Someone Else's Shoes(58)

Jasmine is on lates so Nisha mostly works alone and she is relieved: things have started to feel a little tricky in the apartment. Some days the space actually seems to shrink, so that the three of them are forever in each other’s way, arguing over bathroom time or inching round each other in the kitchen as they try to get to the fridge or kettle. Jasmine has taken on extra ironing and the hallway is narrowed by even more piles of laundry in huge woven plastic holdalls. Her usual good humor is fraying at the edges under the pressure of it all and the exhaustion. Grace, meanwhile, is furious with Nisha all the time for taking up space in her room. She understands it, but the eye-rolling and heavy sighs are becoming a little hard to bear cheerfully. At least when she and Jasmine are on different shifts there is a good chunk of each day when she can just be herself, when there is no need for her to put on a cheery, accommodating smile she doesn’t feel. And she rarely does.

What has happened to the damn shoes? The thought spools and reels in her head as the hours pass. She has to find them: the sooner she gets them back the sooner she can get her money from Carl, leave the tiny apartment and start reclaiming her life. She is sure Ray has worked out that something is going on. On yesterday’s call he had been super-quiet and finally said he’d thought she and Dad would be home by now. She’d had to make up some nonsense about Carl having to deal with an unexpected piece of business, and although she’d sounded convincing, Ray is too sensitive to be fobbed off for long. “I just need to see you, Mom,” he said, at the end of the call, and a huge lump landed in her throat that took several minutes to swallow.

“I know, darling. Me too. It won’t be long, I promise.”

In her lunch break she heads to the bin area and, standing by the window where she is sure she can still reach the hotel Wi-Fi, she smokes a cigarette and calls Magda.

“Mrs. Cantor! You didn’t answer any of my messages? Are you okay? I’ve been so worried.” In the background Nisha can hear the whine of pneumatic spanners as they separate wheels from car bodies.

“I’ve been busy. Look, I need to ask you something. Do you have any idea why Carl would want my shoes?”

“Your shoes?”

“The Louboutins. Can you ask around? Is there any way you can ask your man if he can describe the woman who was wearing them in that bar? I need them to negotiate with Carl.”

“I’ll ask him, Mrs. Cantor. As long as he is on the same number—sometimes they change numbers, you know? Please—any news on my job? Turns out I am not so good at fitting tires . . .”

“I need those shoes back to give you a job, Magda. Okay? It’s very important. For both of us.”

“I understand. No, we do not have any Michelin! Only Goodyear that size! You can rely on me, Mrs. Cantor.”

Wishing that statement gave her more confidence than it did, Nisha ends the call, stubs out her cigarette and walks back through the kitchen. It is the peak of lunch service, and around her flames erupt from gas burners, while curses and yelling surge over the sound of pans and metal whisks. She ducks through the bodies in food-spattered whites, and spies Aleks bent low over a pan of scallops. He sees her and beckons her. He leans over to yell into her ear to make sure he is heard above the racket. “Come by later. I have something for you.”

She narrows her eyes.

“You will like.”

“What?” she yells. It makes her uncomfortable, this constant giving of things. Like she is somehow becoming indebted to him in a way she has little control over. She does not want to be indebted to anyone ever again.

“It’s to eat.”

“What is it? And what do you want? For the food thing?” When he doesn’t answer, she adds: “Like—what do I have to give you?”

He frowns, as if she has said something confusing. Then he shakes his head almost irritably and turns back to his scallops.



* * *



? ? ?

It is a duck. Aleks gives her a duck. The suppliers delivered too many, he says, as she gets ready to leave. The management will not notice. He hands her the surprisingly weighty bird wrapped in muslin. It is organic. Very good taste. She can make a nice meal for Jasmine and her daughter.

“You know how to cook duck?” When she looks blank he goes to the larder room and makes up a small package containing star anise, arrowroot, some green herbs and a small jar of orange liqueur, placing them all in a jute bag. He doesn’t look at her as he writes out instructions. He has beautiful handwriting. She doesn’t know why this surprises her.

“It’s not difficult. Most important thing is let the meat rest ten minutes minimum when you have finished roasting, yes? Ten minutes minimum. That way it will be very tender.”

Something about this whole exchange puts her on edge. He definitely wants something. Why would he do all this otherwise? These delicious daily meals and little food gifts. But she doesn’t feel she can push him on this again without insulting him. This kind of confusion is new to Nisha, so that she is curt with him when she takes the package, her answers brisk and cursory. And when she heads back to the locker room his quizzical look makes her angry with herself.

Nisha does what she always does when faced with difficult emotions. She ignores them. She works her way through six rooms, like an automaton, fierce and thorough. She finds these days that she is oddly grateful for the distraction of cleaning. In the absence of running, or a gym, she finds the physical effort it involves calms her in some strange undefined way. The undemanding mental involvement of stripping and replacing linen, scanning for dust or dirt eases the whirring of her brain. The physical exhaustion it brings feels necessary. She is just ending the day sitting on the bench with a mug of coffee in the locker room when Jasmine texts her: My ex says he can’t bring Grace back. Could you swing by and pick her up from my mum’s on the way home? I don’t like her traveling by herself.