Someone Else's Shoes(107)

His eyes fix on the shoes in front of her and then his gaze lifts to her face and betrays a flicker of shock when he realizes who he’s looking at. Almost immediately he is pushing his way forward through the protesting guests toward her. Nisha’s heart stops. She shoves her way through the door into the stairwell, jostling in and out of the people slowly descending the stairs, knowing he will be right behind her.

Watch it! You nearly had me over!

Nisha has no breath to apologize. It is lodged somewhere in her chest. She shoves her way through, stumbles down three steps, hearing the exclamations behind her that mean Ari is doing the same thing. She makes a swift calculation—and ducks out of the exit on the first floor, wincing as someone elbows her hard in the chest. They are packed so closely together that she can smell other people’s scents, feel their vague panic. She squeezes between two large men in suits and then she is off, pushing against the current of people forcing their way to the fire escape, and finally running for the service elevator.

The first rule of fire regulations is don’t use the elevator, but Nisha nips inside and slams the button to the ground floor, just in time to see Ari’s face register hers as the doors close against him. She yells, without knowing what she’s yelling, and suddenly the elevator lurches into life, heading slowly downward. He will be talking to his men. How many will there be? Where will he go? The doors open again on the ground floor and she is running through the packed foyer until she sees the door to the restaurant. She pushes through it, then sprints along the side of the room, which is almost empty, bar a few perturbed guests arguing with the wait staff about wanting their coats, and then she has reached the kitchens.

Sunday night and normally the kitchens of the Bentley are a world of noise, of clattering pans and steam and things frying at impossible temperatures. Men in whites with harassed expressions yell at each other, wipe smears from plates with linen cloths as the doors open and close with waiters ferrying dishes backward and forward. Now there’s just a handful of kitchen staff gathering belongings, the smell of food burning as they head to the service door. She spies him: “Aleks!”

He turns, perhaps sees something in her expression, because he begins to jog toward her.

“He’s after me! Help!” she yells, glancing behind her, and without hesitating he grabs her elbow, pushing her along past the prep station.

“In here,” he says, punching a code into the panel beside the metallic door, and then they’re in the refrigerator room and he has pulled the heavy door shut behind them, shepherding her through the plastic sheeting toward the back. The lights come on automatically with their movement and she glances around her at the huge trays of meat, the hanging carcasses lining the tiled walls, the shelves of vegetables and industrial cartons of milk.

“Over there,” he points. “End of the racks.”

She ducks where he says, behind an endless stack of eggs, and they wedge themselves behind a rack of tall stainless-steel canisters, so that they cannot be seen.

It is silent in here, bar the industrial hum of the refrigeration unit. She is breathing hard, and her heartbeat thumps in her ears as the outside din fades. Every time she closes her eyes she sees Ari, the shock and determination on his face as he pursues her.

“You got them,” Aleks says. She looks down, sees she is still holding the shoes, nods silently at him, holding them tighter to her, suddenly realizing that she really does have them. The alarm continues to shriek outside, but in here the siren is muffled, and her nerves slowly stop jangling. He smiles, his face inches from hers, and she smiles back, more nervously. Some part of her still believes Ari will come bursting in and rip the shoes from her.

“He won’t get in,” he says, as if reading her mind. “He would need the code to open the door.”

“Is there really a fire?”

“No. Your friend Sam rang the fire alarm. Jasmine told me.”

“Sam?” She is incredulous. She glances down at her phone, seeing the stream of missed calls and text messages.

“Jasmine says you were having a panic attack and she took an executive decision.” He reaches up to move a lock of hair from her face. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He smiles. His arm is alongside her head, his palm resting on the wall, and she can see the sinews of his forearms, the tiny blond hairs lifting in the cold air. She is suddenly aware of the temperature now she has stopped moving. “How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?”

“Until everyone comes back.”

“You don’t think we should sneak out now? While they’re all outside?”

He pulls a face. “It could be a little tricky. This door does not open from inside.”

“What?”

“Faulty mechanism. They never fix anything back of house. It’s fine. Everyone will be back in twenty minutes tops. We are not going to freeze to death.”

“I might.” Nisha is already regretting just wearing the black blouse and trousers. There is no protection against the cold in here at all. She wraps her arms around herself, beginning to shiver.

He sees her discomfort and wrestles off his chef’s jacket, placing it around her shoulders and buttoning it under her chin. “Better?”

“A little.”

He is so close to her. She can smell the scent of him, the vague aroma of good things cooking, the citrusy smell of soap underneath. She has a sudden memory of his kiss, the way she had felt like she wanted to melt into him and forget everything around her.