Someone Else's Shoes(61)

She stomps down the corridor to the kitchen, and Nisha is left standing there in the towel.



* * *



? ? ?

She dresses, ignoring Grace’s pointed sideways glances as she hauls on the awful trousers and a T-shirt. She lets herself out of the apartment, ignoring the sound of slamming kitchen-cupboard doors, and walks quickly to the twenty-four-hour convenience store ten minutes away, too furious with herself to worry about the cold or the catcalling of the youths on the corner or the guys hanging outside the snooker hall. When she lets herself back in twenty minutes later Jasmine is on the sofa in the living room, eating something that looks like packet noodles from a bowl.

“Here,” she says, proffering the grocery bag.

“What?” says Jasmine, hauling her attention from the television.

“Bread, milk, eggs, some chocolate. Look, I’m—I’m sorry.”

Jasmine glances at it. “Okay,” she says, and switches her gaze back to the screen.

“And here.”

Jasmine sighs as she is forced to look at her again. She glances down at the wad of notes Nisha is holding out. “What’s that?”

“What I owe you. For staying here. I’d give you more but I need to keep some to get my son back.”

“You owe me what?”

“Whatever it’s cost you. This last couple of weeks. I’ll pack up and be out of your way in half an hour.” A weird, unfamiliar lump has risen in her throat.

Jasmine looks at her hand again, then up at her face. “Are you nuts?”

“Well . . .” Nisha’s voice is formal, her neck stiff “. . . it’s quite obvious you’ve had enough of me being here.”

Jasmine stares for a moment longer, then pulls a face. “Nish. I’m fed up. I was hungry. Yes. But you’re my mate. I’m not going to chuck you out on the street because of some hot water.” She shakes her head irritably. “Sit your arse down, woman. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

Nisha remains standing. “But the bread—”

“Is just bread. You never had nobody get pissed off at you before? It’s obvious you’ve never had to share, okay? You got to think a little before you just do stuff if we’re all in the same space, you know? But don’t get dramatic about it. My God.”

Jasmine shakes her head. She waits for Nisha to sit tentatively on the other end of the sofa, scrapes out the last noodles from her bowl, and they sit in silence for a few minutes watching the television. Finally she leans over and points at the plastic bag. “What chocolate did you get me, anyway?”

“Green & Black’s. The bitter one.”

“Yesss! You know me!” Jasmine’s smile is sudden and infectious. “Oh, for God’s sake, relax, woman. If I have to tread on eggshells every time I get a mood on we are not going to survive your stay here, you know what I’m saying? Go on, go put the kettle on and we’ll have this with a cup of tea.”



* * *



? ? ?

In her old life, Nisha would rarely have gone to bed before midnight. Carl would be up late answering work calls and checking screens and he didn’t like her to be asleep when he came into the bedroom. But these days Nisha is physically exhausted by ten o’clock. And tonight—with all its heightened emotion—has wiped her out. She climbs wearily into the top bunk, her toes making contact with the cold metal bars at the end, and feels every bone in her body sink gratefully into the embrace of the cheap single mattress.

Below her Grace finishes reading and turns out her bedside light, and she is glad suddenly for the sense of another human body nearby, for the laughter at the end of the evening, for Jasmine’s incredulous face and hoots of laughter when she told her about Carl and the shoes. Oh, my God, my darling, how did you survive this man? “I guess it’s like the frog in boiling water, right?” Nisha says. “No marriage starts off bad. I guess by the time you realize how weird it’s gotten you’re up to your neck.” Jasmine laughs. Jasmine actually laughs at Carl. She has never seen anyone in her life laugh at Carl, or call him ridiculous. It’s as if there is not much she could do that would change this woman’s feeling that she, Nisha, is fundamentally okay. Out there in the living room right now Jasmine is doing another hour’s ironing. Nisha had offered to help but Jasmine had waved her away. I’m all right, babe. I just watch my programs. I’m only going to do a little bit.

“Nish?”

Nisha is pulled from her thoughts.

“Yes?”

She hears Grace shift in her bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For being mean about you being here. My mum told me what happened to you. I didn’t know. I don’t mind you sharing my room. I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel welcome.”

A lump rises to Nisha’s throat. “That’s . . . that’s nice of you, Grace. Thank you.”

In the silence they can hear the thump and hiss of the iron, the distant burble of the television. Grace’s voice breaks into the dark. “My mum is always letting people stay here. I get a bit funny about it. She’s too nice to people. Sometimes they just . . . you know, take the p.”

“I know. I’m not one of those people, Grace.”