Someone Else's Shoes(16)

“Would you like to fill out a Gift Aid form?”

“Gift Aid?”

“That way the charity gets to claim back tax. You just put down your name and address.”

“I . . . I don’t have an address just now.” The truth hits her like a punch. She recovers herself. “Actually, I do. My address is in New York. Fifth Avenue.”

“If you say so.” The woman lets out a quiet snigger.

She pays for the items, waving away the change, then changes her mind and demands it, a move that makes the assistant hmph audibly. Then Nisha pulls the tags from the clothes, hauls on the trousers, grabs the jacket from the counter, and walks out, dropping the toweling bathrobe in a heap on the floor of the shop.



* * *



? ? ?

Magda books her a hotel she says is not far from the Bentley. The Tower Primavera. “I told them to tell the front desk you couldn’t give your credit card for security as your purse was stolen and they finally agreed.”

“Oh, thank God.” The used scent of these clothes has somehow lodged in the back of her throat, and she thinks she may be coming out in hives. She once read that if you smell something you’re absorbing actual molecules of it into your body. The thought makes her retch. She keeps plucking at her sleeves to try to keep the fabric from touching her skin.

“But I’m afraid they say without a card you cannot have a minibar.”

“I don’t care. I just need to shower and make some calls.”

There is a long pause.

“I . . . have to tell you something else, Mrs. Cantor.”

Nisha checks the map on her phone and starts walking. “What?”

“It’s not . . . the kind of hotel you and Mr. Cantor are used to.”

Magda rambles on about how she was sorry but they had no credit on their card this month, something to do with her copay blah-blah-blah. “It was one hundred and forty dollars. But there is a kettle in the room to make a drink. And maybe cookies. I asked for extra cookies for you. I was thinking you must be hungry.”

She is too distracted to be mad about it. Whatever. She thanks Magda and ends the call, thinking at least now Magda will be able to reach her, if—or when—he cuts her phone.



* * *



? ? ?

The walk is interminable. Magda is clearly useless at judging distances on a map. Nisha slaps along the gray pavement in the too-large flip-flops, as the skies darken and lower and eventually it starts to spit with the kind of chill, malevolent rain that you seem to get only in London. Nisha stops briefly and, admitting defeat, takes out the shoes from the bag. There is, at least, a clean pair of socks in there. She puts them on and then, wincing, puts on the black clumpy, tired-looking shoes. They fit reasonably well, but possess the unnerving contours of someone else’s long-term use. I will not think about them, she tells herself. These are not me. Then she puts on the jacket, feeling the cheap fabric weld to her shoulders, and pushes away feelings that suddenly threaten to swamp her. Her walk becomes something like a stomp, the unfamiliar flat heels changing the way even her hips move. There has always been a car waiting like a shadow outside whichever building she happened to be in, and to be out here without one in a city that is suddenly unfamiliar makes her feel untethered, as if she is just floating wildly in the atmosphere. “Keep it together,” she mutters to herself, as she powers on, scowling at anyone who has the temerity to look at her. She will get what she needs and she will be back in the penthouse by this evening. Or some other penthouse. Either way, Carl will pay for this.



* * *



? ? ?

The hotel is a squat, modern building in cheap burgundy brick, with a plasticky illuminated sign over the sliding doors and when she finally reaches the street she pauses, double-checking that she has the name right. As she gazes up, a man in a football shirt walks out holding a can of beer. He stops to shout something at his companion, who is eating from a packet of potato chips held high up to her nose, like a pig in a trough. She watches as they veer off, yelling about needing a Big Mac.

The receptionist has a note against her room, and repeats several times that she will not be able to have the minibar, so sorry, given that they are not able to take a card.

“We wouldn’t even normally accept the booking,” she says. “But we’re not that busy today, and your friend was so sweet and worried about you. I’m sorry about your stolen bag.”

“Thank you. I won’t be staying long.”

She hesitates before pressing the elevator button to the fourth floor, not wanting to touch the button. She jabs at it once, twice when it fails to register, then wipes her finger several times on her sleeve. When she arrives at Room 414, having navigated a long stretch of bright swirling carpet clearly designed by someone who wanted an entire customer base to pass out from nausea, she opens the door and stops. The room is small, with a double bed facing a tired fake-wood sideboard on which a flat-screen television sits. The carpet and the drapes are turquoise and brown. It smells of cigarettes and synthetic air-freshener, with notes of something sour and Clorox-like underneath, like the aftermath of a crime scene clean-up. What terrible thing has happened in here? The bathroom, while apparently clean, houses its shampoo and conditioner in locked canisters on the wall, as if its clientele cannot be trusted even with that.