by Jojo Moyes
"You know what they say about shoes like this?" she murmurs.
He blinks.
"Well, they're not made for standing up in."
She is at the gym shortly after nine on Saturday morning. She is not here to thrash up and down the pool or strap herself to one of their merciless machines. She has a different ache, one that makes her blush faintly with remembered pleasure. She has come to return the shoes.
She pauses in front of the glass doors, remembering Phil's face as he woke her with a mug of coffee.
"I thought I'd start on that camper today," he said cheerfully. "Might as well make myself useful."
It is then that she sees the woman at the reception desk. It is one of the Yummy Mummies, her hair in a glossy ponytail, railing at one of the staff. On the desk is a familiar gym bag. She hesitates, feeling a reflexive clench of inadequacy.
Sam looks down at the bag by her feet. She will not come to this gym again. She suddenly knows this as surely as she knows anything. She will not be swimming, or sweating, or hiding in corners. She takes a breath, strides in, and puts the bag down in front of the woman.
"You know, you really should check that you pick up the right bag," she says as she takes her own. "You have no idea of the changes I had to make to my day."
Sam turns on her heel as the woman starts to stutter an apology. She is still laughing when she reaches the train station. She has a bonus payment that is burning a hole in her pocket. And a pair of very unsuitable shoes to purchase.
Holdups
Detective Inspector Miller wished he hadn't eaten the extra pickled onion. He could feel it there, sizzling through his stomach lining. He popped an antacid and observed the girl in the blue blouse and skirt seated opposite. A straightforward witness: no record, same job for years, still lived with her parents. Probably always would. She would do well in court.
"You understand what we're doing today?"
"Oh, yes."
Her hands were pressed together on her lap, her expression open and straightforward. She seemed curiously composed, considering what she'd been through.
"You're not worried?"
"Not if it means they will stay behind bars, no."
He looked at her steadily. "Okay. Before we go in, I'd just like to run through your statement again. So you were just opening up. . . ."
Alice Herring sat on the floor, her skirt twisted, her shoulder throbbing.
The door slammed behind her, muffling the shouting in the shop. When she looked up, a man stood facing her, a baseball bat raised.
She stared at him. "Are you going to shoot me?"
"Shut up." He was tall and thin, his face obscured by a tan stocking. She detected a slight Eastern European accent.
"You don't have to be rude. I'm only asking."
"Please. Don't do anything stupid."
"You're pointing a bat at an unarmed woman, with a pair of tights over your head. And you think I'm doing something stupid?"
He touched his head. "It's not tights. It's a stocking."
They flinched at the sound of furniture crashing next door. A muffled curse.
"Oh. Well," she said. "That makes all the difference."
It had started like any other morning. Any morning, that is, where Mr. Warburton's unlocking of the shutters had been interrupted by three masked men bursting into the jewelry shop, forcing them to the floor. "Where's the safe? Open the bloody safe!" The atmosphere became a vortex of noise and action, the men around her a blur.
She had leaped for the emergency button, but the big man had caught her wrist, wrenching it painfully behind her back. He had forced her down, pushing her through the doorway of Mr. Warburton's office. She'd been vaguely annoyed, even as she fell, because it had been cake day.
On Friday mornings Mr. Warburton often suggested a trip to the bakery, in the tone of voice of someone who had never considered this before. They knew he didn't like to admit it, but he was quite partial to a cream horn.
Alice straightened up, eyeing her captor. "You know, you could lower the gun. I'm hardly going to overpower you."
"You won't move?"
"I won't move. Look. Here I am. Sitting on the floor."
He glanced toward the door. His tone was almost apologetic. "This won't take long. They just want keys to safe."
"They need the PIN number. They won't get it from Mr. Warburton."
"They need keys. Is the plan."
"Well, it's not a very good one."
Alice sat gingerly and rubbed at her shoulder while the man watched. He seemed vaguely surprised by her lack of alarm--as far as it was possible to tell someone's true emotion through a film of 20 denier.
"I've never been in a robbery before. . . . You're not what I expected."
He shot her a look. His foot tapping nervously. "Why? What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Although it's hard to tell what you are, with . . . you know, that thing over your head. Aren't you hot?"
He hesitated. "A bit."
"You've got sweat marks. On your top." She pointed, and he looked down. "That'll be the adrenaline, I expect. I'm sure there's heaps of adrenaline involved when you decide to burst in on a jewelry shop. I bet you didn't sleep last night either. I know I wouldn't."
As she watched, he began to pace the room.
"I'm Alice," she said eventually.
"I'm--I can't tell you my name."
She shrugged. "I don't get to meet many men in here. Unless they're buying presents for their wives. Or engagement rings. Which is not really the best time to chat someone up." She paused. "Believe me."
He stopped and turned toward her. "Are you . . . chatting me up?"
"Just making conversation. There's not much else to do, is there? Short of fighting, or screaming, or smashing up the office." They winced as they heard another crash next door. "And your friends seem to be taking care of that department quite well."
He glanced around, uncertain. "You think I should smash up this office?"
"You should probably turn off the CCTV. I would imagine that's pretty elementary for robbers. Page one of the robbery handbook. If there was one. Which I'm guessing there isn't."
He looked up.
"It's up there." She pointed at the security camera.
He stood, raised his bat, and with a vigorous swing smashed the little box from the wall. Alice ducked out of the way to avoid the flying debris. She picked a tiny bit of glass from her sleeve.
"I hate CCTV. I always worry that Mr. Warburton is watching me accidentally tuck my skirt into my knickers." Alice stared up at the wall, at the oil painting of the sultry Spanish dancer. "I tell you what, you could smash up that picture. I mean, I would. If I were a robber."
"It's a terrible painting."
"The worst."
His grin was just visible under the fine mesh. "You want to do it?"
"Can I?"
He handed her the baseball bat.
She looked down at it, then up at him.
"Are you sure you want to give me that?"
"Oh. No." He took it back, then wrenched the picture off the wall. Then he looked at her for a minute. "You could put foot through it if you want. Here." He hurled it onto the floor in front of her.
She stood, waited a moment, then stomped on it enthusiastically, several times. She stepped back and grinned at him. "That was strangely satisfying. I can sort of see why you do this."
"It was very ugly picture," he conceded.
Alice sat on the chair, and they were silent for a few moments, listening to the sound of drawers being ransacked outside.
She kicked distractedly at the ruined canvas. "So do you do it often?"
"What?"
"Rob jewelers' shops?"
He hesitated, then sighed. "This is my first time."
"Oh . . . I'm not sure I've ever been anyone's first. So how did you end up . . . here?"
He sat down opposite her, dropping the baseball bat between his knees. "I owe Big Kev--the tal
l one--money. A lot of money. I had business, and it fail. Stupidly I borrow from him, and now he says this is only way I can pay him off."
"What's his interest rate?"
"I borrow two thousand, now eight months later he say I owe him ten."
Alice pulled a face. "Oh. That's not good. You'd have done better with a credit card. Mine's sixteen percent APR. As long as you don't just pay off the interest every month. You wouldn't believe the number of people who get into trouble doing that. Here--you get points with mine, too. Look."
As she pulled it from her pocket, they were interrupted by renewed crashing and swearing. He glanced anxiously toward the door.
"If that's the display cases, they're toughened glass," Alice observed. "And they shouldn't bother with the trays in the smaller window. They're mostly cubic zirconia. We call it the Value Range."
"Value Range?"
"Not in front of the customers, obviously. My fiance bought me one. I was so proud, until Mr. Warburton announced it was fake, in front of everyone. I've been terrified of being deemed cubic-zirconia quality ever since."
He shook his head. "That is terrible. Are you still with this man?"
"Oh, no." She sniffed. "I realized pretty quickly I couldn't marry a man without a bookshelf."
"No bookshelf?"
"In his house. Not even a little one in his loo for the Reader's Digest."
"Many people in this country don't read books."
"He didn't have one book. Not even a true crime. Or a Jeffrey Archer. I mean, what does that tell you about someone's character? I should have known anyway. He went off with a girl from the discount sports goods store who put a hundred and thirty-four pouty pictures of herself on Instagram. I counted. I mean--who puts a hundred and thirty-four pictures of themselves on the Internet? All doing the duck face."
"Duck face?"
"You know. That pout they do. Because they think it makes them look sexy." She pouted exaggeratedly, and he stifled a laugh. "I don't miss him at all, funnily enough. But I do feel a bit sad sometimes at the thought that--"
"Shh!" The shouting had suddenly grown louder. The man with the stocking motioned at her to stay still, twisting his head around the doorframe. She heard murmured, urgent voices.
He turned back to her. "They want PIN number to key cabinet. Is plan."
"I told you. Mr. Warburton's the only one who knows it."
He leaned out again, and she heard muffled voices. He turned back to her.
"Big Kev says I must . . . abuse you. To make your boss give them this number."
"Oh, he won't care. He doesn't like me much. He says I remind him of his ex-wife. You should have taken Cara. She works on Tuesdays. He's definitely soft on her. He gives her custard creams when he thinks nobody's looking." She paused. "She'll be gutted she's missed this. She loves a bit of drama."
He closed the door and lowered his voice. "You cry? Make it sound like I'm hurting you? Then maybe things happen."
She shrugged. "If it will help. But I honestly don't think Mr. Warburton will be troubled by the idea of me in any kind of peril."
"Really. Try. I don't want to have to . . ."
Alice sighed. She took a deep breath, her eyes on his, then shouted, "Help! Ow! You're hurting me!"
He shook his head dismissively. "No. Is no good."
"Well, it's not as if I've had much practice. I've never been good at acting. I was always Third Tree in the school play. Or Scenery Painted By."
"You need to sound . . . breathless. Frightened." He picked up a chair and hurled it across the room, raising his eyebrows as it crashed against the wall.
"But I'm not very frightened," she hissed. "I mean, you're plainly formidable. But . . ."
"But?"
"I've just got this feeling that you're not going to hurt me."
This seemed to trouble him. "You don't know anything about me." He took a step closer, so that he towered above her. "I could hurt you. Really." And with that he picked up his baseball bat and brought it down on the coffee machine, sending cold brown liquid and shards of glass skittering onto the carpet.
She looked down at it. "Wow. You're actually getting quite into this now, aren't you?"
"You are frightened . . . Alice?"
"I'm . . . certainly . . ."
He took a step closer to her, his baseball bat frozen in his hand. They stared at each other. Then he dropped it, and swiftly, they kissed.
"You," he said softly as he pulled back, "are definitely not cubic zirconia."
"I've never kissed anyone through a stocking before," she said.
"Is a little strange."
"It really is. How about if I just . . . tear a hole . . . here, so our lips can meet. . . ." With her fingernails she created a small gap.
When they stopped this time, his hands traveled to his nose. The hole had laddered and grown, spreading across his face so that all but his eyes were exposed.
"Jesus. What am I going to do?"
"Here," she said, hitching up her skirt. "You can have one of mine."
He stood transfixed as she peeled one from her leg. "It's nice to see your face," she said, glancing up at him. "You look . . . lovely, Mr. . . . um . . ."
"Tomasz. My name is Tomasz. You, too."
Her voice was soft, pliant. "I'll put it on for you. If you like."
They kissed again, breaking off as she slid her stocking tenderly over his head.
"I can't see," he said when she pulled back.
"Oh, I know . . . they're a hundred denier. Tell you what, I'll pull it a bit tighter just here. . . . Then maybe you can--" She moved around behind him.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"This." With a muffled clunk, she brought the baseball bat down upon his head.
"So," said Detective Inspector Miller as they walked along the corridor. "Are you ready to view the lineup?"
"Oh, yes, quite ready."
"Miss Herring. Do you see the men who robbed your store?"
She stared at the row of men behind the glass, her fingers tapping on her lower lip. She turned to the detective. "I'm sorry--it's hard to tell without their stockings."
"Stockings?"
"On their faces. I'm ninety-nine percent sure without, but if I saw them wearing them, I could be definite."
Stockings were organized. This seemed to amuse her.
"Number one--for sure," she said. "He had the gun. And number three, him with the ears. He was the one that hit Mr. Warburton. I'd know him anywhere."
Inspector Miller took a step closer. "Anyone else?"
She gazed through the glass. "Mmm. No."
Two of the officers exchanged looks. Inspector Miller peered at her face. "You're absolutely sure? Your boss seems to think there were three men."
"Oh, no, there were definitely two. The only other man in the shop was a customer, as I said before. He came in to look at engagement rings, I believe. Nice chap. Foreign."
Miller's ulcer was burning again. "Mr. Warburton is very insistent. Three men, he said."
She lowered her voice. "But he did take quite a blow to the head, didn't he? And between you and me, his eyesight is absolutely terrible. All that peering at gemstones." She smiled. "Can I go now?"
Miller stared at her. He sighed. "Fine. We'll be in touch."
"Are you ready?"
He unfolded his long legs and got up from the park bench, smiling. "You look nice, Alice."
She lifted a hand to her hair. "I just had my photograph taken for the local paper. I'm a local hero, apparently. 'Waverley Girl Stops Robbery. Saves Customer.'"
"You certainly saved me."
She lifted a hand and ran a finger over the bump at his crown. "How's the head?"
"Not so sore." Tomasz took her fingers and kissed them. "Where are we going?"
"I don't know. The library?"
"Oh, yes. I want you to show me this true crime. And then I buy you a . . . cream horn?"
"Now, that," said Alice Herring, taking his arm, "sounds like a plan."
Last Year's Coat
The lining of the coat has gone completely. Evie holds it up and runs her finger along the ripped seam, wondering if there is any way she can pull the fine edges of frayed fabric together. She turns it over, looking at the thinned wool, the slight sheen on the elbows, and realizes there is little point.
She knows exactly what she would buy in its place. She sees it in the window of the shop twice a day as she walks past, slowing her stride a little just to gaze at it. Midnight blue, with a silvery lamb's-wool collar; classic enough to last several years but just different enough not to look like every other chain-store coat. It is beautiful.
And it costs PS185.
Evie puts her head down and walks past.
Not that long ago, Evie would have bought the coat. She would have held it up in her lunch hour, modeled it in front of the girls in Marketing, carried it home in its expensive bag, its weight banging satisfyingly against her legs.
But some time ago, without apparently applying, they seem to have become official members of the Squeezed Middle. Greg's hours were abruptly cut by 30 percent. The weekly grocery bill went up by 15 percent. Fuel is so expensive that they sold her car, and she now walks the two miles to work. Heating, a luxury, comes on for an hour in the morning and two at night. The mortgage that had seemed so manageable now hangs over them like a great albatross. She sits at the kitchen table in the evenings poring over columns of figures, warning her teenage daughters against unnecessary expenditure like her own mother had warned her about Bad Men.
"C'mon, love. Let's go to bed." Greg's hands land gently on her shoulders.
"I'm doing the accounts."
"Then let's go and huddle together for bodily warmth. I'm only thinking of our heating bill," he adds solemnly. "Honest. I won't enjoy it at all."
Her smile is weak, a reflexive thing. He puts his arms around her. "Come on, lovely. We'll be fine. We've gotten through worse."
She knows he is right. At least they both have work. They have friends who paint on brittle smiles, bat away inquiries about new jobs with a vague, "Oh . . . got a few things in the pipeline." Two have sold their houses and downsized, citing "family reasons." She finds that many of them move away and fail to keep in touch, as if the shame of not continuing up the ladder is just too much.
"How's your dad?"
