Someone Else's Shoes(100)

She glances up at the ornate clock, then at the door behind which she knows Nisha is waiting, her expression as tense and determined as it has been all morning. She knows Nisha thinks she won’t go through with it, and she carries the irritation that comes from Nisha’s assumption and also the sneaking suspicion that she may be right. Every cell in her body is telling her to leave. And yet, she realizes, there is nothing for her to go home to. What else is she going to do? Then the glass doors to the street open and Sam sees them: Liz and Darren Frobisher, glancing around in the way that people do when they arrive somewhere they haven’t been before. She types HERE into her phone, takes a breath, and she’s on her feet, striding over to them before they can reach the reception desk.

“Hello! Mr. and Mrs. Frobisher! How lovely to see you.”



* * *



? ? ?

They had gone over it all multiple times beforehand. Michelle on the front desk wouldn’t look twice at a couple being greeted by another guest in the foyer so Sam would be free to shepherd them away and upstairs to the designated room. People used the foyer as an unofficial meeting point even if they weren’t staying at the hotel: it’s glamorous, and quiet, in the center of town, and good for Instagram selfies taken by the kind of people who want to suggest they have a posh-hotel kind of lifestyle. Liz Frobisher’s endless chatter is briefly quieted by the plush marble interior, and the couple follow Sam obediently to the lifts, where she talks mindlessly at them both, asking them about their journey, what a lovely day it had turned out to be, how very smart they look. Liz Frobisher isn’t wearing the shoes, but her husband pulls a cabin bag on wheels and she feels their presence inside it like something radioactive.

The door is unlocked when they reach Room 232 and Jasmine is already inside, pretending to plump pillows.

“Are these our prizewinners?” she says, smiling broadly, and Liz Frobisher offers her a hand, palm down, like a queen greeting a subject. Jasmine manages to restrain herself to only the faintest of eyebrow lifts. The room is a Mid-range Executive Comfort, 42 square meters with a queen-sized bed and a small sofa under the window.

“So,” Sam says. “Here is the room. One of the hotel’s best. We hope you’ll be very comfortable.”

Liz Frobisher is walking slowly around the bed, running her fingers over the bedspread and curtains, as if testing its quality. She looks up at the sumptuous décor, an expression of vague disappointment coloring her features. It is possible her status as prizewinner has gone to her head.

“So when do we take the photographs of me?” she says, turning to Sam.

“It would be good if we could do them fairly soon,” says Sam. “You know, while the light is good.”

“Is this outfit okay?”

Liz Frobisher is wearing a red two-piece fake Chanel suit, with deliberately frayed hems, and a scarf knotted jauntily at her neck. Her red hair, which Sam now sees is dyed, has been sprayed into beach waves, and her makeup suggests upward of an hour spent at a vanity table.

“Gorgeous,” say Jasmine and Sam in unison, and Liz preens a little, as if this is only to be expected.

“So do we get any free booze?” says Darren.

“Darren, you know we’re not drinking,” says Liz, sharply, then adds, “We wondered . . . you know . . . whether there were any other things included in the evening apart from just the room.” Her just hangs in the air like a vague threat.

“I’m sure we can rustle something up for our prizewinners,” says Jasmine, smoothly. Then she writes her number on the notepad by the bed and hands it over. “Any problems, anything at all, you call this number. I’m your designated senior housekeeper. Just call me direct. I’ll be only too happy to help.”

Nisha arrives with a brisk knock, sporting a camera that had been left in Lost Property and not yet disappeared, possibly because none of the staff had been able to make it work. She greets the couple with the kind of practiced warmth that seems to come easily to Americans, then waits as Liz opens the suitcase. Sam sees Nisha’s eyes widen as she spies her red Christian Louboutin shoes resting neatly on a pale sweater, and watches Liz carefully remove them from the case and strap them on. There they are, Sam thinks, just inches from us, and glances warily at Nisha in case this is the moment Nisha loses the plot and rips them from the woman’s feet. But Nisha seems to compose herself, and if her smile is suddenly a little steelier, Sam suspects she is the only person to notice it.

The three of them, Darren, Jasmine and Sam, wait awkwardly as Nisha instructs Liz to pose by the window, seated at the little table, then she and Darren together by the door until Liz insists that Darren shouldn’t be in this one as he hadn’t shaved that morning, “And it wasn’t him who bought the shoes anyway.” Darren, freed from obligation, starts checking out the television remote control.

“So what are you doing tonight?” says Sam, as Nisha clicks away with the blank camera. “You’ll be eating dinner in the hotel restaurant.”

“Oh, Darren had a look at the menu and doesn’t fancy it. He wants to go somewhere else.” Liz lifts her chin and pouts slightly.

“Nothing? Not even a nice burger?” says Sam.

“We’re going to get Chinese. I like crispy duck pancakes,” he says.

“I bet you won’t be wearing those shoes,” Sam says casually. “They’re very high, aren’t they?”