Someone Else's Shoes(23)

She takes two tomatoes, something that describes itself as scrambled egg, and two hash browns. She adds a banana—at least nobody can get into those—and places some sealed rectangles of cheese in her pocket. A man to her right gives her a pointed look, and she glares at him until he colors slightly and turns away. She carries her plate to the furthest point of the room, sits and studies one of the free newspapers, though she barely takes anything in.

While she eats, she goes over and over the plan in her head. Once she has secured her base, she will need money. She will have to borrow some, just till a lawyer comes through. She wonders who she might possibly be able to borrow money from. Pretty much all her friends, these days, she recalls, with a creeping sense of dismay, are Carl’s friends. She thinks briefly about Juliana, but they have not spoken in more than fifteen years, and Juliana never had any money anyway. The man Magda had spoken to, the one who was supposed to provide her with insurance, has disappeared.

As she sips her coffee, she starts to feel a rising sense of panic: how has she ended up here? She forces herself to close her eyes and breathe deeply. She thinks of Carl’s bloated, self-satisfied face. He’s probably eating his eggs Benedict in the suite right now. She thinks of how it will feel to turn the tables on him. She has survived worse, she tells herself, murmuring under her breath. She will survive this.

When she opens them again a bored-looking kitchen worker is standing by the table. “You need to clear your tray into the bins when you’ve finished.”

Nisha stares at the woman for a full three seconds, some furious internal struggle just visible in her features. She takes a long breath, then picks up the tray and walks, stiff-backed, past the woman to the bins.



* * *



? ? ?

Using the last of her loose change, Nisha catches a bus and sits near the front, refusing to acknowledge the scattering of passengers around her. She gets off by Chelsea Bridge and walks the ten minutes to the little square. It seems acceptable: white stucco buildings, pretty boutiques and decent coffee shops. A florist sells exquisite arrangements of blue hydrangeas and she pictures a display of them on a dining-table once she’s in, and plans what she will book at the nearby beauty salon. Right now she would kill for a massage. But it’s fine. She will survive here for the foreseeable. She finally enters the little square, quietly satisfied at the evident peace of it, the sight of the nanny walking past with well-dressed children, the elderly woman with her dachshund. This at least is a place that understands how things are done, a million miles from the grease and noise and bustle of the hotel.

And there it is. Number 57. She stops in front of the gate and looks up, vaguely recalling its frontage from the real-estate agent details. It’s a fairly modest house by Carl’s standards, but he had chosen it for the location, and she remembers nodding and smiling and saying it was lovely, as she did with all his property purchases. He is a light sleeper and insists on living on roads where there is no through traffic or, preferably, surrounded by acres of their own land. The building work’s finished, she thinks, pleased, noting the neutral blinds, the carefully tended roses around the front garden.

She is just wondering if she can remember the name of the construction firm—Barrington? Ballingham?—when the front door of her house opens and a woman steps out. The interior designer, Nisha thinks, and steps forward, but almost immediately the woman shepherds out two small children. She looks up when she sees Nisha standing at the gate, and half waits. The two women stare at each other for a moment, blank, confused smiles on their faces.

The woman breaks first. “Can I help you?” she says, when Nisha doesn’t move. She is whippet thin, her hair a straight curtain of natural hazel and blonde, clad in the expensive casual wear of the wealthy non-working mother.

Nisha is taken aback by her brazenness. “Uh . . . you can tell me what you’re doing in my house.”

The woman blinks. Half laughs.

“This is . . . my house?”

“It is not. We bought this house three years ago. I have the documents to prove it.”

The woman stiffens. “We bought it four months ago. I also have the solicitor’s emails to prove it.”

They stare at each other. The children gaze, wide-eyed, then look up at their mother.

“This is ridiculous,” says the woman, moving them behind her, as if she is dealing with a crazy person. “I’m afraid you must have the wrong address. Please leave us alone.”

“Number fifty-seven,” says Nisha. “That’s my house.”

“It’s not your house.”

“It is.”

Both women half laugh without humor, as if aware of the absurdity of the conversation. Nisha sees the woman take in her cheap clothes, the low-quality shoes, and she observes a flicker pass across her face, as if Nisha might be dangerous, perhaps recently released from a mental facility.

“Who are you?” says the woman, her voice tense.

“My name is Nisha Cantor.”

“Oh!” says the woman, suddenly relieved. “Cantor! Yes! You are the people we bought it from!”

“But—but we haven’t sold it,” says Nisha. “He would have needed my signature. He would have—”

She realizes with a jolt what Carl has done. “Oh, God.”

The street starts to buck and spin around her.