Someone Else's Shoes(113)

I wish you were here, she tells Phil silently. She calls Andrea, who says she is on her way. When she tells her friend about the mess, the damage, it hits her that this is real, not some strange fever dream. Her house looks like a war zone and she doesn’t know how she’s going to afford a new television. Before she hangs up, Andrea says, “You don’t think it’s the shoes, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The break-in. Could it have been someone looking for the shoes?”

Sam goes cold. She heads back inside, suddenly completely alert. She walks with new eyes through the house, noting now how all the usual targets, televisions, iPads, are still there, albeit broken. But the house has been ransacked ruthlessly, every packet and box overturned and emptied, every drawer tipped out.

When Andrea arrives, she is sitting on the front step, her puffy coat around her shoulders, holding her jewelry box on her knees. Everything is still in it. She knows the little gold trinkets are not valuable—most are gold-plated necklaces, earrings Phil bought her back before Cat was born—but they are also proof that, whoever was in here, they were not opportunists, or junkies trying to get enough for a fix. These intruders were looking for something specific.

“Sammy.” Andrea is out of the car before the engine has stopped ticking, a soft woolen beanie in place of her usual wrap. She half walks, half runs up the path, and as Sam stands up, she embraces her. It is then, for the first time, that Sam feels overwhelmed and tearful. She feels herself giving in to Andrea’s tight hug. “It’s so awful in there. It’s a complete mess,” she says, into her shoulder. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Good job we’re here, then, isn’t it?” Sam glances up and Jasmine is standing behind Andrea on the path, a large bag of cleaning materials in one hand and a roll of black rubbish sacks under her arm. “No point waiting for the police, babe. You got to be an oligarch or a politician to get police for a break-in these days. Believe me, I know.”

Nisha climbs out of the rear car door, bringing with her a mop and bucket, and from the other side of the car Grace emerges, trailing at the rear, carefully holding a cardboard tray of coffees with both hands. “Andrea called,” Jasmine says. “We swapped shifts to go in late. We figured this wasn’t something you should handle alone.”

She can’t even speak. The relief she feels at the sight of them makes her knees go weak. Nisha stops and peers in through the front door. She stands, surveying it for a moment, then turns back to Sam.

“I hate him. I’m really, really sorry.”



* * *



? ? ?

Nisha is now an expert at tidying and cleaning messes, but there is something about this particular job that hardens her, tightens a muscle in her jaw as she sweeps and scrubs. She can see past the broken glass and splintered objects to the bones of the little house, a family home, steeped in love; wedding photographs and badly framed family pictures are dotted around like no stylistic note mattered, just the fact of them being together. The worn sofa that speaks of a million comfortably cuddled-up evenings, the faded children’s paintings that nobody can face taking down from the hall. Carl has sullied this house. She crouches, sweeping up the tiny fragments of splintered glass, wiping spilled preserves from the kitchen floor, and thinks she has rarely hated Carl more. And she is an Olympic champion at hating Carl. It is one thing for him to punch out at his business foes, at her even. They were opponents who might stand a chance. But to stomp on a little family that clearly has nothing (not even very much taste, she admits guiltily)—it’s just mean. She can see from Sam’s chalk-white face that she will no longer feel safe in this house, that the things that are broken will not be easily replaced. He has broken the most fragile thing of all: the sense of calm and sanctuary that a home should provide.

“Oh, my God.”

Nisha looks up and Sam, a bin bag in her hand, is staring at her phone. Jasmine and Andrea are working upstairs and she can hear the vacuum cleaner whining as it is dragged backward and forward.

“What?”

“Miriam Price—a woman I did some work for—just called. Wanting to know why I hadn’t confirmed with her about a job interview.”

“Okay. What did you say?”

“That I didn’t feel like I could because I got fired. And because of the whole—you know—theft thing. I didn’t think she’d want to speak to me. I mean she’d asked me to come in, but after that happened I just didn’t see the point so I didn’t bother to—”

“Yeah, but what? What did she say?”

“She wants me to come in for an interview anyway.”

Nisha pulls a face. “Well, that’s good, right? You need a job.”

Sam looks anguished. “But it’s today. Midday today. And look at me! I’ve been burgled. My house is destroyed. My husband has left me. I’ve barely slept in two days. How the hell can I do an interview today?”

Nisha wipes at her face with the back of her sleeve. She puts down her mop. “Call her back. Tell her you’d be delighted.”



* * *



? ? ?

Jasmine and Nisha pick out her outfit while she is in the shower. When she emerges, her hair wet and wrapped in a towel, her body draped in a cloud of self-consciousness, Jasmine is walking into her bedroom, bearing a newly ironed pale blue blouse on a hanger.