“I’ll pay you back,” Nisha says. “For all of it.”

  “I know,” says Jasmine.

  “Also: I think it’s possible you are a genius.”

  “I wondered how long it was going to take you to realize,” Jasmine says, and starts to sing to herself as she leaves the room.

  twenty-two

  That night, when Grace is in the bottom bunk with her noise-canceling earphones on, Nisha climbs up, lies down (the ceiling is too low for her to sit) and dials Ray’s number.

  “Mom?”

  “Hey, baby.” She prompts him to tell her the day’s news.

  He isn’t sleeping and it makes him feel crazy. The dorm manager he liked, Big Mike, had an argument with the administrator and walked out. Now without him or Sasha he feels like there’s nobody here he can talk to. A new girl downstairs throws up secretly after every meal and the staff don’t know but the downstairs toilets always smell of vomit and he cannot believe like none of their noses even work. “Mom? When are you coming?”

  Nisha closes her eyes and takes a breath. “Soon.”

  “But when? I don’t understand why you’re still in England.”

  “There’s something I have to talk to you about, baby. And I wish I could do it in person but it’s kind of difficult right now.”

  He is silent then and she winces, filled with fear because of what she is about to unleash on him.

  “Um . . . well, Daddy and I . . . we’re . . . well, the truth is, we’re . . . Well, you know things have been a little tricky between us for a while and—”

  “Are you leaving him?”

  Nisha swallows. “Kind of. Well, not exactly. He’s—he’s decided he will be happier with someone else and I—I’ve agreed that this is probably the best thing for both of us and, well, we’re just trying to work out how to do it in the way that will be easiest for you.”

  He is silent again.

  She puts a hand to her cheek, lowers her voice. “I’m so sorry, Ray. I really didn’t want you to have to deal with any of this. But it will all be okay. I promise. We’ll still be a family, just a different sort of family.”

  He still doesn’t speak. She can just make out the sound of him breathing, so she knows he’s still there.

  “Ray? . . . Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

  “I don’t mind if he goes.”

  “. . . You don’t?”

  A pause. “It’s not like he’s wanted to spend any time with me the last few years.”

  “Oh, he does. He really does, baby. He’s just been very busy.”

  “Mom, you and I both know that’s a lie. Honestly. My therapist has been talking to me about honesty and seeing things as they are. And if Dad wants to go that’s okay with me. His loss.”

  There is a pause.

  “I actually spoke to him two days ago. I told him I wanted to come home, and he said, if that was the case, I shouldn’t have been so stupid and that I was . . . he said I was a liability. That I couldn’t be trusted.”

  “A ‘liability’?”

  “It’s fine. I told him to go fuck himself.”

  There is a deadness to his voice that makes her stomach constrict. He has been so brave for years but she knows Carl’s rejection is a bruise that won’t heal. “Are you really okay, baby?”

  A long silence.

  “Ray?”

  “I’ve not been doing so great.”

  “How not great?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Okay. Give me a one to ten on how sad you feel.” That was what the last psychiatrist advised, for when discussions of feelings were too difficult.

  There is a short pause and then he says, “Like, an eight?”

  Her stomach flips.

  “I didn’t want to tell you because I guessed something was going on with you and Dad and . . . I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Ray? Ray. I’m totally fine, I promise you. And I’m going to get you out of that school as soon as I can, okay? We’ll get a little place together and it’ll be just you and me. Wherever you like.”

  “Seriously?”

  “If you want to.”

  “And I don’t have to live here any more?”

  “No. I’ve been putting money aside to get us back together. The problem is, honey, I literally have nowhere for you to stay at the moment. I’m with a friend, and it’s pretty cramped so I just have to get the financial thing sorted with Dad and then we’ll be together.”

  “Please, Mom. Just do it quickly. I hate it here. I hate it. Being in this place makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you.” Her eyes have filled with tears. “You are absolutely perfect as you are. You always have been.”

  She wipes at her cheek with her palm. “So you’re really not upset about Daddy?”

  “Why would I be upset? He’s an asshole. He’s horrible to you and he acts like I don’t even exist. You’re always on your tippy-toes around him, like he’s God or something. If he goes and does that to someone else then, frankly, it’s all gravy. He can just leave us alone.”

  The pain of hearing her relationship described so brutally makes her feel ill. “Oh, God, Ray. I’m so sorry you didn’t have a better dad.”

  “I don’t care.” Ray sniffs. “Like I said. His loss . . . So when are you coming?”

  There’s the problem. She tells him she’s stuck here in England while they sort a financial issue. She figures there’s only so much his mind can cope with at once. “I’m fixing it, but you’re just going to have to bear with me. You know he can be a little tricky.”

  “What’s the financial issue?” Ray’s therapist has clearly been working hard.

  “Uh . . . uh . . . Well, he . . . wants me to give him something before he will give me the settlement. It’s just some kind of game he’s playing. I’m working on it.”

  “What? What does he want?”

  “It’s a thing I don’t currently have in my possession right now.”

  “Mom.”

  “It’s a pair of shoes.”

  “A pair of shoes?”

  “I know.”

  “Why does he want your shoes?”

  “Well, my friend Jasmine thinks it’s sort of a game. Because he knows they were stolen at the gym. He’s just playing for time while he juggles his money or something.”

  “Which shoes?”

  Typical Ray.

  “The handmade Christian Louboutins. The red crocodile-skin ones.”

  She waits for his cry of protest. But Ray is silent.

  “I will work it out, baby. I promise. I’ll get some lookalikes made, if I have to. He’s just being a bit of a pain about it all.”

  “But they’re the lookalikes.”

  “What?”

  “Those shoes. If they’re the ones I’m thinking of . . . I don’t think they’re real Louboutins.”

  “He had them made specially for me, darling. Of course they’re real.”

  “Back when I was home last March I remember I was in the drawing room next to his study and he was on a call. I heard him saying, ‘Christian won’t do it. You’re going to have to get something made up.’ And then a couple weeks later he gave you the shoes and I remember it because he hadn’t bought you anything for ages and I had a look at them afterward and they did look exactly the same but I just thought there was something off. The signature on the sole wasn’t quite right. And I didn’t think that was the exact shade of Louboutin red on the sole. It was a little . . . brash.”

  “What? That’s crazy. But why would Daddy buy me fake shoes?”

  “I don’t know. I remember thinking it was weird. But you really loved them and he liked you wearing them all the time and I didn’t want to rain on your parade so I just put it to the back of my mind.”

  Suddenly she remembers something odd about when Carl had given her the shoes. They weren’t in a box, lined with tissue paper. They weren’t in the soft fabric bag that her other Louboutins were. They came in a black silk bag—unmarked. She had assumed it was because they had been made for her.

  “None of this makes sense, sweetheart. Why would your father buy me fake Louboutins? He could buy a whole damn store of them, if he wanted to. And why would he want them back?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. But can you just figure it out and come get me?” His voice grows quieter. “Please. I really miss you.”

  “I miss you too, my darling. I will get this sorted. I promise. Please . . . just look after yourself. I love you so much.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “Yes?”

  A pause.

  “Are you okay?”

  She lets out a muffled sob, clamps her hand over her mouth. She waits a few moments until she’s sure her voice is steady. “Baby, I’m absolutely fine.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The DollarSave. Half the store devoted to farm feed and maintenance equipment, the aisles lined with hoses, strip lights, rubber matting. The other half stocked with essentials: bulk packets of soup and rice, cartons of sterilized milk, paper towels stacked as high as a house. It smelled of petrochemicals and despair. She had been seven years old. It was the first time her dad had made her do it. She walked in wearing the sage green aged-nine-to-eleven padded coat that swamped her, and out again in that same coat but with several sweaters and a bottle of Jim Beam underneath it. Nobody ever suspected a cute kid to be ferrying stolen goods. It was the only time her dad had ever told her she was good at anything.

  They had switched their trips between the three DollarSaves in the county, once, twice a week for each, and the only time she had been caught—accidentally dropping her haul in the cereals aisle—she had burst into tears and said she had just wanted to get her daddy a surprise birthday present and the security guard had laughed at the little girl and said: He likes bourbon, huh? And sent her on her way with a packet of Twinkies and told her to make sure she didn’t take anything without passing by the checkout lady in future. Her dad, waiting outside in the truck, had laughed. Especially when she pulled out the other, smaller bottle of bourbon she had tucked into the back of her waistband. “You see, Anita?” he had said, pulling off the top and taking a swig. “People only see what they think they see. You keep looking cute enough, people ain’t never going to assume you’ll do anything bad.”

  Nisha lies in the little bunk bed listening to the tinny beat seeping out of Grace’s earphones below and even though she has done four shifts and one double since Sunday, she thinks about the shoes and is suddenly wide awake.

  * * *

  • • •

  The White Horse, if it’s possible, looks even more low-rent in daylight, wilted, spindly half-dead plant fronds edging over its hanging baskets, its signage cracked and peeling. She has switched shifts with Jasmine so she can head over when it opens at eleven (who the hell starts drinking alcohol at eleven? What is it with these English people?). She pushes her way in even as the barman is unbolting the door and asks immediately to see the CCTV.

  “Hold up. I haven’t even switched on the till yet.”

  “Do I look like I need a drink?”

  “Well, why else would you come to a pub?” He is a young hipster type, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and his face already masked in irritation.

  She switches tack. “I’m so sorry to bother you.” She smiles. “I was hoping you could help me with something. I had an item stolen from me a few weeks ago and I was wondering if there was any way I could take a look at your CCTV.”

  “You want what?”

  She glances up. And notes the domed cameras on the ceiling. “You have CCTV, right?” She points upward.

  “Yeah,” he says, following the direction of her finger. “But I don’t think I can just let anyone look at—”

  “It will literally take you five minutes.” She puts a hand on his arm. Squeezes it lightly. “You would honestly save my life.”

  He gazes at her, briefly wrong-footed, and she smiles, a sweet, hopeful smile. “Look, I’ll explain. I’m in a bit of a spot. It’s really hard. I’m a woman on my own in this country and I’m in trouble for reasons I can’t fully explain and I need help. I know it’s an imposition and, believe me, if it were any other circumstances I wouldn’t interrupt your day. I can see you’re busy. But I’m really in need of help.”

  He’s a nice kid. She can see the uncertainty on his face. “I don’t think . . .”

  “I can give you the date and time and everything. It will take you five minutes.”

  “Yeah, but there’s data protection and stuff . . .”

  “I’m not asking for names and addresses. I just want to see if something is there.”

  “We only keep the tapes for six weeks.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  He frowns, stares at his shoes. When he looks up his expression is suspicious. “Who are you again? You’re not police?”

  She laughs prettily. “Oh, God no. Do I look like police? My name is Anita. I’m just . . . a mom.”

  “It’s not your bloke cheating and you’re going to start some kind of gang war in here?”

  “Honey, if my man had been unfaithful I wouldn’t need CCTV to deal with it.”

  He glances behind him, even though they’re apparently the only people in the bar.

  “I’d have to show you out here. In the bar. No customers allowed in the office.”

  “I get it. You have to be careful.”

  When he hesitates again, she looks at his nametag.

  “Milo. It’s Milo, right? Honestly, you would be saving my life. I just need to locate a personal item. Apparently someone may be on your camera wearing it.”

  He glances behind him again.

  “And you say you know exactly when and where.”

  “Friday the seventh. I just want to see maybe an hour’s footage from that evening. Say . . . eight till nine?”

  “Stay there,” he says. “I’ll load up the iPad and bring it out.”

  “You are a god among men!” she exclaims, and touches his arm again. “Thank you so, so much.” She sees his expression soften, and thinks, with satisfaction, Yup, still got it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ten minutes later she is sitting at the bar with a cappuccino as Milo scans through the CCTV images with an expert millennial finger, occasionally peering closer.

  “All the images are black-and-white?” she says.

  “Yeah. Though we can zoom in if you see anything. It’s quite clear. Shoes, you said?”

  “About six inches high and strappy. They’re Louboutins. Probably better than any other shoes you’ll see in here.”

  “And you say someone nicked them?”

  “And wore them here. Apparently.”

  He peers at the screen. “Shoes are shoes. There are loads of women in heels. How will you know which ones are yours?”

  “Oh, I’ll know.” She sips at the cappuccino he has made her. So many crappy pairs of cheap, clumpy shoes. So many drunken, lurching girls and bullet-headed men. She feels a sudden stab of anxiety. This is the final White Horse. If this turns up nothing, she has no more leads to go on. And then she sees it.

  “There!” she says suddenly, and jabs at the screen. “Stop! Can you zoom in? That woman there?”

  Nine seventeen on the Friday evening. A woman with badly cut hair stumbles from the dance-floor, her legs and feet briefly visible as she walks drunkenly arm in arm with another woman to a bottle-laden table. Milo rewinds a few frames, then moves his fingers around the screen until they zoom in and the woman’s feet become clear. She makes him go in as deep as possible until the image starts to blur but they’re her shoes. It’s as clear as can be. She feels a jolt of recognition.

  “That’s them! That is definitely them! Can you scroll up? Show me her face?”

  There she is, the shoe thief, plain, middle-aged, her eyes half closed and her hair in sweaty wisps around her face. With each frame she wobbles across the screen toward the seat, at one point her ankle buckling slightly.

  “That’s her. That’s the woman who stole my shoes.” She breathes, staring at the pixelated image.

  “This is so weird.” Milo shakes his head.

  She looks up at him. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who she is?”

  He frowns at the image, moves along so that he can see the other people around her. Scans back and forth.

  “Uh . . . I think that’s the Uberprint lot.”

  “The what?”

  “The print firm over there. Yeah. Look—I can see Joel there behind her. He’s the one with dreadlocks. And Ted. They’re always in here on a Friday.”

  “Uberprint,” she repeats. “Can you write that down for me?”

  And then, as he hands her the piece of paper, she smiles, an abrupt, genuine, full-wattage smile of joy and gratitude, the kind of smile Nisha rarely bestows in her normal life. And Milo, gratified, smiles right back at her. They gaze at each other for a moment.

  “I don’t suppose—”

  “Don’t even think about it,” she says, and hops off the bar stool.

  * * *

  • • •

  He is alone in the kitchen when she arrives, cleaning his station ready for the evening shift. He is bent over, scrubbing at a mark on the stove.

  “Hey! Aleks!” He turns at the sound of his name and she runs up to him. “I found who stole my shoes!” she says breathlessly. She cannot help herself. She’s beaming from ear to ear and she does a little air-punch.

  “You’re kidding!” he says. “Now you will get your life back!” He smiles abruptly, his whole face suffused with pleasure, drops his cloth, picks her up and swings her round by her waist so that she squeals and her feet lift from the floor. Suddenly, almost without realizing what she’s doing, she’s holding his face between her hands and her lips are on his. He hesitates, just a moment, and then his arms surround her, pulling her in, and his mouth lowers onto hers and he is kissing her back, his lips warm and soft, his skin against hers. She is lost in this kiss, consumed by it, the pressure of his mouth on hers, his strong hands pulling her in. He smells of warm bread, of soap and shampoo. He tastes so good she thinks she may actually want to eat him. She bites his lower lip and he lets out a quiet groan of pleasure and it may be the sexiest thing she has ever heard. Her hand clamps around the back of his neck, her body pressed against his. Time stops and swirls. And then they hear the swing door at the far end of the pastry kitchen and they are abruptly disentangling, her hand to her hair, smoothing it awkwardly as she takes a step back.