Someone Else's Shoes(6)

Trying to suppress the giant ball of fury and anxiety that is swelling in her chest is getting harder. She takes her silk blouse off the hanger, feeling the liquid fall of it sticking to her warm damp skin as she pulls it over her head. Where is Magda, for God’s sake? She sits and glances at her phone again, reaching absentmindedly into her gym bag for jeans and shoes. She feels around and finally pulls out a very tired, ugly, block-heeled black pump. She turns and blinks at her hand for a moment before dropping the shoe with a little gasp of horror. She wipes her fingers on a towel, then slowly opens the bag with a corner of it, peering inside. It takes her a moment to grasp what she is looking at. This bag is not her bag. This is fake leather, its plastic covering already peeling at the seams, and what should be a brass “Marc Jacobs” tag has tarnished its way to a dull silver.

Nisha peers under the bench. Then behind her. Most of the annoying women have gone now, and there are no other bags, just a few gaping lockers. There are no other bags. This bag looks like her bag—same size, same color, similar handles—but it definitely isn’t hers.

“Who took my bag?” she says aloud, to nobody in particular. “Who the hell took my bag?” The few women in the changing room glance over at her but look blank.

“No,” she says. “No no no no no. Not today. Not now.”



* * *



? ? ?

The girl at the desk doesn’t blink.

“Where’s the CCTV?”

“Madam, there’s no CCTV in the ladies’ changing room. It would be against the law.”

“So how am I meant to find out who stole my bag?”

“I don’t think it’s been stolen, madam. From what you said, it seems like an accidental switch, if the bags were so similar—”

“You really think anyone would ‘accidentally’ pick up my Chanel jacket and custom-made Louboutin heels made by Christian himself when they dress themselves normally in . . .” she peers into the bag, grimaces “. . . Primark?”

The receptionist’s face doesn’t shift a muscle.

“We can go through the CCTV at the entrance but we’ll have to get clearance from head office.”

“I haven’t got time. Who was the last person out of here?”

“We don’t hold those records, madam. It’s all automated. If you hold on I’ll call the manager and he can come over.”

“Finally! Where is he?”

“He’s staff training in Pinner.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Give me some track shoes. Do you have track shoes here? I just need to get to my car.”

Nisha peers out of the window. “Where is my car? Where’s the car?”

She turns away from the desk and punches a number into her phone. No answer. The receptionist pulls out a plastic packet from under the counter. She looks as bored as if she has just had to listen to a two-hour TED talk on the Drying of Paint. She plonks them on the counter. “We have flip-flops.”

Nisha looks at the girl, then at the shoes, then at the girl again. The girl’s face is a blank. Finally, she snatches them off the counter and, with a low growl of frustration, wrenches them onto her feet. She hears the muttered “Americans!” as she leaves.





three


Never mind, love. Still three to go,” says Ted, kindly.

They have driven in silence to the next meeting. Sam has spent the past twenty minutes in the van under a cloud of crushing misery, guilt seeping into every cell that once contained what remained of her confidence. What must they have thought of her? She could still feel the disbelieving stares of those men, the barely concealed smirks as she wobbled back into the van. Joel had clapped her on the shoulder and told her Frampton was a wanker and everyone knew he was a late payer anyway so it was probably the best thing all round, but even as he spoke all she could see was the distant curl of Simon’s lip as she had to tell him that she had lost a valuable contract.

In for six, hold for three, out for seven.

Joel pulls up in the car park and switches off the ignition. They sit for a moment, listening to the engine tick down and looking up at the glossy-fronted building. Her stomach is somewhere in the footwell of the van.

“Would it be really bad to go into this meeting in flip-flops?” she says, finally.

“Yes,” say Ted and Joel, at the same time.

“But—”

“Babe.” Joel leans forward over the steering wheel and turns to face her. “You wear those shoes, you’ve got to style it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you looked . . . embarrassed back there. You still look embarrassed. You’ve got to look like you own them.”

“I don’t own them.”

“You’ve got to look confident. Like you just threw them on, you know, while you were thinking about all those big-bucks deals you already signed today.”

Ted compresses his mouth into a fleshy line and nods. He nudges her with a ham-like arm. “He’s right. Come on, sweetheart. Chin up, tits out, big smile. You can do it.”

Sam reaches for her bag. “You wouldn’t say that to Simon.”

Ted shrugs. “I would if he was wearing those shoes.”



* * *