Someone Else's Shoes(83)

“I lost my job,” she says. Andrea pulls back to look at her.

“You’re kidding.”

“He got me out. He finally got me out. It’s all because of a stupid misunderstanding. But I don’t know what I’m going to do . . . Phil isn’t talking to me and I don’t know what he’s going to say when he finds out.”

Andrea’s face is wrinkled with sympathy. She strokes Sam’s hair. “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll work this out. You’ll be okay.”

And then Andrea flinches as the American woman strides into the kitchen, rage sparking off her like electricity.

“Where are my fucking shoes?”

Sam turns to look at her. “What?”

“Where are my shoes?”

“They’re in the bag. I told you.”

“Who are you?” says Andrea, who suddenly looks a lot less frail.

“I’m the person whose shoes this bitch stole,” says the American woman.

“Don’t you dare talk like that in my friend’s kitchen. Tone down your language.” Andrea’s voice cuts through the air like ice, and Sam notices a faint flicker pass across the American woman’s face.

“They must be in there,” Sam says, wiping her eyes.

The woman holds out the gaping bag, unzipped along its length. “Yeah? Wanna show me?”

Sam blinks. The shoes are gone. She takes a step forward, tentatively moves the T-shirt from the bottom. She’s right. The shoes are not there.

Sam’s head is racing. “I don’t get it. They’ve been in there all the time.”

Phil walks in, lifting the goggles from his face. He looks at Sam and doesn’t smile. Then he sees the American woman, and Andrea, and perhaps detects some strange vibration in the atmosphere.

“Hello.” He looks at the American woman, waiting for an explanation.

“Phil? Have you seen a pair of red shoes? They were in this bag.”

His face closes over. “Your new high heels? The tarty ones?”

“Tarty? They’re Christian Louboutin,” says the American woman. “And they’re mine.”

Phil looks at Sam. “They weren’t your shoes?”

“No. Hang on—how did you know about the shoes?”

“Cat saw you wearing them.” He lifts his chin and stares at her. “When you were out with your lover.”

Sam stares back. The air in the kitchen grows very still. And suddenly Phil’s coldness, his determination not to spend any time with her, makes sense. She feels herself flush. “I—I don’t have a lover.”

“She doesn’t have a lover. She’s been miserable for months because you won’t engage with her. Don’t be ridiculous, Phil.” Andrea gazes at Sam, and notes the brief silence, the slow flush of color on Sam’s neck. She looks from one to the other. “Oh. Well, this is interesting.”

“I haven’t touched the shoes,” says Phil. “Well, I did. I took them out to the van because I didn’t want them in the house. But then Cat asked where they were. I think maybe she wanted to borrow them.”

“Great,” says Nisha. “So now my shoes are being passed around from scuzzy foot to scuzzy foot. Perfect.”

Sam is still staring at her husband. “I’m not having an affair.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! Why would you think that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’ve changed. You don’t have time for me any more.”

“Phil, you’ve spent months welded to the sofa. You don’t notice if I’m alive or dead most of the time.”

“And you’ve been coming home all glowing and sweaty.”

“I’ve been boxing! I go boxing three times a week.”

“Boxing? In high heels? Nice try.”

“What?”

“Hello? Can we stay on track, please? I don’t care who she’s fooling around with. I want my damn shoes.”

Sam turns to Nisha. “I’ll pay you for the shoes. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your money! Don’t you understand? I need those shoes!”

Andrea pulls out her phone. “Shouldn’t we just call Cat?”

Sam stands frozen as Andrea dials her daughter. She cannot stop staring at Phil. His gaze flickers onto and away from her face. She can see the uncertainty as he tries to work out whether she is telling the truth and it feels like a blow.

“Hey, lovey. How are you? . . . Good . . . good. Listen, we’ve got a bit of an issue at home and I just wanted to ask—where are the red shoes from your mum’s wardrobe?”

The room falls silent as Andrea, her voice calm and reassuring, listens to the inaudible voice at the other end. “I know, lovely. There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. So where did you take them? . . . I know . . . I know . . . You did? Let me just write that down . . . okay.”

She ends the call with more reassurances, a “Yeah, love you” and a “See you soon.” Then Andrea lets out a breath, and looks up at the waiting faces. “She—she thought you were having an affair and she didn’t like you wearing them. Plus she says they’re a repulsive symbol of patriarchal oppression and she didn’t want them in the house.”