Page 28 of Someone Else's Shoes
A short, wiry man with nicotine-stained skin lurches in and picks up a polystyrene box from which a strong smell of fish seeps. ‘He’s put me on doubles till Thursday. I swear, Jas, I’m going to drop if this carries on.’
Jasmine lets out a noise that sounds like a growl, and Gilberto leaves. ‘They’re short-staffed at the moment,’ she says,opening a locker and putting her bag inside. ‘It’s been a nightmare. Since Brexit the hotel has lost forty per cent of the staff. Forty per cent! Where are you from?’
‘New York.’
‘New York! Don’t get many Americans here. Only the paying kind. Here. What size are you? Eight? Ten? You’re just a little skinny thing.’ She rifles through a pile of uniforms until she hauls out a black tunic and trousers. ‘We can wear our own stuff but it’s better to wear theirs. Some days I amtoo gladto leave the filth of this place behind and put my own clothes on again, you know? You don’t want to take that shit home with you.’
While she stands, holding the folded pile of clothes, Jasmine peels her way unselfconsciously out of her elasticated dress, then hauls on a pair of black trousers and a tunic. She checks her appearance in the small mirror on the back of the door, then glances back at Nisha.
‘C’mon! Don’t hang around! If we get upstairs by quarter to there’ll still be some breakfast.’
She has no idea what she’s doing. But staying close to Jasmine seems as good a plan as any right now. Nisha wriggles into the clothes (thank God they smell of laundry service), rams her stuff into an empty locker, and follows Jasmine out and along the corridor.
Nisha is not hungry, but in past days she has learned to eat when food is available, and she follows Jasmine mutely through the kitchens, watching as the younger woman greets her fellow workers. ‘What’s going on, Nigel? Your mum out of hospital yet? Glad to hear it, babe … Katya! I watched that thing you told me! I nearly crapped myself, man! What business have you got making me watch horror? You know I don’t have a man to protect me!’ Jasmine laughs easily, and pushesthrough doorways like she expects the world to fall away and clear her path. Nisha’s mind races. She scans each room they enter, half waiting for Ari’s figure to appear in front of her. But, no, there are just these brisk, sometimes shuffling, figures hurrying past, their faces etched with exhaustion, clearly focused on their jobs.
‘Here. What do you like? This is the one perk to starting early: Minette’s pastries. Oh, my God, I swear I was seven stone till I started working here.’ Jasmine hands her a plate, and motions to a large tray on which a selection ofpains aux raisins,pains au chocolatand croissants are laid out. Nisha takes apain au raisinand bites into it. In less than a nanosecond she recognizes that this is the best thing she has eaten in three days: light and moist and delicately buttery, genuine French patisserie, still warm from the oven. For the first time in days her brain stops spinning and she is lost in pleasure.
‘Good, right?’ Jasmine takes two and closes her eyes in bliss as she eats. ‘My day from five thirty is mental. I have to get my daughter up and dressed, make her packed lunch if it’s a school day, then take her to my mum’s in Peckham, then two more buses to come here, and I swear the only thing that keeps me going is the thought of these beauties waiting for me.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ says Nisha, through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘Minette’s a goddamn genius. Almost as good as you, Aleks!’ Over by the flaming stove a lean man in chef’s whites turns from his pans and nods at Jasmine. ‘You done?’
Nisha nods.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’ Jasmine wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and heads towards the door on the far side of the kitchen, pausing only to tell Nisha to ‘Straighten up your hair a bit’, reaching over to tighten her ponytail before Nisha can stop her. Jasmine pushes through the double doors, walks briskly down a corridor and turns left into a small office.
‘We’ve got Nisha starting today. Papers are in the post.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ says a red-haired woman, who is scrubbing names out on a rota and doesn’t look up. ‘I’ve had four call in sick today. She need training?’
‘Do you need training?’ Jasmine says to her.
‘Uh – yes?’ says Nisha.
‘Can’t be helped,’ says Red-hair. ‘Okay, Jas, you’ll have to show her the ropes. I’m going to up your rooms as you’re two-handed. We’ve got sixteen to do by two and two early check-ins. Here’s the list. What’s your name again?’
Nisha is about to speak, then says: ‘Anita.’
‘Okay, Anita. Come back and pick your badge up at twelve. No illnesses, injuries or allergies? Fill this out when you return. We haven’t got time for you to do it now.’
‘I thought you said your name was Nisha?’
The two women look at her.
She has a sudden memory of Juliana. And swallows. ‘I find … Anita is easier for guests to pronounce.’
Red-hair shrugs. ‘Anita it is. Okay – go get your stuff. Jas, we’re really low on bleach. Sorry about that. Elbow grease only wherever possible today. We’ll need to save it for the bad stuff.’
‘Elbow grease. The one thing they know we’ll never be out of,’ Jasmine grumbles, and they head off towards the store cupboard.
Ten minutes later Nisha is following Jasmine as she pushes the housekeeping trolley along the carpeted corridor of the third floor. She feels electrified, visible, as if every guest who looks at her will guess what she’s doing, and know she’s an imposter. She finds herself ducking her head as they pass, not wanting anyone to notice her.
‘What are you doing?’ Jasmine turns, as the third guest walks by.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have to say good morning to all guests. It’s company policy. You have to make them feel like they’re part of the Bentley family. On the sixth and seventh floor we have to say their names too.’
