Someone Else's Shoes(81)

Nisha had not known what she would do when she finally confronted the woman who had caused so much trouble, a thief who also happens to hold the key to her future. But there was something about the shabbiness of her, the depressed slope of her shoulders that instantly infuriated her. I have been bested by this? she thought, as she strode across the office. Her heartbeat started a loud, insistent thumping in her ears. And suddenly she is in the cubicle, and the woman is spinning in her seat to face her, phone in a limp hand, her features rigid with shock.

“Wh-what?” the woman is stammering. “What are you talking about?”

She looks, Nisha notes, with some distant sense of gratification, genuinely terrified.

“You stole my shoes! At the gym. You stole my shoes and you’ve been wearing them. I’ve got you on CCTV and—and—oh, my God—is that my Chanel jacket?”

The woman flushes to the roots of her hair, glances guiltily at the cream bouclé jacket draped on the back of her office chair.

“What the actual—” Nisha wrenches the jacket from the chair and checks the label. “Where are my shoes? Where is my bag? What have you done with my things? I’m going to call the cops.”

“I didn’t steal anything! It was an accident!”

“Oh, an accident! And instead of handing my stuff in you decided to wear my shoes to a bar? And bring my Chanel jacket to work? Sure! That’s definitely an accident.”

A small crowd has gathered around the cubicle. The woman is staring at her, her hands waving, palms up, in front of her. “Look—I can explain—the gym was—”

“You have no idea the trouble you’ve caused. Bet you thought I’d never find you, right? Well, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

A man appears at the entrance of the cubicle: gelled hair, cheap suit, bringing with him a slightly self-conscious air of authority.

“What’s going on here?”

“What’s going on? Ask her, the shoe thief.”

“I told you! I didn’t know whose they were! I must have picked up the wrong bag and when I went back to return them they were—”

“I want my shoes.”

The man turns to Sam. “Sam? What’s going on?”

The woman turns to him. “Simon—I can explain this. When I went to the gym—the day you saw me in the flip-flops—there was a mix-up with the bags and—”

“And you stole them!”

“That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“You’re fired.”

The room falls silent.

“What?”

“You’re fired.” He lifts his voice slightly, as if to make sure everyone in the room can hear his decision. “With immediate effect. We can’t have a thief in the office. You’re repeatedly bringing Uberprint into disrepute. You’ve had plenty of warnings and this is it. Get your things and go.”

He visibly puffs up, glances to his side as if waiting for signs of approval from the people watching. Nisha feels a vague sense of dismay—she hates guys like him—but the woman has brought it on herself.

“Simon. Mate.” A man with dreadlocks has stepped forward. “You can’t fire Sam for a simple mix-up. She told us in the van when we picked her up that she had the wrong bag but we—”

“Not interested,” says Simon, his mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval and barely suppressed pleasure. “Not. Interested. This lady here has been quite clear about what actually happened. And this is not the kind of behavior I’m prepared to tolerate. I’ve had enough problems with Sam these past weeks and this is the final straw.”

“But—”

“We’re done here. Everyone go back to work. The show’s over. Sam, gather your belongings and I’ll get security to escort you out. HR will sort out your P45.”

Even Nisha is a little taken aback by this. There is a low murmur of unease among the other workers. They hesitate and exchange glances but nobody seems willing to challenge the man’s authority and eventually, uncomfortably, they melt away. The dreadlocked man is the last to leave. He murmurs something into the woman’s ear but she barely registers it. She looks gray with shock, starts dumbly gathering her things. Nisha will not let her discomfort color what has just happened. She is in the right! She was not the person who stole someone’s belongings. All she has done is try to get her things back.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Nisha says, when the man finally leaves, flanked by several other men in cheap suits. “I’ll need my shoes and bag too. Sam.”



* * *



? ? ?

Sam collects her framed pictures and puts them into a box that Marina brings over, her fingers slipping so that she drops one on the floor with a clatter that seems to echo around the office. Marina mutters, “I’m so sorry,” as she puts the cardboard box on the desk but the accusation of “thief” has clearly done something to the atmosphere and Marina gives her a slightly wary, confused look as she leaves. The cubicles of her co-workers are completely silent around her. Sam cannot bear to look up: she knows Simon and his mates will be watching from his office, muttering to each other, imagines the whispered conversations between her workmates. She is mortified, her ears ringing with that woman’s words. She gathers up the last of her things, and Lewis, the security officer from downstairs, appears. He rubs the back of his head and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as if he is not sure what to do. She glances at him and he pulls an awkward, slightly embarrassed face, then gestures toward the corridor.