Someone Else's Shoes(52)

“So . . . did you come far?”

“No,” she says.

She sits very still, her ankles folded neatly under her, her eyes trained on his face. This is the man I shared a bed with for almost twenty years, she thinks, whose every need and whim I catered to. This is the man whose head I caressed when he had headaches, whose shoulders I massaged when he complained of stress, whose measurements I knew by heart so that I could order him clothes from any tailor in the world. This is the man whose beloved child I bore, whose tantrums I calmed, whose enemies I watched and reported and undermined for him, whose life I streamlined and smoothed and imbued with as many comforts as much as any human being could.

This is the man who cut me off as if I had never even existed. Who fucked his assistant and lied to me the whole time he was doing it. And the whole thing seems so surreal that she wonders briefly if she is dreaming.

“So how are you?” he says, when the coffees arrive.

“Is that a joke?”

“You look well.”

She stirs her coffee.

“What the fuck is going on, Carl?” she says. And he laughs. He actually laughs, his eyes warm, as if she has said something he finds amusing.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says finally. “I . . . I haven’t handled the last couple of weeks as diplomatically as I might have done.”

“Diplomatically? Seriously?”

“I was badly advised by my lawyers. I realized that this was not the way. Our way.”

He reaches out a hand to place over hers, and she lets it briefly rest there, shocked by the familiarity of its weight, until she snatches it away. He watches her, settles back in his chair.

“You’re hurt. And angry. I can understand that. And I’m here to . . . make things better.”

“I’m not getting back with you.” She throws it down like a gauntlet.

“I know. I think we have probably reached the end of our road. But what a road it’s been, uh?” He smiles fondly.

She is frowning at him. Is this Carl? Or has Ari employed some actor to take his place?

“All those good years. Some good times. Fun trips. Our beautiful son. I think we did okay. We should still be able to be friends, yes?”

“You have zero relationship with our son. You haven’t spoken to him in eighteen months, except via the staff.”

He rubs a hand over his head. “What can I say, Nisha? I am a flawed human being. I’m working on it. We . . . we have had contact this last couple of weeks and—”

“You told him what you did?”

“No. No. I thought maybe some of this would be better coming from his mother. You always were better at handling him.”

She shakes her head. Of course it would fall to her to do the emotional heavy-lifting.

He leans forward over the table, his expression earnest. “Look, Nisha, I’m here to say I’m sorry. I’ve handled everything very badly. I’ve not accorded you the respect you were due. But I’d like to change that. I’d like to think we can close this chapter of our lives in peace and harmony.”

She doesn’t say a word. She understands instinctively that the best power she has right now is silence.

“I would like to make you a settlement.”

She waits. “Okay.”

“I will get my lawyer to talk to your lawyer and draw up something that will be fair and equitable.”

“I don’t have a lawyer, Carl. You’ve seen to that.”

“Then I will fix it. And then our lawyers will talk and we will work out a way that you can move forward in comfort.”

She regards him curiously. Is Charlotte behind this? Has he been advised to say these things? He seems genuine. She scans the room surreptitiously and cannot see Ari or Charlotte or anyone else at any of the other tables. She catches sight of Jasmine sweeping the lobby and glancing her way. Jasmine raises an eyebrow, as if to say, You okay? And she gives her the slightest of nods. She sits back in her seat and crosses her legs.

“So I thought we should . . .” he continues. Then: “What—what are those shoes?” Carl is staring at her feet.

“Oh. Those. It’s a long story.”

“Where are your Louboutins?”

“Why would you be looking for my Louboutins?” Don’t you know her clown feet are too big for them? she wants to say. But she doesn’t want him to know that she knows.

He takes a sip of his coffee, doesn’t meet her eye. “Well. Just that they would be part of the settlement.”

She stares at him. “You want the damn shoes off my feet?”

“I bought them, Nisha. Legally speaking, they are . . . my shoes. Along with everything else.”

“Which you gave me. Making them legally mine. Why would you want my shoes?” Go on, she thinks, just say it. You want to give them to your clown-footed girlfriend.

“I had them made specially. They’re . . . they’re worth money.”

“You’re being weird, Carl. You have, like, a gazillion things that are worth more than those shoes.”

“Sentimental reasons, then.”

“You’re about as sentimental as the Berlin Wall. Don’t give me that.”

“Don’t be obstructive, Nisha.” His voice holds a warning. “I am being very generous here.”