Someone Else's Shoes(20)

“What?”

“The Louboutins. He said there are too many women your age with dark hair, five foot six. So I said this would be the best way to recognize you. Because there’s only one pair in the world, right? Very distinctive shoes. I even sent him a picture of them just to be sure. I knew you’d be wearing them because you said Friday you were going to get your hair done after the gym and then straight to Hakkasan for dinner and you said Mr. Cantor wanted you to wear them.”

“But . . . my shoes were stolen. They were stolen this morning.”

There is a silence at the other end of the line.

“. . . You weren’t wearing the shoes?”

Nisha stands up, her hand gripping the phone as she realizes what Magda is saying.

“Oh, my God. Who the hell has he given it to?”





seven


There is a particularly vindictive tenor to the kind of hangover that occurs in your forties, as if the body, not content with acting as if it has been poisoned, also decides to send furious signals across all nerve endings: How old do you think you are? Was that really a sensible idea? Hmm? Think you’re still young enough to play hard? WELL, TRY THIS. Sam, her eyes screwed shut against the light, and the terrifyingly loud noises coming from the kitchen, observes she is now having imaginary arguments with her nervous system. She knows she’ll have to embrace the day. Or at least touch it gingerly with her fingertips and possibly weep a little.

“Good night, was it?”

Cat appears in front of her in a satin bomber jacket and huge clumpy black boots, and places a mug of coffee on the table with what feels like a malicious level of enthusiasm.

“I—I think so.”

“Sit up. Or it’ll dribble down your chin.”

Sam pushes herself upright, groaning softly at the pain in her head. “Where’s Dad?”

“Still asleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Half nine.”

“Oh, God, the dog—”

“I’ve walked him. And I bought some more milk. And I washed up Dad’s stuff from last night. Can I borrow your gold stud earrings? I’m going to a fur-farm protest after work and I worry that my hoop ones will get ripped out if there’s trouble.”

Sam’s gaze slides toward her daughter. “The ones I said you couldn’t borrow under any circumstances? Hang on. ‘Ripped out’? What?”

“Fake gold ones make my ears itch. Here. Drink your coffee.”

Sam takes a sip. It tastes like a lifeline. “Nice negotiating. Get her while she’s vulnerable.”

“I learned from the best.” Cat beams. “Thanks, Mum. I promise I’ll look after them.”

Sam has a sudden memory of Joel, the weight of his hands on her waist, smiling at her in that way he does. Marina’s voice in her ear: He’s sweet on you. She flushes and is not sure whether the prickling heat in her face is alcohol, embarrassment, or something hormonal. Either way, she pushes herself up from the sofa. “Have a lovely time at . . . Wait, did you say protest? What—what are you doing?”

“Protesting! Just winding up the police a bit! Have a nice day, Mum!”

“Wait—is that a tattoo?”

She hears the door slam and her daughter is gone.



* * *



? ? ?

Phil is curled up in the duvet, like a human sausage roll, and does not stir as she enters the bedroom. The air in the room seems peculiarly still and weighty, as if it sits more heavily in here. She stands for a moment and observes him, his brow furrowed even in sleep, his hands close to his chin, as if unconsciously braced to defend. Sometimes she wants to scream at him: You think I wouldn’t like to lie around all day and let someone else take over? Let someone else worry about the bills and my awful boss and walk the dog and do the shopping and vacuum the bit on the stairs that always gets covered with hair? You think I wouldn’t like to abdicate responsibility for everything? Other times she feels a terrible sadness for him, her once cheerful, motivated husband who used to sing tunelessly in the shower and kiss her when she wasn’t expecting it and who now looks hunched and haunted all the time, buffeted by the double-whammy of losing his beloved job and even more beloved father in the same six months. I couldn’t help him, Sam, he would say, chalk white when he returned home, night after night. He had told her a few weeks ago that being this age was like walking among snipers, that people he cared about were being picked off and there was nothing you could do and no way of telling who was next.

“That’s a bit of a gloomy way to look at it,” she had said. It had sounded feeble even as it fell out of her mouth, and he hadn’t said anything after that.



* * *



? ? ?

Unlike Sam’s house, outside which the rusting camper-van is now host to a growing fortress of weeds and thistles, and shelter to a collection of takeaway cartons thrown from passing cars, the frontage of Andrea’s little railway cottage is always immaculate. No weeds sprout in the cobbled frontage, and the row of terra-cotta pots is dutifully tended, bright blooms switched according to the seasons, fed and watered daily with almost maternal care.

She knocks on the door—the special knock that tells Andrea this is neither a weirdo stalker nor a double-glazing salesman—and after a moment it swings open in front of her.