Someone Else's Shoes(56)

She watches the three dots pulsing and then:

    joel: Everyone needs an ear.



She stares at her phone. She lets her finger rest on the keys, and then, after a moment, starts to type.

    sam: You’re kind. But I’m fine. Thank you x



She sits still for another moment. Then she drags her bag from the passenger seat, and, with a weary sigh, climbs out of the driver’s door and walks inside.



* * *



? ? ?

The house is warm. Too warm, given their electricity bills. Phil used to walk around turning down the thermostats but he no longer seems to notice. She glances in as she passes the living room. He is lying on the sofa staring at the screen. She waits in the doorway briefly but Phil does not appear to notice she is there.

She goes into the kitchen and takes off her coat, leaving it on the back of a chair. Phil’s plate from lunchtime sits in the sink, as does a pan encrusted with spaghetti hoops. She gazes at the dried tomato sauce globs on the waxed tablecloth, at the empty tea mug. A scribbled note in his handwriting says: Your mum rang says can you clean Thursday instead.

She stands in the middle of the little kitchen, holding it.

No, she thinks suddenly. No. No, I cannot. None of it.

She turns and walks back into the narrow hallway, half waiting for Phil to call a greeting. But he is engrossed in the television. She runs nimbly up the stairs and, almost without knowing what she is doing, she puts on the blue trousers she wore to Cousin Sandra’s second wedding and a fresh jumper and pulls the Louboutin shoes out from under her bed. She straps them on and stands, feeling immediately taller, more formidable. She puts on some makeup in the mirror, a dark pink lipstick and some mascara, pursing her lips at herself and lifting her chin. She sprays some dry shampoo into her roots to zhuzh her hair up a bit. And then, after a moment, she adds a squirt of scent. Then she walks downstairs, puts her coat back on, grabs her bag and types into her phone: If you’re still there, Coach and Horses 20 minutes.

She waits, and then adds: x



* * *



? ? ?

Joel is already at the pub when she arrives. He has his back to her, standing at the bar as he chats to the barman. Joel seems to know everyone. There is rarely a job they turn up at where he doesn’t greet someone warmly. He turns 180 degrees when she opens the door, as if he knows by some internal compass that she has arrived.

“White wine?” he says, and smiles.

“Yes, please.”

She finds a corner seat, suddenly a little self-conscious in her smart clothes in the scruffy pub. Why had she worn the Louboutins? They look out of place among the scuffed boots and trainers. She folds her legs under the table, feeling oddly exposed. When Joel arrives, a drink in each hand, he places them down carefully. “You look nice. Going somewhere?”

“Um . . . no. I—I just . . . needed a lift,” she says, and takes a long sip of the wine. “Probably a bit silly.”

“Not at all. Good move,” he says. He smiles. “You brought the big guns out.”

She gazes at the shoes and laughs ruefully. “They just . . . make me feel like a different version of myself, I guess. I’d wear them every day if I could.” She keeps her eyes on her feet.

“Simon?” says Joel. “That man . . .”

“It’s not just Simon. It’s everything,” she says. Now she’s embarrassed. “Oh, God. Listen to me whining already. Bet you’re really glad you came, aren’t you?”

“Whine away, babe,” he says. “That’s what I’m here for.”

What are you here for? she asks him silently. And then she pulls herself together.

“I think I’d rather just drink, actually,” she says, and after a moment he holds up his glass, they chink them together, and they begin.



* * *



? ? ?

It’s the first time she has felt seen, or heard, for ages. They talk and talk and talk, and punctuate the talking with trips to the bar. He tells her about his last breakup. The impossible demands put on him by his ex-girlfriend. “I just felt like every emotional situation was a trap by the end—do you know what I mean?” She nods, even though she doesn’t. She hates this girlfriend, even though she’s never met her, and she pities her too. Imagine having a man as lovely as Joel and losing him.

“I mean, she was a nice woman. But, man, I felt shredded. Shredded. Every time I saw her. It just felt like she would look for the worst possible interpretation of anything I did. She asked so many questions about why me and my ex-wife split up that in the end I thought she was looking for deficiencies in my character.”

“I know that feeling,” she says. I wouldn’t do that to you, she thinks, then shuts the thought down.

“The thing is, I was straight with her. I don’t like messing people about. But it’s just exhausting, feeling you’re not seen for who you are, you know?” He shakes his head, and then smiles. “Of course you do. You’re dealing with it every day. I don’t know why Simon can’t see how valuable you are.”

Just Simon? she thinks. And something in her constricts.

Joel is so kind, so intimate and conspiratorial. She is transfixed by his mouth, so that sometimes she barely hears what he says, and after they get the third round of drinks he moves round so they are side by side on the bench, and she can feel the warmth of his shoulder against her, watch his strong, dark hands. They talk about their parents and he cries laughing when she tells him the story of her father and the little blue pills. “My dad doesn’t need them,” he says. “Every afternoon at two thirty he taps his watch and tells Mum it’s time for their ‘afternoon nap.’ Doesn’t even care if we’re all round watching telly.” He lets out a laugh that is almost a giggle.