Someone Else's Shoes(89)

She blinks. “Okay.”

She reaches out a hand to touch him. It hesitates in mid-air, and then she withdraws it, and settles on her back, gazing up into the darkness, hoping for sleep that she is pretty sure will not come.





twenty-seven


Sam walks up to the front door with Nisha. She is wearing her best work suit, the one she has just started to fit into again and Nisha is in the Chanel jacket, from whose arms she flicks imaginary lint in a faintly proprietorial manner whenever she catches Sam looking. Across the road and three cars along, Jasmine and Andrea sit in the Nissan Micra, and Sam can feel their eyes trained on her, even at this distance. She takes a deep breath and tries to suppress the bud of fear blossoming in her stomach, unsure whether she is going to be able to carry this off. She has never been any good at lying. But then she glances at the bin, its lid flapping gently against its side because someone has left it open, and her resolve stiffens.

She looks at Nisha who nods. And she knocks on the door.

They wait almost thirty long seconds before a man opens it. He has a neck as wide as his head and is wearing a zip-up hoody and tracksuit bottoms, like someone about to go for a run. It is clearly some time since he has been on a run. He peers at them both, at the clipboard Sam is holding. “We’re not religious,” he says, and makes to close the door.

“We’re looking for . . .” Sam scans her clipboard “. . . a Liz Frobisher? Is she here, please?”

“Who are you?”

“We’re from the Global Cat Protection Fund,” says Nisha, smoothly.

“We already give to charity,” he says, and makes to shut the door again.

But Nisha’s foot is already in the way. “We don’t want anything, sir. In fact we’re here to tell your wife—you are Mr. Frobisher?—that she’s won a prize.”

The look he gives them is wary.

“What kind of prize?”

“Your wife recently bought something from the Global Cat Protection Fund and it turns out she was the one-millionth customer for the charity. So we would like to award her a prize!”

“Does it involve us paying for something?”

“Not a penny,” says Sam, smiling. “It’s just a lovely prize.”

“What is it?”

“Is your wife available, please, sir? We really need to discuss this with the person who bought the item . . . the shoes. That was it.”

He studies them again for a moment, then turns toward the hallway. “Liz?”

He calls again, and a voice comes from the bottom of the corridor: “What?”

“Someone at the door for you. Says you’ve won a prize.”

A short silence, during which Nisha and Sam smile at the man. Perhaps a little unnervingly brightly, Sam thinks afterward, when his expression grows visibly uncomfortable. They wait a couple of awkward moments while Liz Frobisher emerges along the passageway. She is wearing a pair of tight jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of fluffy slippers. Sam catches Nisha staring at her feet and thinks this might not be a bad thing. She arrives in the doorway and stands just behind her husband.

“Liz Frobisher?” says Sam, cheerily.

“Yes?”

“We’re delighted to tell you that as the millionth customer of the Global Cats Protection Fund you have won a night for two at the renowned Bentley Hotel in London.”

Liz Frobisher frowns, looks from one to the other. “What? Really?”

“They say we don’t have to pay anything,” says the husband.

“What did you say the prize was?”

Sam explains, a smile plastered on her face: this Sunday, Liz and a guest—she assumes this nice man, ha-ha-ha-ha—will be staying in an executive room at the hotel, as the guests of the charity. The hotel is five-star and known in celebrity circles for its high levels of service and attention to detail.

“You bought a pair of shoes from the Global Cats Protection Fund this week, Mrs. Frobisher?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“You didn’t tell me,” says the man.

“I don’t have to tell you every single thing I buy.”

“You don’t even like cats.”

“It was for charity.” Liz Frobisher peers over at the clipboard. “So what do I have to do?”

“Absolutely nothing,” says Nisha, smiling. “Except turn up! Oh, hang on . . . There was a request that you bring the shoes you bought at the shop to wear for a publicity photo. This would appear on our Instagram feed and other socials. Might that be possible?”

“A publicity photo.” At the suggestion of imminent fame, Liz Frobisher’s face brightens. “Can I see the Instagram feed?”

“It’s actually down for relaunch today. It’s all being tied into the one-millionth customer prize,” Nisha says quickly. “But I think . . . yeah . . . here’s a screenshot.” Nisha holds up her phone with the fake Instagram page that Andrea created the previous evening.

The two of them peer at it. “I . . . I might be able to do that. We can do that, can’t we, Darren?”

“I was going to my mum’s Sunday.”

“Well, we’ll go after your mum’s.”

“We told her we were going for our tea.”

“So tell her we’ll come for lunch.” Liz Frobisher fixes her smile on Sam. “Does it have to be this Sunday?”