Page 104 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘What?’
‘The Frobishers. They had a row and they’re coming back for her coat. Tell her to get out of there.’
‘Dammit. Stupid woman. It was obvious she’d be too cold in that suit,’ Jasmine mutters, then punches out a text to Nisha.
GET OUT! THEY’RE COMING BACK!
*
Nisha scans the room, her breath coming in short bursts, Liz Frobisher’s pungent, over-sweet perfume still hanging in the air. The shoes are here, dammit. They must be here. She spies the suitcase on the case stand and flings open the top, rifling carefully through it with her fingertips, trying not to consider the ick factor involved in touching someone else’s underclothes. Nothing. She opens the wardrobe door. They are not there either. She stands, thinking. Liz Frobisher wasn’t wearing the shoes. Jasmine had been certain. And Sam would have messaged them – she was following the couple, after all. Nisha lifts the valance so she can peer under the bed in case they have been kicked underneath. She considers the possibility that Liz Frobisher has taken them with her to put on at her destination and curses. Would anyone take a pair of high heels just to eat Chinese? Finally she ducks her head into the bathroom and lets out a gasp of relief: there they are, lying on the tiled floor, their red soles glowing against the marble. The sight of them causes a bolt of electricity to shoot through her, as if all her nerve endings are suddenly alive. She stoops and grabs the shoes and lets out a breath she hadn’t known she has been holding.Yes!And then her phone buzzes. She looks down.
GET OUT! THEY’RE COMING BACK!
Nisha does a 360-degree scan of the room, checking that everything is straight, and hurries to the door. She has her hand on the handle when she hears the voices in the corridor.
‘That’s because I don’t go out dressed like I’m going to a summer party in early December. Jesus.’
‘Why do you have to be so nasty? Do you actually want me to get a cold?’
‘No, Liz, I just want my dinner. You know how I get if Idon’t eat. And you could have just brought the coat with you and saved us the bother of coming all the way back.’
The voices stop outside the door. Nisha stares at it in horror. She gazes around the room, and then, with a click, the door begins to open.
‘She’s not answering.’
‘Maybe she’s coming back down in the lift. There’s no reception in it,’ mutters Sam, and Jasmine nods. They stand in the corner of the foyer, two people who apparently don’t know each other, their eyes trained dumbly on the lift. Every time it opens it disgorges a handful of guests, but no Nisha. And then her phone buzzes.
I’m in the room. They’re back. Get me out.
Jasmine types furiously, Sam gazing over her shoulder.
What do you mean they’re in the room? Where are you?
Under the bed. They’re having an argument.
‘Oh, my days,’ murmurs Jasmine, staring in horror at the screen.
‘What do we do?’ says Sam.
‘Stay calm,’ says Jasmine. ‘If they’re coming back for her coat they’ll go again in a minute. It’s all going to be fine.’ She says this twice, as if to reassure herself. ‘They’re just coming back for her coat, right?’
‘Yes,’ says Sam. ‘Yes. You’re right. It’s all going to be fine.’
Nisha lies under the queen-sized bed, every cell of her body taut with horror. She and Jasmine always wheel the beds tothe side to vacuum underneath, but whoever does the second floor clearly takes no such trouble. There are dust bunnies to each side of her, strands of strangers’ hair, skin cells, a whole miasma of disgusting microscopic bodily leftoversand she is lying right in it.The thought of it makes her want to sob aloud. She cannot look to the right or left of her, because then she sees what she is lying amid and it makes her want to retch. So she stays very still, eyes screwed shut, hands across her belly so that as little skin as possible is actually touching the floor.
‘We’re not late for dinner. We didn’t have a bloody booking, Darren! Because you couldn’t be bothered to make one – as per usual. The only thing we’re late for is you wanting to stuff your fat face! Again!’
Footsteps walk around the bed.
‘Is this because you wanted to go to your mum’s? Jesus.’
‘I like going to my mum’s on a Sunday! Why is that such a problem for you?’
‘You just go there because she runs round after you and doesn’t let you lift a finger! No wonder you’re so useless at home.’
Just go, thinks Nisha. Just go and have your embarrassing row at a restaurant. Please just get out of this room.
‘You know what? I don’t feel like going out any more. I’m ordering room service.’
