Someone Else's Shoes(105)

There are footsteps, then nothing but the televised crowd noise of the football.

Nisha opens her eyes and hears muffled sobbing coming from the easy chair in the corner of the room. The bed above her shifts slightly and she sees Darren’s feet land on the carpeted floor beside her head. There is a hole in his right sock, which reveals a coin of pale heel.

“Are you crying?”

“Go away.”

A long silence. More muffled sobbing.

“I just wanted this to be my special day. I won a prize, Darren! I was all excited and now you’ve ruined everything.”

A sigh.

“Nothing’s ruined. C’mon. Come here. I’m just hungry.”

Suddenly her phone flashes up a message.

    Are you out?



No! she types back.

    Are they going out?

I don’t know. I am literally going to die under this bed. HELP



There are three pulsing dots, then silence. She imagines Jasmine and Sam downstairs, trying to work out what to do. Jasmine will think of something. She has to.

“All right, babe. We’ll go out. Put your coat on.” She hears him climb into his own jacket, the slide of an arm into a sleeve, the rattle of keys. “Did I put my wallet on the side?”

Go, she thinks. Just go eat. For God’s sake.

And then Liz’s sorrowful voice: “I don’t want to go out any more.”

Nisha’s eyes widen. Is this bitch kidding?

“You’ve spoiled it.”

Darren’s voice bears the conciliatory tone of a man who has dealt with many, many such exchanges. “Ah, don’t cry, babe. You know I can’t stand it when you cry.”

Some muffled exchange she can’t make out.

“Come here. Come sit on the bed with me. We’ll have a cuddle.”

Nisha holds her breath, then winces as the bed creaks slightly under the weight of what may be two people.

“Come here, my little baby boo. Come on.”

The sniffing stops. Is that—Oh, my God. No. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end. She hears the sound of kissing.

“You never call me that any more.”

“My baby boo. You look gorgeous in that suit. Really gorgeous.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“You look way tastier than a plate of crispy duck.”

There is a reluctant giggle.

Oh, God, please no. NO NO NO.

“Ooh! My favorite bra! You know I like that one.”

The sound of more kissing, more giggling. And then a soft moan. And then a louder, masculine one.

Nisha types again, her fingers jabbing with silent urgency.

    JESUS GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW.



Nisha has experienced many states of misery this last month, but all the other things that have happened were merely hors d’oeuvres. She has hit her own personal nadir. It is as if every one of her worst nightmares has been made flesh, in the form of the lumpy couple getting jiggy a matter of inches from her face. She has entered a new mental space, in which it requires every ounce of focus she has just to breathe without screaming, to stay here a second longer without clawing and shrieking her way out across the disgusting carpet. She closes her eyes and tries to think about Ray, but bringing his lovely face into this disgusting farrago is wrong, and she lies there instead, one hand over her mouth, trying to disengage from the noises above her. This is it, she thinks. This is how I die. They will slump into a post-sex coma, I will be stuck here all night, and they will find my tortured corpse the next time one of the second-floor maids decides it’s not beneath them to actually move a fucking piece of furniture and vacuum underneath this bed.

Every time she thinks she cannot bear a moment longer, she forges her way past. One nightmarish second at a time. And then Darren decides to really go for it. The bed starts to move, the slats buckling above her so that they are repeatedly touching her face. The gasps and shrieks of pleasure become louder. Nisha has begun to lose control. She is shaking. Her mind has gone blank. This is too much. It is unbearable. This is—



* * *



? ? ?

Sam and Jasmine are at the end of the corridor on the second floor. They are standing a few feet away from each other, Jasmine by the housekeeping trolley, Sam’s hood up over her head, and Jasmine is quietly conveying the text messages coming through on her phone, which is resting on a pile of towels.

Jasmine picks up the phone and types, tentatively: R U OK?

    NO I AM NOT OKAY THEY ARE ACTUALLY HAVING SEX ON TOP OF ME



Jasmine’s eyes widen in horror. She relays this to Sam and lets out a nervous laugh. They lean toward the door of Room 232. And in the silence they can just make out the sounds, the noises that would make a bystander’s toes curl at the best of times.

“She will die,” says Jasmine, nodding, as she straightens up. “She is actually going to die.”

The phone dings again.

    ALL THE DUST I’M GOING TO SNEEZE



“No, baby,” Jasmine mutters, typing. Do not sneeze. DO NOT SNEEZE.

    I’M HAVING A PANIC ATTACK



The phone keeps pinging

    CAN’T BREATHE HELP ME