen years we’ve known each other.”

There is a long silence. It is the first time he has looked properly embarrassed. “Look,” he says finally. “I’ll organize a car for you. Where do you want to go?”

Nisha looks at him, opens her mouth a little, then gives a small shake of her head. She feels suddenly swamped by an unfamiliar sensation, something huge and dark and ominous, like quicksand sucking at her feet. “I don’t . . . I don’t have anywhere to go.”

And then it is gone. She will not have this. She will not tolerate it. She crosses her arms and sits down firmly on a small wicker chair beside the shoe area.

“No, Frederik. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sure you’ll understand, but I’m just going to sit here until Carl comes down to talk to me. Please go and fetch him. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

Nobody speaks.

“I’ll stay here all night if I have to. Please go and get him, we’ll sort this out, and then we’ll work out where—or if—I go anywhere.”

Frederik gazes at her for a moment, then lets out a small sigh. He looks behind him and, as he does, two security men walk into the concession and stand there, waiting. All eyes are on her. “I’d really rather there wasn’t a scene, Mrs. Cantor.”

Nisha stares. The two security men move forward. One step each. The neat choreography of it is almost impressive.

“As I said,” Frederik continues, “Mr. Cantor was very emphatic.”





five


Nice one today,” says Marina, lifting her hand for a high-five as they pass in the corridor. “Joel says you played a blinder.”

Sam is back in the flip-flops, had put them on in the van, as her toes had begun to go numb, and the balls of her feet ache in a way that tells her she will be hobbling in trainers tomorrow. But she is still buoyant, an unfamiliar smile creeping into the corners of her mouth with every conversation. She feels a strange mixture of invincibility and slightly limp relief. I did it. I brought in the business. Maybe this is the turning point. Maybe now everything will be okay. She meets Marina’s palm with a slap that is only mildly self-conscious. She is not normally a high-five sort of person.

“Ted says everyone’s going for a drink later. He said we haven’t had that much business in at once since he was in thirty-six-inch-waist trousers. You are coming, right?”

“Uh . . . sure! Why not? I’ve just got to call home first. White Horse, is it?”

Sam gets back to her cubicle and dials home. It takes Phil six rings to answer, even though she knows the phone will be on the coffee-table in front of him.

“How are you doing, love?”

“I’m okay.” Just for once she had hoped she wouldn’t hear that defeated, resigned tone. She forces a smile. “Listen. I had a really good day today. Brought in a lot of business. A few of us are going to the pub after work to celebrate and I thought maybe you could come down and meet us. Ted will be there. You like Ted. And Marina. You and she did that X-rated ‘Islands in the Stream’ at the karaoke night, remember?”