Someone Else's Shoes(114)

“Do you fit these?” Nisha is holding up a pair of dark trousers.

“I think so,” she says. She has barely eaten in the last few days.

“Okay. Dark trousers and pale blouse—you can’t go wrong. I found this jacket in your daughter’s room. I think you’ll fit it.”

“But—”

“Your jackets are all awful. No offense. This is Zara but it looks more expensive. No no no no! Put that sweater down. You want to look like you have authority, not like you just escaped from a care facility.”

Nisha holds up a pair of shoes Sam had worn to her cousin’s wedding three years ago. “And these.”

“But they’re bright blue. And they’re . . . heels.”

“You need something to pop. The outfit is conventional. It shows you mean business first. The shoes suggest there might be something slightly more interesting going on. The shoes say confidence. C’mon, Sam, get with the program! These people are going to be judging you from the moment you walk in. This is your armor, your calling card. You have to project.”

When Sam looks hesitant, Nisha seems irritated. She puts the jacket down on the bed and says, “How did you feel when you wore my shoes?”

Sam wonders if this is a trick question. But Nisha is waiting expectantly. “Uh . . . a bit awkward?”

“And?”

“And then . . . powerful?”

“Right. Powerful. A force to be reckoned with. And how do you feel now? Look at yourself. Who do you see?”

“Um . . . not me?”

“You see a print sales executive person. Or whatever the hell it is you do. You see a woman who has her shit together. Who has it going on.”

Sam sits as Jasmine begins to towel-dry her hair.

“Where’s your makeup?”

“Bathroom cabinet. Next door.”

“Yeah, I saw that stuff. No. Your actual makeup bag.”

“That’s it.”

Both women stop what they are doing and stare at her.

“Sam.” Nisha is stern. “That stuff is old enough to walk itself out of your bathroom. Are you an actual savage?”

“Maybe?”

“You have nice skin, though, babe. I can see you look after it.” Jasmine starts combing her hair through, spritzing it with one of Cat’s many hair lotions.

“I just use a bit of Nivea.”

Both women laugh. Nisha nudges her. “Yeah. Right. That’s what the supermodels always say.”

“And I stay so slim just by running round after my kids all day.”

They collapse in gales of laughter. Sam, who really does use just a bit of Nivea, raises a weak smile and decides not to say anything else.



* * *



? ? ?

Half an hour later, Sam stands in front of the mirror in her now tidy bedroom.

“Shoulders back,” Nisha instructs her.

She stands taller and lifts her chin. Jasmine has blow-dried and tonged her hair so that it is voluminous and vaguely shiny. Her makeup has been done by Nisha, who has magicked away the shadows under her eyes, and done something to her lids so that they seem wider and more defined. She does not look like herself. She looks like someone who might be about to get herself a job. She raises a small smile.

“Yesss!” says Nisha. “There she is. There’s our player.”

“Chin up and tits out?” she says, and turns to face them.

“Not too much. That’s a terrible bra. What? . . . What?” says Nisha, as Jasmine whacks her.

“Just remember, Sam!” Jasmine says. “You’re the woman who can bring an entire hotel to a halt! Power in those hands!” She points to her palm.

“Yeah. There is,” says Nisha, rubbing her arm ruefully.

“I’m driving you,” says Andrea. “These guys are going to stay here and finish cleaning up.”

Sam stands in her room, gazing at the three mismatched women. She looks suddenly uncertain again.

“Don’t be nervous,” says Andrea. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t get this one. Think of it as a practice run so you get used to being in interview situations again.”

But Sam still looks troubled. “Why would you do this for me?” she blurts out.

Nisha pulls at one of Sam’s lapels, straightening it. “Because . . . because you helped me. And because, you know, you’re an okay person. You’re okay, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes have filled with tears. “But you’ve done so much. All of you. You’ve changed everything today. The cleaning up. The clothes. The—I’ve never had anyone be so—so . . .”

“Nope,” says Nisha, firmly, taking her by the elbow and steering her out of the door. “You are not getting sentimental. And you are definitely not going to spoil my excellent makeup by crying. Those eyeliner flicks did not get there by accident. Go, Andrea. Go take her. Go get the damn job. We’ll be waiting.”



* * *



? ? ?

Nisha, Jasmine and Grace listen as Andrea’s little car pulls away. When she is sure it has gone, Nisha stoops to pick up the smudged tubes and palettes of makeup that now litter Sam’s bed. My God, but that is a terrible duvet cover. What is it with these Englishwomen and their awful florals? She looks up and Jasmine is smiling at her, a knowing smile, hinting at mischief.