Someone Else's Shoes(8)

“Penthouse,” she says.

When they stare at her, she flicks a hand at them. Then flicks it again.

“Penthouse. The button,” she says, finally adding, “please,” and the woman reaches over tentatively to push it. The lift hums upward, and Nisha feels the tension clawing at her stomach. Come on, Nisha, she tells herself. You can fix this. And then the lift shudders to a halt and the doors slide open.

She is about to step out into the penthouse suite but collides instead with a broad chest. Three men are standing in her way. She recoils, disbelieving. Ari, who is in the middle, is holding out an A5-sized envelope.

“What—” she begins, making to push past him, but he steps sideways, blocking her.

“I have instructions not to let you in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ari,” she says, batting at him. “I need to get my clothes.”

His face wears an expression she has never seen before. “Mr. Cantor says you are not to enter.”

She tries a smile. “Don’t be silly. I need my things. Look at me.”

He’s like someone she’s never met. Nothing in his expression registers that he has known her, protected her for fifteen years. This is a man she has shared jokes with. Jesus Christ, she’s even remembered to ask about his annoying wife occasionally.

“I’m sorry.”

He stoops and places the envelope on the floor of the elevator behind her, then steps back to press the button to send her down again. She feels the world tilting around her, and wonders briefly if she might pass out.

“Ari! Ari! You can’t do this. Ari! This is insane! What am I supposed to do?”

The lift doors begin to close. She sees him turn and exchange a look with the man beside him. It is a look he has never before allowed himself to use in front of her, a look she has been familiar with her whole life: Women.

“Just give me my handbag . . . for God’s sake!” she yells, as the doors close against her.



* * *



? ? ?

“I cannot get over the way you nailed that, babe,” Joel says, banging the steering wheel for emphasis. “Absolutely nailed it. The way you walked in there, like a boss. Edgmont was going to sign before you even sat down.”

“He couldn’t stop staring at your legs,” says Ted, slurping at a can of Coke, then belching discreetly. “Didn’t hear a word I said about batch production.”

“He would have signed over his missus if you’d said the word.” Joel shakes his head. “His firstborn. Anything.”

“You know, I could have sworn you said we were going to do that job for eighty-two,” says Ted.

“I did,” says Sam. “But when I saw how it was going I just had this sudden urge to push it to ninety.”

“And he just nodded!” Joel exclaims. “He just nodded! Didn’t even look at the small print! Wait till Simon sees that!”

“Brenda’s been going on about getting a new Peugeot for months. If we bag this last one, I’m going to put down a deposit.” Ted takes a last swig from his can and crushes it in a fat hand.

“Sam’ll get it. She’s en fuego, man.”

“You what?”

“On fire.”

“She’s that, all right. Who have we got next?” Ted scans the folder. “Oh. It’s the new one. A—uh—a Mr. Price. This is the big one, sweetheart. This is the big bucks. This is the missus’s new 205.”

Sam is reapplying her makeup. She purses her lips in the mirror, then thinks for a minute. She reaches down into the kitbag and carefully pulls out the Chanel jacket. She holds it up, admiring the cream wool, the immaculate silk lining, breathing in the distant smell of some expensive scent. Then, briefly releasing herself from the seatbelt, she slides into it. It’s a little tight but the weight and feel of it are delicious. Who knew expensive clothes could actually feel different? She adjusts the mirror so she can see the way it hugs her shoulders, the way the structured collar frames her neck.

“Too much?” she says, turning to the men.

Joel glances over. “Never too much. You’re freaking owning it. You look good, Sam.”

“He’s not going to know what hit him,” says Ted. “Do that thing where you dangle the strap off your heel again. They totally lose focus when you do that.”

Sam gazes at her reflection and preens a little. It’s an unfamiliar feeling and she is warming to it. She looks like someone she doesn’t even recognize. Then, abruptly, she stops and turns to the others, her smile suddenly fading. “Am I . . . letting down the sisterhood?”

“What?”

“By out-negotiating a bunch of men in suits?” says Ted.

“By—you know—using sex as a weapon. They are basically sex, these shoes, right?”

“My sister says she has period pains to cut short staff meetings that go on too long. Says the men can’t get out of there fast enough.”

“My wife once showed a bouncer her bra to get into a club,” says Ted. “I was actually quite proud.”

Joel shrugs. “Far as I can see, you use the weapons at your disposal.”

“Forget the sisterhood,” says Ted. “Think of my new car.”

They have arrived. Sam steps out of the van one leg at a time. She stands a little straighter. She is more confident in the shoes now, has worked out a more deliberate way of walking so that her ankles don’t wobble. She checks her hair in the wing mirror. Then gazes down at her feet.