Someone Else's Shoes(9)

“Do I look okay?”

The two men beam at her. Ted gives her a wink. “Like a boss. Mr. Price doesn’t stand a ruddy chance.”



* * *



? ? ?

Sam enjoys the brisk click of the heels on the marble floor as they walk to the reception desk. She sees the girl check out her jacket and shoes and observes the way she tilts her chin, as if she is about to be just that little bit more receptive to whatever Sam wants. Imagine being the kind of woman who wears these shoes every day, she thinks. Imagine living the kind of life where you only ever walk short distances across marble floors. Imagine having nothing to worry about except whether your pedicure matches your expensive shoes.

“Hello,” she says, and she registers distantly that her voice has a new tone, a confidence and ease that she didn’t have at the beginning of the day. “Grayside Print Solutions to meet Mr. M. Price. Thank you.” She is that woman. She is going to nail this.

The receptionist scans a screen. She taps at her keyboard, expertly slips three name cards into see-through plastic fobs and hands them over. “If you could just wait over there, I’ll call upstairs.”

“Thank you so much.”

Thank you so much. Like she’s royalty or something. Sam sits, carefully, on the lobby sofa, her ankles together, then quickly checks her lipstick and smooths her hair. She is going to get this deal, she can feel it. Joel and Ted exchange smiles behind her.

She hears footsteps on the marble. She looks up to see a petite, brown-skinned woman in her fifties approaching the sofa. Her black hair is shaped into a neat bob and she is wearing an unflamboyant, beautifully cut navy suit with a cream silk T-shirt and flat pumps. Sam looks up and glances behind her. The woman holds out a hand.

“Hello—Grayside Print? I’m Miriam Price. Shall we go up?”

It takes a second before she realizes her mistake. She glances behind her at Ted and Joel, whose expressions have frozen. Then they all stand abruptly with smiles and gabbled hellos. And follow Miriam Price across the lobby to the lifts.



* * *



? ? ?

It takes ten minutes to discover Miriam Price plays hardball, and an hour to discover quite how hard those balls are. If they go ahead with what she’s insisting on, their margins will be sliced to almost nothing. Miriam is small, serene, implacable. Sam feels hope draining away as Joel and Ted slump in their chairs.

“If you want the fourteen-day turnaround I can’t go higher than six sixty,” Miriam says again. “Our transport costs get higher the closer we are to deadline.”

“I explained earlier why six sixty makes it very difficult for us. If you want the high-gloss finish, it takes longer because we have to use a separate press.”

“Whether or not you have all the presses you need shouldn’t be my problem.”

“It’s not a problem. Just a question of logistics.”

Miriam Price smiles every time she entrenches. A small, not unfriendly smile. But one that says she is in complete control of this negotiation. “And, as I said, my logistics require a more expensive transport because of the reduced travel time. Look, if this job is problematic for you I’d rather know now while we have the time to find alternative providers.”

“It’s not problematic. I’m just explaining that the print processes of that size of order require a longer lead time.”

“And I’m just explaining why I need that reflected in the price.”

It feels impossible. They have hit a wall. Sam is sweating inside the Chanel jacket and feels a faint anxiety that she will leave marks in that beautiful pale lining.

“I just need a word with my team,” she says, rising from the table.

“Take your time,” says Miriam, leaning back in her chair. She smiles.



* * *



? ? ?

Ted has lit a cigarette and is smoking it in short, hungry drags. Sam folds her arms in front of her, unfolds them, and folds them again, staring at a Renault van that is reversing repeatedly and pointlessly into a too-small space.

“If I go back with margins that small Simon is going to blow his top,” she says.

Ted grinds the cigarette butt with his heel. “If you don’t go back with a deal Simon is going to blow his top.”

“This is impossible.” Sam shifts her weight. “Ugh. These shoes are killing me.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Nobody seems to know what to say. Nobody wants to be responsible for either course of action. The Renault van finally turns off the engine and they watch as the driver discovers he has no space to open the driver’s door. Finally Sam says, “I really need a wee. I’ll meet you back in there.”



* * *



? ? ?

In the Ladies, Sam sits in the cubicle and takes out her phone. She texts:

    Hey love. How’s your day? Have you been outside yet?



She waits, and after a moment a response comes back.

    Not yet. Bit tired. X



She can picture him in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, barely rousing himself from the sofa to pick up his phone. Sometimes, she hates to admit it, it’s almost a relief when he isn’t in the house, as if someone has suddenly opened all the curtains, letting in the light.