Ted compresses his mouth into a fleshy line and nods. He nudges her with a ham-like arm. “He’s right. Come on, sweetheart. Chin up, tits out, big smile. You can do it.”

  Sam reaches for her bag. “You wouldn’t say that to Simon.”

  Ted shrugs. “I would if he was wearing those shoes.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “So the lowest we can do on that job is . . . forty-two thousand. But if you switch the page numbers and change the title page to mono, we could shave eight hundred off that price.”

  She is outlining their print strategy when she observes that the managing director is not listening to her. For a minute she feels the flush of embarrassment again, and stammers the rest of her words. “So—so how do those figures sound?”

  He doesn’t say anything. He rubs a spot on his forehead and makes a noncommittal mmm sound, like she used to when Cat was little and she was listening to her endless babble with only half an ear.

  Oh, God, I’m losing him. She looks up from her notes, and realizes the managing director is staring at her foot. Mortified, she almost loses the thread of what she is saying. But then she looks again, registers his glazed expression: it is him who is distracted. “And, of course, we could do that on an eight-day turnaround, as discussed,” she says.

  “Good!” he exclaims, as if hauled from a daydream. “Yes. Good.”

  He is still staring at her foot. She watches, then tilts it slightly to the left and extends her ankle. He gazes at it, rapt. She glances across the table and sees Joel and Ted exchange a look.

  “So would those terms be acceptable to you?”

  The managing director steeples his fingers, briefly meets her eye. She smiles encouragingly.

  “Uh . . . yes. Sounds good.” He can’t stop looking. His gaze slides from her face downward, back to the shoe.

  She pulls a contract from her briefcase. She tilts her foot and lets the heel strap slide slowly down her heel. “So, shall we agree to terms?”

  “Sure,” he says. He takes the pen and signs the document without looking at it.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Don’t say anything,” she tells Ted, her gaze fixed straight ahead, as they walk out through Reception.

  “I’m saying nothing. You get us another deal like that, you can wear a pair of flippers for all I care.”

  * * *

  • • •

  At the next meeting she makes sure her feet are on display the whole time. Although John Edgmont doesn’t stare, she sees that the mere fact of the shoes makes him reassess his version of who she is. Weirdly, it makes her reassess her version of herself. She walks into his office with her head high. She charms. She stands firm on terms. She wins another contract.

  “You’re on it, Sam,” says Joel, as they climb back into the van.

  They take an actual lunch break—something they haven’t dared do since Simon was put in charge—and sit outside at a coffee shop. The sun comes out. Joel tells them about a date he went on the previous week where the woman asked him what he thought of a wedding-dress picture she had cut from a magazine—“She said, ‘It’s okay, I only show people I really like’ ”—and Ted spits his coffee through his nostrils and she laughs until her sides hurt and realizes she has no idea when she last laughed at anything.

  * * *

  • • •

  Nisha is pacing up and down the chilly sidewalk outside the gym, the bathrobe over her blouse and flip-flops. She has left nine messages on Peter’s cellphone and he is not picking up. This is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

  “Peter? Peter? Where are you? I told you to be outside by eleven fifteen! I need you here right now!”

  The final time she calls, a tinny, automated voice tells her this number is unobtainable. She checks the time, curses loudly, reaches into her pocket and pulls out her room-key card. She stares at it for a moment then stomps back into the gym.

  The bag outside her locker is still sitting on the bench. Of course it is. Who would want that? She rifles through it, grimacing at the thought of touching clothes that aren’t hers. She pulls out a damp swimsuit in a plastic bag, winces, and dumps it on the bench. Then she reaches tentatively into the side pockets, emerging with three damp ten-pound notes, which she holds up. She can’t remember the last time she held actual money in her hand. It’s the most unsanitary thing, worse than toilet brushes, if some article she read was right. She shudders and puts them into her pocket. She rips one of the plastic bags from the dispenser above the swimsuit spinner and wraps it around her hand. Then she picks up the gym bag by its handles and walks out through Reception.

  “Madam, you can’t take the bathrobe—”

  “Yeah, well, this country is freezing and you’ve lost my clothes.” Nisha pulls the robe tighter around her, knots the belt, and walks out.

  They can moan incessantly about how much trade Uber has cost them but it turns out no fewer than six taxi drivers will still ignore a woman in a bathrobe trying to hail a cab before one stops. He winds down his window and opens his mouth to say something about what she is wearing but she holds up a hand. “The Bentley Hotel,” she says. “And just don’t. Thank you.”

  The taxi journey costs £9.80, even though it took barely five minutes. She walks into the hotel, without acknowledging the perplexed glance of the doorman, and straight across the foyer to the elevator, ignoring the swiveled heads of the guests around her. A couple, middle-aged, him in a suit jacket and slacks, her in a badly cut dress that reveals two oysters of armpit fat—probably down from somewhere provincial for a “treat”—are already inside as she sticks out an arm and stops the door closing. She walks in, stands in front of them and turns to face the doors. Nothing happens. She glances behind her.

  “Penthouse,” she says.

  When they stare at her, she flicks a hand at them. Then flicks it again.

  “Penthouse. The button,” she says, finally adding, “please,” and the woman reaches over tentatively to push it. The lift hums upward, and Nisha feels the tension clawing at her stomach. Come on, Nisha, she tells herself. You can fix this. And then the lift shudders to a halt and the doors slide open.

  She is about to step out into the penthouse suite but collides instead with a broad chest. Three men are standing in her way. She recoils, disbelieving. Ari, who is in the middle, is holding out an A5-sized envelope.

  “What—” she begins, making to push past him, but he steps sideways, blocking her.

  “I have instructions not to let you in.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ari,” she says, batting at him. “I need to get my clothes.”

  His face wears an expression she has never seen before. “Mr. Cantor says you are not to enter.”

  She tries a smile. “Don’t be silly. I need my things. Look at me.”

  He’s like someone she’s never met. Nothing in his expression registers that he has known her, protected her for fifteen years. This is a man she has shared jokes with. Jesus Christ, she’s even remembered to ask about his annoying wife occasionally.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He stoops and places the envelope on the floor of the elevator behind her, then steps back to press the button to send her down again. She feels the world tilting around her, and wonders briefly if she might pass out.

  “Ari! Ari! You can’t do this. Ari! This is insane! What am I supposed to do?”

  The lift doors begin to close. She sees him turn and exchange a look with the man beside him. It is a look he has never before allowed himself to use in front of her, a look she has been familiar with her whole life: Women.

  “Just give me my handbag . . . for God’s sake!” she yells, as the doors close against her.

  * * *

  • • •

  “I cannot get over the way you nailed that, babe,” Joel says, banging the steering wheel for emphasis. “Absolutely nailed it. The way you walked in there, like a boss. Edgmont was going to sign before you even sat down.”

  “He couldn’t stop staring at your legs,” says Ted, slurping at a can of Coke, then belching discreetly. “Didn’t hear a word I said about batch production.”

  “He would have signed over his missus if you’d said the word.” Joel shakes his head. “His firstborn. Anything.”

  “You know, I could have sworn you said we were going to do that job for eighty-two,” says Ted.

  “I did,” says Sam. “But when I saw how it was going I just had this sudden urge to push it to ninety.”

  “And he just nodded!” Joel exclaims. “He just nodded! Didn’t even look at the small print! Wait till Simon sees that!”

  “Brenda’s been going on about getting a new Peugeot for months. If we bag this last one, I’m going to put down a deposit.” Ted takes a last swig from his can and crushes it in a fat hand.

  “Sam’ll get it. She’s en fuego, man.”

  “You what?”

  “On fire.”

  “She’s that, all right. Who have we got next?” Ted scans the folder. “Oh. It’s the new one. A—uh—a Mr. Price. This is the big one, sweetheart. This is the big bucks. This is the missus’s new 205.”

  Sam is reapplying her makeup. She purses her lips in the mirror, then thinks for a minute. She reaches down into the kitbag and carefully pulls out the Chanel jacket. She holds it up, admiring the cream wool, the immaculate silk lining, breathing in the distant smell of some expensive scent. Then, briefly releasing herself from the seatbelt, she slides into it. It’s a little tight but the weight and feel of it are delicious. Who knew expensive clothes could actually feel different? She adjusts the mirror so she can see the way it hugs her shoulders, the way the structured collar frames her neck.

  “Too much?” she says, turning to the men.

  Joel glances over. “Never too much. You’re freaking owning it. You look good, Sam.”

  “He’s not going to know what hit him,” says Ted. “Do that thing where you dangle the strap off your heel again. They totally lose focus when you do that.”

  Sam gazes at her reflection and preens a little. It’s an unfamiliar feeling and she is warming to it. She looks like someone she doesn’t even recognize. Then, abruptly, she stops and turns to the others, her smile suddenly fading. “Am I . . . letting down the sisterhood?”

  “What?”

  “By out-negotiating a bunch of men in suits?” says Ted.

  “By—you know—using sex as a weapon. They are basically sex, these shoes, right?”

  “My sister says she has period pains to cut short staff meetings that go on too long. Says the men can’t get out of there fast enough.”

  “My wife once showed a bouncer her bra to get into a club,” says Ted. “I was actually quite proud.”

  Joel shrugs. “Far as I can see, you use the weapons at your disposal.”

  “Forget the sisterhood,” says Ted. “Think of my new car.”

  They have arrived. Sam steps out of the van one leg at a time. She stands a little straighter. She is more confident in the shoes now, has worked out a more deliberate way of walking so that her ankles don’t wobble. She checks her hair in the wing mirror. Then gazes down at her feet.

  “Do I look okay?”

  The two men beam at her. Ted gives her a wink. “Like a boss. Mr. Price doesn’t stand a ruddy chance.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sam enjoys the brisk click of the heels on the marble floor as they walk to the reception desk. She sees the girl check out her jacket and shoes and observes the way she tilts her chin, as if she is about to be just that little bit more receptive to whatever Sam wants. Imagine being the kind of woman who wears these shoes every day, she thinks. Imagine living the kind of life where you only ever walk short distances across marble floors. Imagine having nothing to worry about except whether your pedicure matches your expensive shoes.

  “Hello,” she says, and she registers distantly that her voice has a new tone, a confidence and ease that she didn’t have at the beginning of the day. “Grayside Print Solutions to meet Mr. M. Price. Thank you.” She is that woman. She is going to nail this.

  The receptionist scans a screen. She taps at her keyboard, expertly slips three name cards into see-through plastic fobs and hands them over. “If you could just wait over there, I’ll call upstairs.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Thank you so much. Like she’s royalty or something. Sam sits, carefully, on the lobby sofa, her ankles together, then quickly checks her lipstick and smooths her hair. She is going to get this deal, she can feel it. Joel and Ted exchange smiles behind her.

  She hears footsteps on the marble. She looks up to see a petite, brown-skinned woman in her fifties approaching the sofa. Her black hair is shaped into a neat bob and she is wearing an unflamboyant, beautifully cut navy suit with a cream silk T-shirt and flat pumps. Sam looks up and glances behind her. The woman holds out a hand.

  “Hello—Grayside Print? I’m Miriam Price. Shall we go up?”

  It takes a second before she realizes her mistake. She glances behind her at Ted and Joel, whose expressions have frozen. Then they all stand abruptly with smiles and gabbled hellos. And follow Miriam Price across the lobby to the lifts.

  * * *

  • • •

  It takes ten minutes to discover Miriam Price plays hardball, and an hour to discover quite how hard those balls are. If they go ahead with what she’s insisting on, their margins will be sliced to almost nothing. Miriam is small, serene, implacable. Sam feels hope draining away as Joel and Ted slump in their chairs.

  “If you want the fourteen-day turnaround I can’t go higher than six sixty,” Miriam says again. “Our transport costs get higher the closer we are to deadline.”

  “I explained earlier why six sixty makes it very difficult for us. If you want the high-gloss finish, it takes longer because we have to use a separate press.”

  “Whether or not you have all the presses you need shouldn’t be my problem.”

  “It’s not a problem. Just a question of logistics.”

  Miriam Price smiles every time she entrenches. A small, not unfriendly smile. But one that says she is in complete control of this negotiation. “And, as I said, my logistics require a more expensive transport because of the reduced travel time. Look, if this job is problematic for you I’d rather know now while we have the time to find alternative providers.”

  “It’s not problematic. I’m just explaining that the print processes of that size of order require a longer lead time.”

  “And I’m just explaining why I need that reflected in the price.”

  It feels impossible. They have hit a wall. Sam is sweating inside the Chanel jacket and feels a faint anxiety that she will leave marks in that beautiful pale lining.

  “I just need a word with my team,” she says, rising from the table.

  “Take your time,” says Miriam, leaning back in her chair. She smiles.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ted has lit a cigarette and is smoking it in short, hungry drags. Sam folds her arms in front of her, unfolds them, and folds them again, staring at a Renault van that is reversing repeatedly and pointlessly into a too-small space.

  “If I go back with margins that small Simon is going to blow his top,” she says.

  Ted grinds the cigarette butt with his heel. “If you don’t go back with a deal Simon is going to blow his top.”

  “This is impossible.” Sam shifts her weight. “Ugh. These shoes are killing me.”

  They stand in silence for a moment. Nobody seems to know what to say. Nobody wants to be responsible for either course of action. The Renault van finally turns off the engine and they watch as the driver discovers he has no space to open the driver’s door. Finally Sam says, “I really need a wee. I’ll meet you back in there.”

  * * *

  • • •

  In the Ladies, Sam sits in the cubicle and takes out her phone. She texts:

  Hey love. How’s your day? Have you been outside yet?

  She waits, and after a moment a response comes back.

  Not yet. Bit tired. X

  She can picture him in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, barely rousing himself from the sofa to pick up his phone. Sometimes, she hates to admit it, it’s almost a relief when he isn’t in the house, as if someone has suddenly opened all the curtains, letting in the light.

  She wipes, and flushes, and adjusts her clothes, feeling suddenly guilty and stupid for using the shoes and the jacket. Could you be prosecuted for wearing someone else’s clothes? She washes her hands and gazes at her reflection. All the confidence of earlier seems to have drained away. She sees a woman of forty-five, the past year’s sadness, anxieties and sleeplessness etched onto her face. Come on, old girl, she tells herself, after a minute. Push on through. She wonders when she started calling herself old girl.

  The door of one of the cubicles opens and Miriam Price steps out behind her. They nod politely at each other’s reflection while washing their hands, Sam trying not to betray her sudden feeling of awkwardness. Miriam Price smooths imaginary stray hairs from her face, and Sam reapplies her lipstick, mostly just for something to do. She keeps trying to think of something to say, something that will convince Miriam Price to work with them, some magic few words that will casually betray what a great and professional company they are, and stretch those tiny price margins. Miriam smiles that small, serene smile. She is clearly not trying to think of something to say. Sam wonders if she has ever felt so inadequate in a Ladies loo before.