Someone Else's Shoes(30)

“We’ve got Nisha starting today. Papers are in the post.”

“Oh, thank God,” says a red-haired woman, who is scrubbing names out on a rota and doesn’t look up. “I’ve had four call in sick today. She need training?”

“Do you need training?” Jasmine says to her.

“Uh—yes?” says Nisha.

“Can’t be helped,” says Red-hair. “Okay, Jas, you’ll have to show her the ropes. I’m going to up your rooms as you’re two-handed. We’ve got sixteen to do by two and two early checkins. Here’s the list. What’s your name again?”

Nisha is about to speak, then says: “Anita.”

“Okay, Anita. Come back and pick your badge up at twelve. No illnesses, injuries or allergies? Fill this out when you return. We haven’t got time for you to do it now.”

“I thought you said your name was Nisha?”

The two women look at her.

She has a sudden memory of Juliana. And swallows. “I find . . . Anita is easier for guests to pronounce.”

Red-hair shrugs. “Anita it is. Okay—go get your stuff. Jas, we’re really low on bleach. Sorry about that. Elbow grease only wherever possible today. We’ll need to save it for the bad stuff.”

“Elbow grease. The one thing they know we’ll never be out of,” Jasmine grumbles, and they head off toward the store cupboard.



* * *



? ? ?

Ten minutes later Nisha is following Jasmine as she pushes the housekeeping trolley along the carpeted corridor of the third floor. She feels electrified, visible, as if every guest who looks at her will guess what she’s doing, and know she’s an imposter. She finds herself ducking her head as they pass, not wanting anyone to notice her.

“What are you doing?” Jasmine turns, as the third guest walks by.

“What do you mean?”

“We have to say good morning to all guests. It’s company policy. You have to make them feel like they’re part of the Bentley family. On the sixth and seventh floor we have to say their names too.”

She and Carl had occupied the suite on the seventh floor. Nisha was so used to staff knowing who she was that it had never occurred to her these greetings were part of any kind of policy. She mutters, “Good morning,” as they pass the next guests, a German couple, who return a formal greeting and continue to the elevators.

Jasmine brings the trolley to a halt outside Room 339 and knocks twice, flicking through her clipboard as she waits for a response. “Housekeeping!”

When nobody responds, she uses her key card, pushes the door and waits until Nisha is behind her. The room is one-tenth the size of the suite. An unmade bed is in the center, the sheets covered with crumbs and leftover food from the breakfast tray that is lying on the covers. A television blares the news. An empty wine bottle and two glasses stand on the side.

Jasmine bustles round and turns off the television. “Okay. You start on the bathroom, I’ll strip the bed. We normally have around twenty minutes to do these rooms or we’ll get written up, and this morning we’ve got extra so you’ll have to get a wiggle on.”

Until then, Nisha realized afterward, she hadn’t really thought she was going to be asked to do anything. She had thought perhaps she could just don the uniform and disappear into the bowels of the building, work out how she could make her way into her suite.

But now Jasmine is staring at her, one hand holding a blue cloth, her face slightly quizzical. “It ain’t brain surgery. Just clean it like your own bathroom, babe. But better!” Jasmine lets out a hearty laugh and dons her latex gloves before pulling off the coverlet briskly like she knows what germs it might contain.

Nisha stands in the bathroom, frozen. There are unidentified short hairs in the basin, the toilet seat is wet and there are two damp towels on the floor, one bearing a pale brown mark that she hopes very much is makeup. She thinks about walking straight out, but this is her one opportunity to remain in the hotel, for the time being, anyway. She takes two deep breaths, pulls on the gloves, and starts to clean the basin, trying not to look as she wipes.

She is almost halfway through when Jasmine appears at the door. “Babe! You’re going to have to switch it up! Have you done the bog roll? Fold the corners when you put it on. Half-used ones go back on the trolley. Here. I’ll do your bottles.”

Jasmine sweeps all the half-empty mini-bottles of shampoo and body lotion into a bin bag and disappears into the corridor. It is at that point that Nisha turns to the lavatory. It has yellow splashes dried onto the seat, and a clear brown mark in the pan. She feels the remains of her breakfast rise ominously into the back of her mouth. Oh, God, this cannot be happening.

“C’mon, girl!” She hears Jasmine’s voice in the other room. “We’ve got seven more minutes.” Nisha takes hold of the toilet brush and, looking away, starts to scrub vaguely at the inside of the bowl. She heaves twice, involuntarily, and has to pause to let her eyes stop watering. She allows herself a brief look down into the bowl—the brown mark is still there. She places the toilet brush against it and pushes, yelping involuntarily when water splashes upward. I will kill you, Carl, she says silently. I could just about forgive you the money and the stupid assistant, but I will never, ever forgive you for this.

Nisha gags again as she lifts the toilet seat and wipes it, then pauses and wipes her face. Her eyes are streaming. She has never hated humanity as much as she does in that moment. And for Nisha, that’s saying something.