Someone Else's Shoes(24)

“Are you . . . are you okay?” The woman’s demeanor has softened slightly. She steps forward and makes to touch Nisha’s arm. Nisha immediately snaps it away. She does not like to be touched at the best of times, least of all by someone showing visible sympathy.

“Four months ago.” She shakes her head. “Of course.”

“Look, I think you’d better speak to your solicitor. But this house is very definitely ours. I have the solicitors’ and land registry papers to prove it. I can get them from inside if you—”

“Oh. No. I—I believe you,” Nisha says. She feels winded. He must have been planning this for months. She lets out a small sound that might have been a groan, and tries to steady herself before she pushes herself upright.

“Are you okay? Would you like me to—”

She turns before the woman can say anything else, and sets off at a brisk walk back toward the bus stop, feeling three pairs of eyes burn into her until she is out of sight.



* * *



? ? ?

“Mom? Why are you calling so early? And why are you calling collect?”

“I knew you’d be up, darling. I know you’re a night owl. How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

She winces. “Fine,” in teenager-speak, can cover anything from ecstatic to “Just been scrolling through a dozen YouTube videos about the best way to kill myself.”

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

She hesitates. But this cannot wait. “Baby, I have a little favor to ask.”

She can hear a screen burbling in the background. He is probably playing one of those online games that involve wearing earphones and screeching at distant team-mates.

“I need you to wire me some money.”

“What?” He says it twice, clearly perplexed.

“I . . . I want to buy Daddy a birthday present and I don’t want him to see it come out of the joint account,” she says smoothly. “You know how he is about watching all the financial stuff.”

“Can’t you use your card?” He sounds distracted. She hears the sound of distant explosions, followed by gunfire.

“I—I had my bag stolen yesterday. I’ve lost my phone and all my cards.”

“Oh, no! Which bag?” says Ray, his attention suddenly drawn from the game. “Not the Bottega Veneta?”

“No, no. Just—just an old one. I’m not sure you even know it.”

“Oh. Cool. Well . . . how do I do that? I don’t know how to wire money. Sasha! Shooter! On your left!”

She talks him through the process and he does it online as they speak. He seems to find the idea of wiring her some money almost akin to an adventure, and she realizes with a faint sense of guilt that they have so seldom asked him to do anything practical. He arranges to wire five hundred dollars, the most she feels she can ask for without prompting suspicion.

“What are you going to buy?”

It takes her a second. “For Daddy? I—I don’t know. I’m—uh—looking at options.”

“No, what bag. To replace yours.” His voice lowers. “The new Autumn/Winter YSL is cute. Mid-size cross-body with kind of diagonal cushioning. It’s in the newest Vogue, page forty-six. You’d rock that, Mom.”

She smiles, delighted at his sudden animation. “I’ll take a look, sweetheart. It sounds fabulous. Thank you. And I’ll pay you back as soon as I’ve got everything straight this end.”

There is a short silence.

“So . . . when are you coming home?”

“Soon, darling, soon.”

“Sasha’s leaving on the eighth. I can’t be here once he’s gone. He’s the only good one left. Everyone else is just . . .”

“I know. I’ll fix it. I promise. I love you.”

He heads back to his game and she ends the call and breathes a long sigh of relief. That’s three more nights taken care of and her food. It will buy her time to breathe at least. She sits on the bed and feels the softness that always envelops her when she talks to Ray gradually harden as she considers her day. Right. She’ll brush her teeth in the hideous bathroom. Next stop: the gym to see whether her bag has been returned. And then a damn good lawyer.



* * *



? ? ?

“Nobody’s handed in any bags.”

It has taken Nisha fifty-two minutes to walk here. She is cross and sweaty, the jacket is making her neck itch and there is definitely something off about the way this girl is talking to her.

“Well, what are you going to do about it? There’s a Chanel jacket and Christian Louboutin shoes in that bag. The bag itself is Marc Jacobs, for God’s sake.”

The girl gives her the kind of pleasantly blank look that says, Boy, am I going to talk shit about you as soon as you’re out of here. She raises a smile that isn’t a smile.

“I’m so sorry, madam, but there are signs on the wall saying we cannot be liable for items that go missing in the changing rooms. We do advise all clients to lock their lockers and keep an eye on their belongings.” Her peculiar patronizing intonation makes Nisha want to hurl herself over the counter fists first.

“I’ll be happy to put it in the incident book,” the girl adds.