Someone Else's Shoes

by Jojo Moyes

There are some advantages to being an American woman over forty who no longer has any fucks left on the shelf, and he can see it. It is the first thing she has felt glad about all week.

When she hides out in the kitchen for her mid-afternoon breaks, Aleks is there, sometimes prepping for evening service, sometimes sitting in the corner reading a tattered paperback, usually something about food. He doesn’t speak to her, but when he sees her he puts his book down, moves to his station and cooks wild mushroom omelets with fines herbes, toasted sandwiches with chicken and truffle mayonnaise. He places these in front of her and leaves her to eat, his manner unobtrusive as if he understands that this is a woman in the middle of a raging inferno, and he merely wishes to leave her a small fire hose.

“What’s a shrink?” “A . . . a psychiatrist. A person who helps you with your head.” “Is your son crazy?” Nisha hesitates. “Um. Probably a little. Aren’t we all?” She smiles. “No,” says Grace, and fetches a tea-towel.

“Oh, my days. You’re unreal, Nisha.” Jasmine is wiping her eyes. “Seriously. You are unreal.” “I’m going to fix this,” Nisha says seriously. “I am. I’m going to make a plan and I’m going to make that man pay. For all of it.” “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Jasmine leans back in her chair. She is still laughing, as if this is the best thing she has ever heard. “And I am here with the popcorn for when that happens. Front-row seat. Family-sized carton. Ohhh, yes.”

Nisha and Sam still eyed each other warily. There was a kind of boundarylessness around Nisha, a suggestion of fearlessness that made Sam nervous. She had always felt most comfortable around people who followed the rules as she did. She sensed that something about her made Nisha uneasy too. They were perfectly polite, but perhaps the circumstances of their meeting were too weird and too laden with baggage to allow them to be properly warm with each other.