Someone Else's Shoes(121)

Sam looks again at the man in the center. It’s clear even at this distance which of the men is Carl: he is bigger, stockier, older than the others, and he gives off a subtle air of authority, a king presiding over a court. The only man larger than he is stands behind him wearing an earpiece.

“I recognize him.”

“Yeah. He’s been in a lot of business magazines. He loves being photographed. Hard to believe, right?”

Sam cannot take her eyes from him. The gray-flecked hair, slicked back behind his ears, the oversized belly. And then it hits her. She puts her hand on Nisha’s arm. “Nisha. I have to go.”

“What?”

“I have to get something. I’ll be right back.”

Nisha turns to her, disbelieving. “Are you . . . bailing on me?”

Sam is pushing her way back down to the staff corridor.

“Seriously? You’re bailing?”

She can hear Nisha’s protest—“You’re just going to leave me to do this by myself?”—and then she is gone, running as fast as she can toward the van.



* * *



? ? ?

“What do you mean she ran off?” Aleks is cooking but turns to face her, one white cloth slung over his shoulder.

Nisha is pacing backward and forward in the breakfast station, oblivious to the furious glances of the sous-chefs nearby. “She took one look at him and his goons and she bailed. Just ran away. Honestly? I should have known. She’s too timid. She’s too freaked out because of the burglary. I should have asked Andrea.”

Aleks gives his pan a brisk shake. Behind him the kitchens are in full swing, the air filled with the sound of clattering pans and yelled instructions. “Can you ask Jasmine to be in the foyer? Keep an eye on you? I can’t leave my station for at least an hour.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says, and reaches up to kiss his cheek. “Seriously. I’m just . . . mad at her. Just needed to vent. Can I get them?”

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out a locker key. She takes it and heads to the staff changing room. In the stale, quiet little room she scans the wall of lockers until she finds 42 and opens the door. Inside are jeans, a clean T-shirt (the chefs always smell of frying when they’re done). She lifts his T-shirt out carefully and inhales the scent of his washing powder, briefly taken back to the previous evening, and as she puts it back, she notices the picture on the door: a small, battered image of him with his arm around a young blonde girl, who is gazing at him adoringly. She stares at it for a minute, and thinks of Ray at the same age. I’m coming for you, baby, she tells him silently. And then she reaches into the back, where the shoes are secured in a black plastic bag, and closes the locker again.

“I’ll be right here, Nisha,” he says, when she hands back the key. “Call me when you’re done.” He puts his pan down, places his arms around her and kisses her, not even caring if the other kitchen staff see. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to get what you want. Because you are a magnificent, magnificent woman.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, letting him murmur the words into her ear.

“Thank you,” she says, and straightens her Chanel jacket.

She smokes two more cigarettes out by the bins, goes to the staff toilet twice (what is it with nerves and bladders?), then brushes her teeth and rearranges her hair, putting it up and taking it down again just three or four times. She checks her phone, and takes several deep breaths. It is five minutes to twelve.





thirty-seven


The businessmen are just leaving when Nisha approaches the little table. She waits a few feet away until she’s sure he’s seen her, and he takes an extra long time over his goodbyes. A power move. She’s watched him do it a million times: make someone wait and they are already somehow less important than you. The anger that had fueled her through their last meeting seems to have dissipated and now Nisha feels the butterflies trembling in her stomach, the slight shakiness in her legs. She remains visibly emotionless, conscious of the men looking at her curiously, at the proximity of Charlotte, who shifts just an inch closer to Carl, either to display her own power, or perhaps because she is a little nervous about Nisha too. Finally, after an interminable wait, he acknowledges her.

“Ah. Nisha,” he says, and motions at her to sit down. He does not stand up.

“Not with her,” she says.

He holds her gaze, as if trying to assess whether this is an argument he wants to pursue. But then he turns to Charlotte. “Give us a minute, darling. Perhaps you can make sure everything is cleared from the room.”

“But not my clothes,” says Nisha. And then adds, mischievously, “Darling.”

Charlotte, perhaps aggrieved at being denied her moment of triumph, gives Nisha a sharp, resentful look as she stands. She stalks off toward the elevators with a toss of her hair.

“Where’s Ari?” Nisha says, sitting down.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just wanted to make sure he’s not breaking into anybody else’s house. A public service, if you like.”

“I can’t think what you’re talking about,” he says, and smiles blankly. He spies the carrier-bag by her shoes.

“So now you’re carrying plastic bags instead of Chanel handbags. Classy.”