Someone Else's Shoes(104)

    GET OUT! THEY’RE COMING BACK!



Nisha does a 360-degree scan of the room, checking that everything is straight, and hurries to the door. She has her hand on the handle when she hears the voices in the corridor.

“That’s because I don’t go out dressed like I’m going to a summer party in early December. Jesus.”

“Why do you have to be so nasty? Do you actually want me to get a cold?”

“No, Liz, I just want my dinner. You know how I get if I don’t eat. And you could have just brought the coat with you and saved us the bother of coming all the way back.”

The voices stop outside the door. Nisha stares at it in horror. She gazes around the room, and then, with a click, the door begins to open.



* * *



? ? ?

“She’s not answering.”

“Maybe she’s coming back down in the lift. There’s no reception in it,” mutters Sam, and Jasmine nods. They stand in the corner of the foyer, two people who apparently don’t know each other, their eyes trained dumbly on the lift. Every time it opens it disgorges a handful of guests, but no Nisha. And then her phone buzzes.

    I’m in the room. They’re back. Get me out.



Jasmine types furiously, Sam gazing over her shoulder.

    What do you mean they’re in the room? Where are you?

Under the bed. They’re having an argument.



“Oh, my days,” murmurs Jasmine, staring in horror at the screen.

“What do we do?” says Sam.

“Stay calm,” says Jasmine. “If they’re coming back for her coat they’ll go again in a minute. It’s all going to be fine.” She says this twice, as if to reassure herself. “They’re just coming back for her coat, right?”

“Yes,” says Sam. “Yes. You’re right. It’s all going to be fine.”



* * *



? ? ?

Nisha lies under the queen-sized bed, every cell of her body taut with horror. She and Jasmine always wheel the beds to the side to vacuum underneath, but whoever does the second floor clearly takes no such trouble. There are dust bunnies to each side of her, strands of strangers’ hair, skin cells, a whole miasma of disgusting microscopic bodily leftovers and she is lying right in it. The thought of it makes her want to sob aloud. She cannot look to the right or left of her, because then she sees what she is lying amid and it makes her want to retch. So she stays very still, eyes screwed shut, hands across her belly so that as little skin as possible is actually touching the floor.

“We’re not late for dinner. We didn’t have a bloody booking, Darren! Because you couldn’t be bothered to make one—as per usual. The only thing we’re late for is you wanting to stuff your fat face! Again!”

Footsteps walk around the bed.

“Is this because you wanted to go to your mum’s? Jesus.”

“I like going to my mum’s on a Sunday! Why is that such a problem for you?”

“You just go there because she runs round after you and doesn’t let you lift a finger! No wonder you’re so useless at home.”

Just go, thinks Nisha. Just go and have your embarrassing row at a restaurant. Please just get out of this room.

“You know what? I don’t feel like going out any more. I’m ordering room service.”

“What?” Liz Frobisher’s voice is disbelieving.

“You heard.”

Nisha winces as a weight lands on the bed on top of her. The base of the bed is now less than an inch from her nose. She hears Darren—because it must be Darren—pick up the remote control and switch on the hotel television. Some kind of football match commentary blares into the room.

“So you’re just going to stay here? And leave me to eat by myself?”

“You can do what you want. Your idea to come here, you sort yourself out.”

“My sister was right about you.”

“Oh, your sister. Great. Let’s bring her into it.”

Something is tickling Nisha’s nose. Perhaps some dust particle dislodged by the movement of Darren’s bulk. She brings her hand up to her nose and squeezes it tight. She is going to sneeze. Oh, God. She can’t stop it. Nisha thinks she may explode. It’s unstoppable . . .

At the exact moment she lets out a loud sneeze, the room suddenly erupts in sound.

“Goal! A tremendous goal there from Kane. The keeper really didn’t stand a chance!” blares the television commentator, and the noise begins to subside. Nisha’s eyes are watering. She thinks she may scream. Above her Darren shifts his weight, and she hears the sound of the hotel phone being lifted from the bedside table.

“You’re really just going to stay here.”

“Yeah,” says Darren. “It’s too cold out. Let’s just eat something.”

“I want to go out. We never go out anywhere nice.”

“We went out last Saturday.”

“Yes, but that was with your brother.”

Nisha tries to separate herself from her body, the way she has heard people talk about. She focuses on her breathing, then realizes that when she breathes deeply she is more likely to be inhaling the detritus under this bed. She screws her eyes shut and clamps a hand over her mouth.