Someone Else's Shoes(40)
The doors open at the seventh floor. Jasmine motions at Nisha to stay in the elevator.
“Housekeeping!” she calls.
A man—is it Steve?—she can’t tell with her head down—appears at the doors.
“What’s this?”
“I have your dry cleaning, sir.” Jasmine sweeps an armful of the plastic-covered clothes off the trolley.
“Dry cleaning,” Steve yells behind him.
She hears Carl’s voice from the study area.
“What dry cleaning? I didn’t order any.”
Nisha’s heart stops.
But Jasmine steps out. “Your wife scheduled for her clothes to be collected for dry cleaning, sir? We’re just returning them. Stay here,” she murmurs to Nisha.
“My wife? I told Frederik she wasn’t to charge anything on my room.”
“This was arranged some time ago, I believe, sir. I’m just bringing the clothes now.”
Carl’s voice is angry. “I told him she was to charge nothing. Nothing. He should have canceled any scheduled orders.” Jasmine has disappeared. Nisha can hear the swish of hangers being returned to a rail. Their voices are muffled.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Jasmine says calmly. “There must have been an error in communication with the laundry. I’ll make sure all these are comped to your room.”
She steps into the elevator, sweeps up the second armful of clothes and exits again.
“Did you say all of them?”
“Clearly an error on the hotel’s part, sir. I will ensure that these items have all been cleaned free of charge.”
Nisha hears a shift in tone. Carl loves getting stuff for free. It’s like he feels it’s his due, like the universe has suddenly seen him for what he deserves. He is worth millions and yet if someone comps him something he’s like a child given a free lollipop in a sweet shop.
“Okay. Put a note on my file so that anything else she fixed up before she left is canceled. Okay? I don’t want anything else like this happening.”
“Of course. Consider it done. Thank you for your understanding, sir. Again, I’m so sorry.”
Jasmine walks into the elevator and Nisha turns away in case Carl materializes. But Jasmine has hit the button and the lift is already juddering downward.
* * *
? ? ?
Afterward Jasmine does not say a word. They complete their room allocation in mutual silence. Nisha feels numb with shock. All these days spent working out what would happen when she got back into the room, and what was the result? They had handed every single item back. Back into the hands of that witch. And she had been so blindsided by rage at the sight of the clothes that she had completely forgotten to get anything more useful—her jewelry, money from the desk.
She is owed a rest break, but she does not want to go into the locker room. She does not want to have to endure the questions from Jasmine and anybody else, or to have to think about what has just happened. She walks instead along the corridor to the kitchens. They are near-empty mid-afternoon, the chefs and sous-chefs grabbing a precious breather between the lunch and evening shifts, some napping, some sneaking cigarettes outside. She has eaten nothing all day, and goes to check on the table where the sandwiches are usually left. It is empty, just a platter with a few crumbs.
Crumbs. That is what remains of her life. She picks up the stainless-steel platter, stares at it, and then almost before she knows what she is doing, hurls it to the floor so that it clatters with a smash on the hard surface. She reaches round and picks up a pile of newly laundered aprons and throws them onto the floor too. Then the plastic mixing bowls. They bounce off the stainless-steel surfaces.
“Fucking fucking fuck! What the fucking fuck has happened to my life?” She closes her eyes, clenches her fists and roars. Her scream is primal, erupts from the core of her. She curls over her stomach and sinks to her knees, clutching herself as if she is in pain.
When she finally opens her eyes, still panting from the effort, she becomes aware that someone is watching her. She turns and sees a tall man standing by the stoves. Aleks. He’s leaning against one, his arms folded in front of him, his checkered chef’s trousers flecked with small stains from the morning shift.
“What?” she says defiantly. “What?”
She looks down at the mess she has created. She climbs to her feet and, after a moment, starts picking up the aprons, folding them and placing them back on the side, whacking them down with displeasure. Still grimacing with fury, she picks up the mixing bowls, stacking them as she goes, and the steel tray. Her hair has come loose from its tie and she pulls it back off her face, wrenching it into a knot.
When she glances behind her, he is still watching. “What?” she says, pulling a face. “You never seen someone get mad? I’m picking up your damn things. Okay? I’m doing it.”
His expression does not change. He waits a moment, then says calmly, in heavily accented English: “You are very beautiful woman.” He adds: “Very angry. But very beautiful.”
Nisha’s mouth opens. He turns away from her to the stove and reaches up for a small pan. He swipes some oil around its innards, then breaks two eggs expertly into it. He goes to the enormous refrigerator in the corner and returns with an armful of ingredients.
She stands, unsure what she is watching. He turns his head, nods toward the chair in the corner. “Sit,” he says.