Someone Else's Shoes(101)

Liz looks down at her feet. “Oh, I’m used to high heels.”

“But you won’t want to walk all the way to Leicester Square in them.”

Liz shrugs. “I don’t know. Depends if it rains, really, doesn’t it, Darren?”

“Those are lovely,” says Sam, pointing. “Those shoes you were wearing when you came in. I’d wear those.”

Nisha is staring silently at Liz’s feet. If a look could burn the Louboutins off her, the straps would be giving off a thin plume of smoke just now.

“Oh, those are Russell and Bromley,” says Liz. “But I’m not sure they really go with this suit.”

“They do! Most definitely. They look lovely,” says Sam.

“The pavements are very uneven around Leicester Square,” says Jasmine, plumping another cushion. “Be careful you don’t turn an ankle if you wear heels. We had a guest who really hurt herself last week.” She nods to herself and adds darkly, “Really hurt herself.”

Liz sits down on the edge of the bed. “No. I’ll probably wear these. They’re my lucky shoes now, aren’t they, Darren?” She swivels an ankle, admiring her foot.

Jasmine and Sam exchange a look of silent dismay.

“Right,” says Sam, backing toward the door. “Well, then. We’ll leave you to it.”

“Don’t forget,” says Jasmine. “Call me direct if you need anything. It’ll be much quicker than going through the switchboard.”

“Can I see the pictures?” says Liz, as Nisha walks to the door.

Nisha swings the camera behind her. “When they’re developed. I’ll send you a contact sheet.”

The words “contact sheet” seem to please Liz. The three women stand by the door for a moment.

“Right!” says Jasmine. “Well, have a wonderful time!”

“It’s lovely,” says Sam, suddenly, “that you came to be here. Just because of your kindness to cats.” She cannot help herself. She swallows a yelp as Nisha jabs her hard in the kidney. And then they’re outside in the corridor, Jasmine closing the door behind them.



* * *



? ? ?

“Nobody’s going to wear open-toe shoes in this weather,” says Jasmine, hopefully. “Not even her.”

“It is quite chilly,” says Sam.

“She’s going to wear her lucky shoes,” Nisha spits, “even if it snows.”

“I can’t believe they don’t drink.” Jasmine runs her hand around the neck of the redundant bottle of champagne. “What kind of people don’t drink? It would have been so much easier if they were drunk.”

It is a quarter past five, and Jasmine’s theory is that the Frobishers will be early eaters. Darren is clearly a man of appetites. They had originally planned to wait until the couple left to go out, then Nisha would run in and get the shoes. Now they sit in the staff changing area, gazing out of the small window, ruminating on whether Liz Frobisher’s choice of footwear is going to alter everything.

“Rain, you bastard,” says Nisha, staring out at the gray sky. “It rains every day in this damn country. Would it hurt so much just to let some down today?”

The text she sent to Juliana has been marked “Read.” But she hasn’t texted back.





thirty-one


The Frobishers finally leave Room 232 at a quarter past six, about an hour after the women have decided silently that the plan is not going to work and sunk into despondency. Jasmine has been “tidying” the office behind the front desk, issuing vague platitudes at Michelle’s endless conversations about the unfairness of the rota system while she watches for movement in the foyer. Sam and Nisha wait in silence in the stuffy little changing room, ignoring the incurious glances of the staff coming in to get things from their lockers, or change to go home. They are just anonymous staff to any casual passerby, neither worth talking to nor acknowledging. The two women sit in silence, each locked in her thoughts. Nisha finds herself irritated by Sam’s droopy face, the air she carries of someone defeated by life. And then her phone pings, breaking into her thoughts. She stares at the screen, suddenly alert.

“They’re moving.” Nisha stares at her phone as another text comes through. “Oh, my God,” she says, hardly able to believe what she’s reading. “She’s not wearing the shoes.”

“Really?” says Sam, hopefully.

“It’s raining,” says Nisha. “It’s actually raining. THANK YOU, LORD.” She is already on her feet. “Okay. Remember what we said. You follow them out and make sure they’re gone, and I’ll run up and get the shoes.”

Nisha is wearing a dark shirt and trousers so that she can pass either for hotel staff, if wearing her lanyard, or a particularly boringly dressed guest, if she tucks it into her pocket. Jasmine has given her a newly programmed guest key, and her heart is thumping against her rib cage. This is it. She is going to have the shoes back. Finally.

She and Sam walk in silence along the corridor until they reach the side entrance and Sam heads out, her phone pressed to her ear as Jasmine instructs her as to which direction they went. Head right toward Regent Street. She’s still in the red suit. No overcoat. Damn fool must be freezing.