Someone Else's Shoes(122)

“I didn’t think the moment deserved much more.”

He laughs then. “Nisha, Nisha. I always enjoyed your sharp tongue. So—are they in there?”

He reaches forward, but she scoots the bag back under her feet.

“I want to see the settlement. I’m assuming it’s all drawn up.”

“I want the shoes first.”

“Why would I be here if I wasn’t bringing the shoes?”

“I don’t know, darling. Your behavior has always been a mystery to me.”

“You’ll get them when I see the settlement.”

He sighs, shakes his head. He motions to a bespectacled man in a suit she hasn’t noticed before, but who has clearly been waiting at a nearby table. The man hurries over and presents Nisha with a sheaf of papers. She looks down. A typewritten agreement of several pages, the first headed Separation Agreement.

“Well?” he says.

“I need to read it,” she says. She looks up, and sees Ari in the corner, watching her. She scans the room. Frederik the manager is by the desk talking to one of the receptionists, a man she does not recognize. As he talks he glances over twice. He will have been briefed too. She cannot see Jasmine. She sits up straight, determined not to let him see how alone she feels.


This document states according to the law of the state of New York that the petitioner and the respondent’s relationship has broken down for a minimum of six months and that the petitioner has so stated under oath.



“Hang on,” she says, suddenly. “This document is dated six months ago.”

“Yes. That’s when you signed it.”

She flicks through the pages until she sees it: her signature, a little unsteady but it definitely resembles hers. “What? I never signed this. This says we have been separated for months. This has already worked out all the financial stuff. This says we are practically divorced.”

“I thought it was best to get the ball rolling. Alistair prepared a document for us in advance.”

She scans the financial settlement. A sum to pay for a two-bedroom apartment in the city of her choice, up to a value of one point five million dollars. Ray’s college fees. A monthly settlement of ten thousand dollars until he leaves college.

“I didn’t agree to this. You’ve—you’ve forged my signature.”

“No, darling. You just don’t remember signing it. You always did have your head full of nonsense.”

She looks at Alistair, who turns away, a little awkwardly.

“But this is not even five percent of what you would owe me in a proper settlement.”

“It’s perfectly fair. If you look at the company accounts you’ll see we’ve had a very tough few years. We’ve had to sell all sorts of property to pay our debts. This—it’s half of what I have left. The judge apparently thought it was perfectly equitable.”

She thinks of what the lawyer had told her, that Carl would have been busy hiding his assets in all sorts of secretive offshore places. She thinks of the house in London he had sold without telling her. He has been planning this for months.

“This is not a fair settlement, Carl, and you know it.”

“It’s a hundred percent more than you’d have got in Hicksville, Ohio.”

He leans back against the sofa cushions. “Anyway. You seemed perfectly happy signing it all when we were in St. Tropez.”

She thinks back suddenly, to a night at the H?tel du Cap. He had insisted they drink cocktails, even though he knew she couldn’t hold her spirits. That evening, just when she had said she really needed to go to bed, her head spinning, he had told her he needed her to sign a pile of papers, had stood over her as she worked her way through them without looking. This was not unusual: she was used to signing documents that helped him with his business. She had been a director, a spouse, a company secretary, a tax dodge. Roles that came and went according to what his accountant said was needed at the time. It was what she did. The perfect company wife.

“You tricked me into signing my own divorce papers?”

He checks his watch. “The offer is on the table for ten minutes. After that you can fight me for whatever you think you’ll get. I’m going to take a piss.”

He gets up heavily, and Ari appears suddenly at his side, walking him the twenty yards to the foyer lavatories. Jasmine, who has clearly been waiting while slowly dusting the surfaces in the lobby, rushes around the sofa and sits down beside her.

“What’s happening?” She picks up the sheaves of paper, ignoring the mild protestations of Alistair, who cannot work out why a maid has just grabbed his highly confidential financial document.

“Nope,” says Jasmine, scanning it and putting it down. “No, babe. That’s not even what he pays in retainers to this place to keep the penthouse. I saw the figures once.” She shrugs when Nisha stares up at her. “You can’t let him fob you off with this.”

“But if I don’t I might end up with nothing. He’s clearly planned it all.”

“You can’t sign these. That’s it. Right?” Jasmine turns to Alistair. “If she signs the rest of the papers she can’t claim for anything else?”

Alistair blinks. “Ah, yes. That would be correct. They will be technically divorced from that point.”