Someone Else's Shoes(120)

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    “So you’re just going to hand them all over.”

Andrea shakes her head, her arms crossed over her chest. She reaches for her tea on the table and lets out a low sigh of disapproval.

“I don’t have a choice. If I don’t he’ll come after me—and he might come after you guys too. I don’t want you all mixed up in this mess. It’s not just about a divorce settlement any more, is it?”

“But what if he doesn’t give you a settlement? You’ll have nothing. No bargaining chip.”

Nisha pushes her hair back from her face, glances at Aleks beside her. “I’ve thought about nothing else for twenty-four hours. He doesn’t know I know about the diamonds, and that’s the safest place for us to be. I hand back the shoes before he does any more damage, hope he sticks to his word, and then . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m free.”

Andrea shrugs. “Maybe he’ll want to marry this other woman. Then it’ll be in his interests to get you off the scene as fast and cleanly as possible.”

“I don’t know,” says Sam. “Everything you’ve said about him? I don’t think you can trust him to do the right thing.”

They are in Sam’s kitchen, which is almost unrecognizable from the war zone of the weekend, thanks to Phil’s efforts, replacing blinds and refixing shelves. He is boiling the kettle to make more tea, and stands with his back resting against the work surface, regarding the little group around the table. She can see he is intrigued by these women, by her sudden place in a story he doesn’t recognize. He sees her looking at him and smiles a secret smile, just for the two of them.

“You’ll have to make him sign the settlement before you hand over the shoes,” says Andrea. “It’s the only way.”

“Make sure you meet him in a public spot. So he can’t snatch them.”

“Where are the shoes, anyway?” says Andrea. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask.

“In a safe place,” says Nisha, in a manner that suggests that conversation is over.

“I don’t like this,” says Andrea, again. “I wish Jasmine wasn’t working the early shift. I don’t like you doing this alone.”

“I’ll be in the kitchens,” says Aleks, quietly. “If you need me. It’s not so far away.”

“She won’t be alone,” says Sam, and everyone turns to look at her. “I’ll go. I’ll go with her.”



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They drive to the Bentley in silence in the camper-van—Cat has borrowed the car now that Phil has replaced the battery. Sam knows Nisha is nervous as she has failed to complain about the mode of transport once, even when she took a corner too sharply and something fell off a shelf with a crash in the rear. She lets out a sharp exclamation when she sees the menopausal traffic cop at a temporary traffic stop by the hotel and tells Nisha the story of what happened when she ran the red light, but Nisha seems barely to register it. In the end Sam gives up talking completely.

She parks on a meter that seems to charge the GDP of a small country, and they walk the few minutes to the Bentley, going in through the side door so that they can wait undisturbed in the staff changing room.

Nisha has been deep in thought since they left her house, and had insisted on leaving so that they are at the hotel almost an hour early. Jasmine has told Sam a little about Nisha’s son, that he is unhappy and alone, so she needs this to work in order to get back to him, and Sam finds herself gazing at her as they sit on the little bench, wondering how it would feel to be a whole continent away from your vulnerable child.

Nisha looks up. “Are you okay? You’re more nervous than I am!”

“I guess it’s weird, isn’t it? Knowing that this guy was responsible for . . . you know. What happened. And we’re just going to sit down with him.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s done worse.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel better?”

Half an hour passes. Nisha, checking the time compulsively, decides she needs a cigarette and makes Sam follow her outside. “Disgusting habit,” she says, standing by the bins and inhaling deeply. “I’m giving up.”

She keeps glancing down the alley as if she’s looking out for Ari. “I’m just going to have one more.” When she finishes she says: “Shall we walk through the foyer? Just to work out where to sit?”

There is clearly some huge internal turbulence going on, and Sam has decided the most helpful thing she can do is just go with it. She follows Nisha through the side door into the foyer, only half wondering if someone might recognize her, and there is Michelle, the heavily made-up blonde girl at Reception, chatting on the phone. Jasmine is standing by the concierge. She clocks them and raises an eyebrow. She nods toward the end of the room and Nisha turns to follow her gaze.

“Shit. He’s here already.”

Sam feels a shot of adrenaline shoot through her. She glances over to a low table, surrounded by three plush, curved sofas, at which a group of besuited businessmen are drinking coffee. A young blonde woman sits to the side of Carl, taking notes on an iPad. She looks slim, glossy and vaguely proprietorial. Sam looks back at Nisha, who is staring hard, her thoughts clearly somewhere far away.