Someone Else's Shoes(85)

“Out? Where? These are red Christian Louboutins. Six-inch heel. One of a kind.”

“You’ll have to look on the shelves.”

“We looked on the shelves.”

The woman glances down at her ledger. “Then they’ve gone.” She flicks a page back, runs her finger down the handwritten list. “Ah. Red Christian Bolton shoes. We sold them this morning.” She leans back on her stool, implacable.

Nisha stares, her heart sinking. “You can’t have sold them already.”

“Are you sure?” says Sam.

“They weren’t yours to sell, lady. I need my shoes.”

“We don’t accept liability for anything that gets sold. Everything that comes in here is assumed to come with the relevant permissions.” She gazes impassively at Nisha. “It’s for a good cause.” She smiles a slow smile. “If you need another pair of shoes we have a nice selection at the—”

“Jesus Christ!” exclaims Nisha, and stomps outside.



* * *



? ? ?

Sam appears a moment later, apologizing repeatedly. “I’m sure we can work something out,” she keeps saying, but she has the energy of a used tea-bag and Nisha has lost what little patience she had to start.

“Well, that’s it,” she says, lighting a cigarette and inhaling angrily. “You’ve just cost me several million dollars.”

“We might still be able to find them,” Sam says weakly.

“How? You want to get the CCTV from every local shop and find out who the hell walked into and out of this store? You want to put Betty Blue Hair there in a headlock until she tells you which anonymous person came in and bought a pair of shoes?”

“Look. I—I’ll get you another pair of shoes,” says Sam, sitting on the curb. “Or I’ll pay. How much were they?”

“I don’t want another pair of shoes,” yells Nisha. “That was the whole point. I need those shoes. How many times do I have to explain this?”

“Hey!” It’s quite something to be told off by a woman who looks like she might be about to keel over at any minute, Nisha thinks afterward. Andrea, all five feet of her, has thrown herself out of the driver’s seat and is now pushing at Nisha with a bony palm, getting her to step away from her friend. She pushes her so furiously that her soft wrap dislodges from her head, revealing the vague fluff covering her scalp.

“You don’t get to talk to Sam like that, Miss. She told you it was an accident and it was an accident. She’s trying to help, and you don’t get to speak to people like that.”

Nisha takes a step back. Andrea’s eyes burn with a clear blue intensity that is a little intimidating. As Andrea straightens the wrap, her eyes not leaving Nisha’s, Nisha decides to dial it back a little.

“I just need those shoes, okay? They’re really important. My husband—ex-husband is playing a stupid game and without them I can’t get a divorce settlement.”

“Well, that’s not Sam’s fault, is it? They’re just a pair of shoes. It’s not like anyone could have known.”

“Gift Aid,” says Sam, suddenly. The other two women look at her as she clambers to her feet, like someone waking from a long sleep. “The woman who bought the shoes. She would have filled out a Gift Aid form. Most people do, right?”

“Genius,” says Andrea, with an abrupt smile. “Come on!”

Nisha isn’t entirely sure what’s going on but she follows the two women back into the store and busies herself at the back, listening as Sam explains to the now suspicious woman behind the counter that the shoes really are important and, as they clearly take a note of everyone who buys something, maybe they could tell her who bought them.

“Perhaps she did Gift Aid,” Sam says hopefully.

“Why?”

“Because that means you will have the buyer’s name and address. I wouldn’t normally ask but we really need those shoes. Sentimental value. It’s very important.”

There is a short silence. Nisha edges over to the counter. The woman looks from Sam to Nisha and crosses her arms again.

“I can’t give you that information,” she says. “Data Protection.” She looks at Nisha. “Besides, you could be anyone. You could be a murderer.”

“Do I look like I’m about to murder somebody?”

“You really want me to answer that?” says the woman.

A few other customers are in the shop now and Nisha sees their eyes flicking toward their end of the store.

“Just give me the information, okay? And we’ll be out of your hair. Very . . . nice blue. By the way. Goes well with your British skin tone.”

Sam closes her eyes.

“No,” says the woman. “And if you can’t be polite I suggest you—”

Nisha is just opening her mouth to reply when they are distracted by a sound at the back of the shop, a series of bumps and exclamations. Nisha glances through the clothes rails and sees that Andrea has collapsed, bringing a rail of men’s trousers down with her. She can just make out the bright pink wrap of her head, the scattered pile of jigsaw puzzles, surrounded by the anxious faces of the customers nearby.

“Oh, my God. Andrea.” Nisha gazes in horror as Sam bolts toward her, and then, for just a moment, as Andrea is hauled gently upright, she and Nisha lock eyes and Andrea winks.