Someone Else's Shoes(39)

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? ? ?

She is halfway along the laundry corridor with her haul when Jasmine appears in front of her. She stands, does a double-take at the pile of clothes, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, and then folds her arms. “What the—?”

“Get out of my way.”

“Nisha?”

“She was wearing my clothes.” Nisha is wild now, as if some stopper has been released, letting out all the anger and frustration of the last week. “She is not having my damn clothes.”

“What are you talking about? Where did you get these?”

Nisha makes to push past her, but Jasmine blocks her way.

“The penthouse,” Nisha hisses.

“You’ve been in the penthouse!” She blinks, then adds, “You stole clothes from the penthouse?”

“It’s not stealing if they’re mine.”

“What are you saying, girl? Have you gone crazy?”

Nisha drops the trolley handle. She walks up to Jasmine. “I’m Nisha Cantor. Married to Carl Cantor. He has locked me out of the penthouse since last week and blocked all my money. I’m just taking back what is mine.”

Jasmine stares at her, as if trying to register what she has just said. “You are married to the guy in the penthouse?”

“Yes. For more than eighteen damn years. Until last week when he pulled a number on me.”

Jasmine is shaking her head, tiny shakes, her palms raised, as if she cannot digest this. “You went in there to get your clothes? But how did you—”

“I’ve had nothing. Nothing. I’ve had to wear clothes that aren’t even mine!” Nisha scrabbles in her pocket for the all-access pass and hands it back to her. “Here. Take this. I’ve got what I came for.”

“You can’t do this.”

“It’s not stealing. They’re my clothes.”

“Nisha. This is a bad idea. You have to stop.”

“I’m sorry, Jas. It’s been lovely meeting you. You are a good, good person. I like you. And I don’t like anyone. But I’m taking my things.”

Jasmine stares at the little card. “No no no no no. You just went in on my pass. It’s all registered to me. If you steal all those clothes they’re going to pin it on me.”

“I’ll tell them it isn’t you. I’ll call them. Whatever.”

“Nisha. I’m a Black single mother from Peckham. You just used my all-access housekeeping card to get into a room where—what?—ten thousand pounds’ worth of clothes have just been removed.”

“More like thirty thousand actually,” says Nisha, affronted.

“We have to get these back in the room. We can sort it, babe. But not like this.”

“No!” Nisha protests, but Jasmine grips her arm.

“Don’t do this to me. You know we’ll all be in trouble if you do this. I need this job, Nish. I need it. And I’ve worked bloody hard to get to where I am. Twice as hard as most people have to work. You have no idea, okay? You have no idea. Don’t you ruin this for me.”

There is a steely tone to Jasmine’s voice, but genuine anxiety too. Nisha feels a flicker of uncertainty. She thinks about Jasmine handing her twenty pounds when she had barely known her.

She lets out a low moan. “Please, Jas. You have no idea what it’s been like. He’s taken everything. I need my things. I need them.”

“If this is how you say it is, we will fix it,” says Jasmine, quietly. “But not like this.”

The two women lock eyes. And suddenly it’s over. Nisha knows she cannot do this to the one person who has treated her decently.

“Arrrrgh. Dammit!” she yells.

“I know, darling. I know. C’mon,” says Jasmine, suddenly brisk. “Come with me. We have to get these back before they realize they’re gone. Jesus Christ, my stomach. What are you doing to me?”



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    They say nothing to each other in the elevator but Jasmine keeps stealing glances at her, as if she is totally reassessing everything she has believed. They reach the seventh floor and exchange a look. But as the elevator stops, they hear voices. Loud, male voices. Somebody is back in the room. Without missing a beat, Jasmine slams the down button with her palm. The elevator hesitates as the doors begin to open, as if not sure about this change in instruction. And then they close again and it lurches suddenly downward.

They exit on the sixth floor. Nisha’s head is spinning. “What do we do now?”

Jas holds up a finger as if she has already worked it out. She presses a button on her walkie-talkie. “Viktor? Do me a favor, babe? I need . . . fifteen, twenty hangers. With plastic. Yes. Yes. Fast as you can. Thanks, babe. I’m outside six twenty-two. I owe you.”

Less than two minutes later Viktor, a tall Lithuanian with sad eyes, arrives at a half-run bearing the hangers.

“Put the clothes in these. Quickly. Give us a hand, Vik, will you?”

Nisha does as she’s told, threading each outfit up through the plastic. The three of them work in silence, Nisha’s fingers turning to thumbs as she tries to straighten collars on hangers, to push the wire frames through the tiny clear plastic holes. When they are done, a huge pile of clothes is lying over the trolley. Jas wheels it back into the elevator and motions to Nisha. “Put your mask on. And keep your head down.”