Someone Else's Shoes(73)
“Uh . . . uh . . . Well, he . . . wants me to give him something before he will give me the settlement. It’s just some kind of game he’s playing. I’m working on it.”
“What? What does he want?”
“It’s a thing I don’t currently have in my possession right now.”
“Mom.”
“It’s a pair of shoes.”
“A pair of shoes?”
“I know.”
“Why does he want your shoes?”
“Well, my friend Jasmine thinks it’s sort of a game. Because he knows they were stolen at the gym. He’s just playing for time while he juggles his money or something.”
“Which shoes?”
Typical Ray.
“The handmade Christian Louboutins. The red crocodile-skin ones.”
She waits for his cry of protest. But Ray is silent.
“I will work it out, baby. I promise. I’ll get some lookalikes made, if I have to. He’s just being a bit of a pain about it all.”
“But they’re the lookalikes.”
“What?”
“Those shoes. If they’re the ones I’m thinking of . . . I don’t think they’re real Louboutins.”
“He had them made specially for me, darling. Of course they’re real.”
“Back when I was home last March I remember I was in the drawing room next to his study and he was on a call. I heard him saying, ‘Christian won’t do it. You’re going to have to get something made up.’ And then a couple weeks later he gave you the shoes and I remember it because he hadn’t bought you anything for ages and I had a look at them afterward and they did look exactly the same but I just thought there was something off. The signature on the sole wasn’t quite right. And I didn’t think that was the exact shade of Louboutin red on the sole. It was a little . . . brash.”
“What? That’s crazy. But why would Daddy buy me fake shoes?”
“I don’t know. I remember thinking it was weird. But you really loved them and he liked you wearing them all the time and I didn’t want to rain on your parade so I just put it to the back of my mind.”
Suddenly she remembers something odd about when Carl had given her the shoes. They weren’t in a box, lined with tissue paper. They weren’t in the soft fabric bag that her other Louboutins were. They came in a black silk bag—unmarked. She had assumed it was because they had been made for her.
“None of this makes sense, sweetheart. Why would your father buy me fake Louboutins? He could buy a whole damn store of them, if he wanted to. And why would he want them back?”
“I don’t know, Mom. But can you just figure it out and come get me?” His voice grows quieter. “Please. I really miss you.”
“I miss you too, my darling. I will get this sorted. I promise. Please . . . just look after yourself. I love you so much.”
“Mom . . .”
“Yes?”
A pause.
“Are you okay?”
She lets out a muffled sob, clamps her hand over her mouth. She waits a few moments until she’s sure her voice is steady. “Baby, I’m absolutely fine.”
* * *
? ? ?
The DollarSave. Half the store devoted to farm feed and maintenance equipment, the aisles lined with hoses, strip lights, rubber matting. The other half stocked with essentials: bulk packets of soup and rice, cartons of sterilized milk, paper towels stacked as high as a house. It smelled of petrochemicals and despair. She had been seven years old. It was the first time her dad had made her do it. She walked in wearing the sage green aged-nine-to-eleven padded coat that swamped her, and out again in that same coat but with several sweaters and a bottle of Jim Beam underneath it. Nobody ever suspected a cute kid to be ferrying stolen goods. It was the only time her dad had ever told her she was good at anything.
They had switched their trips between the three DollarSaves in the county, once, twice a week for each, and the only time she had been caught—accidentally dropping her haul in the cereals aisle—she had burst into tears and said she had just wanted to get her daddy a surprise birthday present and the security guard had laughed at the little girl and said: He likes bourbon, huh? And sent her on her way with a packet of Twinkies and told her to make sure she didn’t take anything without passing by the checkout lady in future. Her dad, waiting outside in the truck, had laughed. Especially when she pulled out the other, smaller bottle of bourbon she had tucked into the back of her waistband. “You see, Anita?” he had said, pulling off the top and taking a swig. “People only see what they think they see. You keep looking cute enough, people ain’t never going to assume you’ll do anything bad.”
Nisha lies in the little bunk bed listening to the tinny beat seeping out of Grace’s earphones below and even though she has done four shifts and one double since Sunday, she thinks about the shoes and is suddenly wide awake.
* * *
? ? ?
The White Horse, if it’s possible, looks even more low-rent in daylight, wilted, spindly half-dead plant fronds edging over its hanging baskets, its signage cracked and peeling. She has switched shifts with Jasmine so she can head over when it opens at eleven (who the hell starts drinking alcohol at eleven? What is it with these English people?). She pushes her way in even as the barman is unbolting the door and asks immediately to see the CCTV.