Someone Else's Shoes(25)

“Incident book?”

“Well, it’s usually for minor injuries. But I’m happy to put it in there so that if and when your bag is returned, whoever is staffing Reception is aware that it belongs to you. If you’d like to give me your details I’ll make sure someone contacts you in the event of it reappearing.”

The way she says “reappearing” makes it clear to Nisha that she doesn’t expect it to “reappear” any time soon.

“Well, you have been immensely helpful,” she says. “I’ll be in touch. Maybe to get a recommendation for whoever is in charge of your customer-service training.” She sweeps out, thanking God that she hadn’t bothered to bring the other bag with her.



* * *



? ? ?

She picks up Ray’s money from the wire service, buys a cheap pay-as-you-go phone from a pawnshop, some top-up vouchers from the supermarket, and at 3 p.m. she uses the hotel Wi-Fi to call Leonie Whitman. After a modicum of small-talk and fake admiration for her latest Instagram posts (Leonie is so thirsty for attention—like a woman with her ass should be posing in a bikini, even if it is on her husband’s yacht), Nisha asks her if she can recommend a good divorce lawyer. “It’s my assistant,” she says, lowering her voice. “She’s in a dreadful situation and I’d like to help if I can. She’s such a sweet woman and I want to protect her.”

“Oh, you’re so kind to your staff,” says Leonie. “I couldn’t bear Maria when her husband left. She was so moody and I kept finding her weeping in closets. Honestly, I was that close to firing her. It just affected the whole mood of the house.”

“Well, you know, a good assistant is worth looking after.” Nisha smiles, thinking guiltily of Magda. She jots down the number and ends the call as swiftly as she can. She doesn’t think she heard anything in Leonie’s voice that suggested Angeline Mercer had told her what was going on, but Leonie is a one-woman broadcasting service, and she needs to act quickly.

Saul Lowenstein, esteemed New York divorce lawyer, takes the call. She suspected he might, despite it being a weekend, given her name. He is unctuous, charming on the phone, his mellifluous, confidential tone that of someone who has listened to a wealth of furious soon-to-be-ex-wives.

“And how can I help you, Mrs. Cantor?”

She explains the situation in as bald and emotionless a manner as she can manage. But even as she does, hearing the words out loud, she feels an unexpected prickling behind her eyes, the fury and the unfairness of it catching like a plum stone in her throat.

“Take your time, take your time,” he says gently, and even this makes her furious: the fact that Carl has turned her into one of those women; the women who wail that their husband has left them and how can he do this to her blah-blah-blah.

“But he can’t do this to me,” she finishes. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he can’t do this to me. We were married. For almost two decades! He can’t just shut me out without a dollar. I mean, I’m his wife!”

He asks the extent of their assets, and she tells him what she can remember: the duplex in New York, the house in Los Angeles, the estate in the Hamptons, the yacht, the cars, the private jet, the office buildings. She is not sure what his business is worth, or even what exactly he does, but she explains it as best she can.

Saul Lowenstein takes a moment before he speaks. He speaks reassuringly, as if this is all just a minor inconvenience that can be sorted. The prospect of his fee for such a case, she thinks, eases the most reticent of minds.

“Right. Well, the first thing we can do to help your immediate situation is to send a letter demanding access to the joint account. Luckily for you, Mrs. Cantor, London’s divorce laws are some of the most equitable in the world. You will get, if not half, then a very decent proportion of his earnings for the last eighteen years.”

Nisha drops her face into her hand. “It is such a relief to talk to you, Mr. Lowenstein. You have no idea how stressful this has been.”

“I’m sure. And then we need to find you a base while we sort this unfortunate business out. Now, do you own any property in England?”

“We did,” she says. “He appears to have sold it.”

“Ah. A pity. Most judges are reluctant to turn a woman out of a marital home.” She can hear him scribbling notes as he speaks, the rude blare of a New York siren somewhere in the background. It makes her oddly homesick.

“Now, the divorce papers you say your husband’s security man gave you. Can you read the first page to me?”

She does as he says and sits, almost in a dream, while he digests it. As he takes notes, she thinks about what she will do once this is sorted. She will fetch Ray. She might even bring him back to stay in London for a bit. She has no desire to head back to the US and all those rubberneckers who, when the news gets out, will suddenly find an excuse to call her, just to be able to report back the gossip to each other. No, she and Ray will get a place here while they work out how to proceed.

“Mrs. Cantor?”

She is pulled back from her reverie.

“These are the papers he handed you?”

“Yes,” she says. “I don’t have any other sets of divorce papers.”

He sighs. “These appear to be American divorce papers. He must have drawn them up in the US. Unfortunately, American divorce law is quite different.”