Page 114 of Someone Else's Shoes
‘I hate him. I’m really, really sorry.’
Nisha is now an expert at tidying and cleaning messes, but there is something about this particular job that hardens her, tightens a muscle in her jaw as she sweeps and scrubs. She can see past the broken glass and splintered objects to thebones of the little house, a family home, steeped in love; wedding photographs and badly framed family pictures are dotted around like no stylistic note mattered, just the fact of them being together. The worn sofa that speaks of a million comfortably cuddled-up evenings, the faded children’s paintings that nobody can face taking down from the hall. Carl has sullied this house. She crouches, sweeping up the tiny fragments of splintered glass, wiping spilled preserves from the kitchen floor, and thinks she has rarely hated Carl more. And she is an Olympic champion at hating Carl. It is one thing for him to punch out at his business foes, at her even. They were opponents who might stand a chance. But to punch down on a little family that clearly has nothing (not even very much taste, she admits guiltily) – it’s just mean. She can see from Sam’s chalk-white face that she will no longer feel safe in this house, that the things that are broken will not be easily replaced. He has broken the most fragile thing of all: the sense of calm and sanctuary that a home should provide.
‘Oh, my God.’
Nisha looks up and Sam, a bin bag in her hand, is staring at her phone. Jasmine and Andrea are working upstairs and she can hear the vacuum cleaner whining as it is dragged backwards and forwards.
‘What?’
‘Miriam Price – a woman I did some work for – just called. Wanting to know why I hadn’t confirmed with her about a job interview.’
‘Okay. What did you say?’
‘That I didn’t feel like I could because I got fired. And because of the whole – you know – theft thing. I didn’t think she’d want to speak to me. I mean she’d asked me to come in, but after that happened I just didn’t see the point so I didn’t bother to –’
‘Yeah, but what? What did she say?’
‘She wants me to come in for an interview anyway.’
Nisha pulls a face. ‘Well, that’s good, right? You need a job.’
Sam looks anguished. ‘But it’s today. Midday today. And look at me! I’ve been burgled. My house is destroyed. My husband has left me. I’ve barely slept in two days. How the hell can I do an interview today?’
Nisha wipes at her face with the back of her sleeve. She puts down her mop. ‘Call her back. Tell her you’d be delighted.’
Jasmine and Nisha pick out her outfit while she is in the shower. When she emerges, her hair wet and wrapped in a towel, her body draped in a cloud of self-consciousness, Jasmine is walking into her bedroom, bearing a newly ironed pale blue blouse on a hanger.
‘Do you fit these?’ Nisha is holding up a pair of dark trousers.
‘I think so,’ she says. She has barely eaten in the last few days.
‘Okay. Dark trousers and pale blouse – you can’t go wrong. I found this jacket in your daughter’s room. I think you’ll fit it.’
‘But –’
‘Your jackets are all awful. No offence. This is Zara but it looks more expensive. No no no no! Put that sweater down. You want to look like you have authority, not like you just escaped from a care facility.’
Nisha holds up a pair of shoes Sam had worn to her cousin’s wedding three years ago. ‘And these.’
‘But they’re bright blue. And they’re … heels.’
‘You need something to pop. The outfit is conventional. It shows you mean business first. The shoes suggest there might be something slightly more interesting going on. The shoes say confidence. C’mon, Sam, get with the programme!These people are going to be judging you from the moment you walk in. This is your armour, your calling card. You have to project.’
When Sam looks hesitant, Nisha seems irritated. She puts the jacket down on the bed and says, ‘How did you feel when you wore my shoes?’
Sam wonders if this is a trick question. But Nisha is waiting expectantly. ‘Uh … a bit awkward?’
‘And?’
‘And then … powerful?’
‘Right. Powerful. A force to be reckoned with. And how do you feel now? Look at yourself. Who do you see?’
‘Um … not me?’
‘You see a print sales executive person. Or whatever the hell it is you do. You see a woman who has her shit together. Who has itgoing on.’
Sam sits as Jasmine begins to towel-dry her hair.
