Page 38 of Someone Else's Shoes
Carl’s voice is angry. ‘I told him she was to charge nothing. Nothing. He should have cancelled any scheduled orders.’ Jasmine has disappeared. Nisha can hear the swish of hangers being returned to a rail. Their voices are muffled.
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ Jasmine says calmly. ‘There must have been an error in communication with the laundry. I’ll make sure all these are comped to your room.’
She steps into the elevator, sweeps up the second armful of clothes and exits again.
‘Did you say all of them?’
‘Clearly an error on the hotel’s part, sir. I will ensure that these items have all been cleaned free of charge.’
Nisha hears a shift in tone. Carl loves getting stuff for free. It’s like he feels it’s his due, like the universe has suddenly seen him for what he deserves. He is worth millions and yet if someone comps him something he’s like a child given a free lollipop in a sweet shop.
‘Okay. Put a note on my file so that anything else she fixed up before she left is cancelled. Okay? I don’t want anything else like this happening.’
‘Of course. Consider it done. Thank you for your understanding, sir. Again, I’m so sorry.’
Jasmine walks into the elevator and Nisha turns away in case Carl materializes. But Jasmine has hit the button and the lift is already juddering downwards.
*
Afterwards Jasmine does not say a word. They complete their room allocation in mutual silence. Nisha feels numb with shock. All these days spent working out what would happen when she got back into the room, and what was the result? They had handed every single item back. Back into the hands of that witch. And she had been so blindsided by rage at the sight of the clothes that she had completely forgotten to get anything more useful – her jewellery, money from the desk.
She is owed a rest break, but she does not want to go into the locker room. She does not want to have to endure the questions from Jasmine and anybody else, or to have to think about what has just happened. She walks instead along the corridor to the kitchens. They are near-empty mid-afternoon, the chefs and sous-chefs grabbing a precious breather between the lunch and evening shifts, some napping, some sneaking cigarettes outside. She has eaten nothing all day, and goes to check on the table where the sandwiches are usually left. It is empty, just a platter with a few crumbs.
Crumbs. That is what remains of her life. She picks up the stainless-steel platter, stares at it, and then almost before she knows what she is doing, hurls it to the floor so that it clatters with a smash on the hard surface. She reaches round and picks up a pile of newly laundered aprons and throws them onto the floor too. Then the plastic mixing bowls. They bounce off the stainless-steel surfaces.
‘Fucking fucking fuck! What the fucking fuck has happened to my life?’ She closes her eyes, clenches her fists and roars. Her scream is primal, erupts from the core of her. She curls over her stomach and sinks to her knees, clutching herself as if she is in pain.
When she finally opens her eyes, still panting from the effort, she becomes aware that someone is watching her. She turns and sees a tall man standing by the stoves. Aleks.He’s leaning against one, his arms folded in front of him, his checkered chef’s trousers flecked with small stains from the morning shift.
‘What?’ she says defiantly. ‘What?’
She looks down at the mess she has created. She climbs to her feet and, after a moment, starts picking up the aprons, folding them and placing them back on the side, whacking them down with displeasure. Still grimacing with fury, she picks up the mixing bowls, stacking them as she goes, and the steel tray. Her hair has come loose from its tie and she pulls it back off her face, wrenching it into a knot.
When she glances behind her, he is still watching. ‘What?’ she says, pulling a face. ‘You never seen someone get mad? I’m picking up your damn things. Okay? I’m doing it.’
His expression does not change. He waits a moment, then says calmly, in heavily accented English: ‘You are very beautiful woman.’ He adds: ‘Very angry. But very beautiful.’
Nisha’s mouth opens. He turns away from her to the stove and reaches up for a small pan. He swipes some oil around its innards, then breaks two eggs expertly into it. He goes to the enormous refrigerator in the corner and returns with an armful of ingredients.
She stands, unsure what she is watching. He turns his head, nods towards the chair in the corner. ‘Sit,’ he says.
She walks over, a little tentatively, and sits, still holding the steel tray to her chest. Aleks doesn’t speak again. He mixes something in a bowl, whisking with the speed and efficacy of someone for whom this is a daily task, the muscles clearly demarcated on his tattooed forearm. He chops herbs briskly with a sharp blade and tosses them in, then reaches over to the toaster and pulls out two perfectly done slices of toast, which he slathers in butter. He takes a plate from the low oven, his back to her, and rearranges something on it. Thenhe walks over, and hands her the plate. On it is eggs Benedict, crowned with glossy yellow Hollandaise sauce, on two pieces of lightly browned brioche.
‘Eat,’ he says, handing it to her, then turning to get her a napkin. He doesn’t wait for thanks, but walks quietly back to his work station, wiping it down with brisk strokes and clearing the pans, which he takes to the wash-up area. He is there, unseen for a few minutes, clattering pans and running water. He reappears as she is halfway through the second piece.
The eggs Benedict is the best she has ever eaten. She is weak with pleasure. She can’t even speak. She just looks up at him, still chewing, and he gives a small nod, as if in acknowledgement. ‘It is hard to be so angry if you have eaten good food,’ he says.
And then he waits until she has finished and wordlessly takes the plate from her. He has turned and disappeared before she can speak again.
15
Sam enters to find her mother and father on their hands and knees, surrounded by newspaper. Her father is putting his full weight on some kind of compression device, trying to squeeze water out of a rectangle of papier-mâché gloop. Their living room has always been cluttered with books and piles of papers, every surface covered with items they insist cannot be moved as they know where everything is. But now her mother is feeding newspapers through a shredder in the corner, while her father sends jets of water running over the top of the old baby bath with every grunt and push. The whirring sound of the shredder means that they don’t hear her initially, and Sam picks her way over the piles of newspaper and stoops to wave in her father’s face. He is puce, and there are small pieces of paper in his hair.Hello, darling!he mouths.
Merryn stops the shredder mid-flow. ‘We’re making paper logs!’ she announces, too loudly given there is no longer any sound in the room, bar the effortful noises of Sam’s father. ‘Your father saw a thing on YouTube. Saving the planet!’
‘You’ve put theNational Geographics in the wrong pile,’ exclaims her father, breaking off to point.
‘No, I haven’t, Tom. Those are over there because they contain the wrong chemicals. We’ll die in our beds if we use them, because of the gloss. And the chimney-sweep says it tars up the flue. Newspaper only. Tom, there’s too much moisture in that briquette. It will take years to dry out.’
