The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  ‘Why are you apologising to me?’ Martha repeated her question, stonily.

  ‘No reason,’ said Eliza, and returned to the list.

  When they had finished, Eliza was disappointed to see that there were no names whatsoever under the ‘Hot’ heading, four under ‘Might Do’, and seven under the ‘Not if He were the Last Man Alive’ heading.

  ‘Maybe you’re being a bit too exacting,’ offered Martha. She’d thought that the eleven men she’d proffered were all reasonable candidates in answer to Eliza’s brief. In fact, she’d done some censoring as she went along, and there were three other names she hadn’t even bothered to mention. Knowing this number of single men at this particular age was a rarity, and several of Martha’s friends had benefited from the contents of her fat leather address book. None of them had ever been as picky as Eliza. Martha didn’t actually think that any of the men in her address book would suit Eliza as well as Greg had, but then Eliza was old enough to make her own mistakes.

  ‘So let’s get this right.’ Martha had been taking notes as Eliza had been making her comments throughout the selection process. She had that kind of mind. She picked up the notebook and in a voice that was entirely ‘chairperson’s summary to the board’, she recapped on Eliza’s criteria. ‘So you’re looking for a tall, toned –’

  ‘A lean, mean, loving machine,’ interrupted Eliza, giggling. She’d drunk the lion’s share of a bottle of Chardonnay.

  ‘Well, obviously, Eliza, I cannot vouch for their prowess in the bedroom. These are people I have round for dinner not to –’

  ‘Shag.’ Eliza finished the sentence, as she doubted Martha could.

  ‘Exactly, not to “shag”,’ said Martha as though she were trying out a new word in a foreign language, which in a way she was. Both of the girls threw their heads back and laughed loudly. Eliza thought to herself that this was the first time she’d heard Martha laugh out loud for quite some time. There hadn’t been that much laughing out loud, even before Michael had left.

  ‘Now concentrate,’ continued Martha with mock seriousness. ‘You’re looking for a tall, toned, dark-haired thirtysomething, who earns in excess of 40K, can dance, likes Indian takeaways but also likes to throw his own dinner parties, preferably musical, reads, has a large number of his own friends, but is also keen to mix with your friends. He must not have been married before, no children, no halitosis, and must want to get married next summer.’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it.’

  ‘This is going to be a long haul,’ said Martha, shaking her head.

  ‘D’you think so?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Oh, OK, I’ll bring the age limit down,’ conceded Eliza.

  ‘Oh, that should do it,’ smiled Martha as she reached for the bottle of Chardonnay. It was empty. ‘Shall we have another?’

  16

  He wasn’t Eliza’s usual type, that was for certain. She quickly reminded herself that not-my-usual-type was exactly what she was after. He was thin, and his shoulders had slumped and sunk to his stomach. Too many hours at a desk. Had he ever been inside a gym? He wasn’t dark (as Martha had promised) but then, nor was he fair: he was mid, nondescript. Nice smile, though, but could that be sufficient compensation for sweaty hands?

  ‘You must be Eliza?’ said Tarquin. He leapt to his feet to greet Eliza and as he did so he banged his chair against the next table and upset a glass of wine. It was white wine and it spilt on the floor, not on the diners, but still they made an embarrassing fuss. Tarquin generously bought them a new bottle to compensate for the lost glass. Eliza thought this was very kind. She sat down and wanted to like him.

  ‘You don’t look a bit like Martha.’ Tarquin’s ears were still glowing bright red from the blush that had soused him after the wine-spilling incident. Eliza wished she could stop staring at them, but she couldn’t. Tarquin turned round to see what was behind him that Eliza was finding so fascinating.

  Eliza finally pulled her attention back to his eyes, which were quite nice, certainly friendly. ‘No, we don’t look alike, we’re not particularly similar at all.’

  ‘I’ve always thought Martha was such a smashing girl, absolutely lovely, quite perfect,’ gushed Tarquin. ‘That Michael’s a lucky bugger.’

  Eliza was torn. Quite a big part of her was thrilled for Martha; it would be lovely to relay the compliment back to her that evening. Martha needed all the ego-boosting she could get at the moment. On the other hand, there was nothing more off-putting in the entire world than your date fancying your older sister.

  ‘God, yes, she’s gorgeous,’ babbled Tarquin.

  ‘Should we order some wine?’ asked Eliza. She’d already mentally scrubbed Tarquin off the ‘Might Do’ list and downgraded him. She’d never been keen on the name anyway. However, she didn’t often get the opportunity to come to restaurants such as Quaglino’s and she decided she ought to make the most of it.

  ‘Good idea. Do you like Pouilly Fumé? I know it’s Martha’s favourite.’

  Eliza smiled bravely and wondered if she’d make it as far as the sticky toffee pudding.

  Eliza’s next date was with a rather effete journalist called Sebastian. Eliza had had her doubts even before she’d met him.

  ‘I don’t class journalists as reliable boyfriend material,’ she’d argued with Martha. ‘They work long hours and always love their work more than their women.’

  ‘Oh goodness, Eliza. If you’re going to add to the criteria that the chap you’re looking for has to love you above everything else, this already difficult task is going to start to compare to the labours of Hercules,’ teased Martha.

  ‘He doesn’t have to love me above everything – well, at least not straight away – but he does have to prefer me to my sister or his job,’ Eliza joked back. She’d been making much of Tarquin’s crush on Martha because she saw it delighted her. Not that Martha was in the least bit interested in any man other than Michael, but her ego did need the promotion.

  ‘Sebastian’s really good-looking, I think you should give him a chance.’

  Sebastian was beautiful. In fact, it disturbed Eliza a little, to note that she and Sebastian looked rather alike. They were both tall, tanned and willowy. They would make a stunning couple – but was that eyeliner he was wearing?

  They’d met in a trendy bar, which pleased Eliza. She hadn’t known what to wear for her date at Quaglino’s (she’d settled for a black trouser suit, something she only ever wore to interviews and funerals – though, interestingly, this proved entirely suitable for the tone of the evening). At least Bar B was the kind of place Eliza normally hung out in. She could confidently don her Diesel clobber.

  The bar was tiny, but appeared much larger because the walls and ceiling were covered with minute mosaic mirrored tiles, which was slightly disturbing because Eliza couldn’t hold Sebastian’s attention – he was too busy checking out his own reflection.

  After an hour and a half of competing against the mirrors and the attention of the attractive bartender (male), Eliza made an excuse and went to call Martha. ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered.’

  ‘Well, now you know.’

  ‘Know, know. I mean, has he resisted your advances?’

  ‘No, Martha, I haven’t made any, but believe me, this guy is gay.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll wait up for you then.’

  ‘Yes, do that,’ sighed Eliza. ‘I can’t imagine I’m going to be late.’

  Eliza’s third date was with a guy called Henry. This once again prompted her to wonder if names defined personalities. Her friends were all called Neil, Mark, Matt, Dave and similar. Martha’s friends were called Henry, Piers, Sebastian and Tarquin. How was that possible? Did the Tarquins of this world have a particular affinity for Pierses? Did they hunt one another out? She tried to imagine Greg having a best mate called Gerard. It was possible because Greg was pretty easy going and wouldn’t have any preconceptions about someone because of their name (unli
ke herself), but he’d probably shorten it to something cool like Jed or give him a goofy nickname. Still, Eliza reminded herself that the Henrys, Pierses, Sebastians and Tarquins of this world were much more likely to have mortgages and share options. It was just a matter of focus.

  Henry was a management consultant. Eliza didn’t have any understanding of what that involved, but she vowed she’d be fascinated. Henry suggested that they meet at the bar at Number 1 Aldwych to drink champagne. Eliza thought this was the right side of flashy and happily agreed.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Martha the moment Eliza walked in the door.

  ‘Oh, he’s cool, yeah, fine.’

  ‘“Fine” or “cool”?’ Martha knew Eliza’s language – fine was in reality light years away from cool.

  Eliza sat on the big squishy sofa and unbuckled her shoes. She wiggled her toes. Four-inch heels looked fantastic, but they were undoubtedly an instrument of misogynistic torture. She accepted the hot chocolate that Martha handed her, curled her fingers around the cup and curled her legs underneath her bottom.

  ‘Go on then, I want details,’ demanded Martha.

  Eliza was finding the debriefs increasingly difficult. After all, these people were Martha’s friends. ‘He was a bit arrogant. You know, one of those that think men are a superior race because they can open the lids on all their jars.’

  It didn’t seem as though Eliza was going to say anything else, so Martha thought she ought to prompt her. ‘Didn’t you think he was good-looking?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Not bad?’ Martha found it difficult to judge the attractiveness or otherwise of men because she’d never looked beyond Michael, not in all the years they’d been together. But she knew that, amongst her friends, Henry was generally considered a dish. Mentioning his name in conversation was guaranteed to raise heartbeats. In fact, Martha had been a little concerned about fixing up this blind date for Eliza, as Henry had a reputation of being a ‘treat them mean, keep them keen’, commitment-phobic Romeo. But then she’d calculated that Eliza was probably fairly well qualified to handle this type of man; Martha had been right: Eliza was a worthy adversary. Henry obviously hadn’t got under Eliza’s armour; Eliza blatantly hadn’t fallen under Henry’s spell.

  ‘He was good-looking in an obvious sort of way,’ added Eliza, but she was just being polite.

  ‘Well, what sort of good-looking are you hoping for?’ asked Martha, who was beginning to feel just a tiny bit exasperated by her sister’s pickiness.

  ‘Well, he was a bit too clean-cut for me. I like them a bit –’

  ‘Dirtier-looking.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘More sexy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More dangerous.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘It’s not a look that often comes with being a partner in one of the world’s biggest management consultancies. They tend to play it safe when they recruit.’

  ‘S’pose. Anyway, he knew he was good-looking and I hate that vanity thing. When they behave as though they’re doing you a favour by going out with you. God, isn’t it enough that their orgasms are always real?’

  ‘He’s a man. What did you expect?’

  ‘I expected him to remember my name.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that would be a minimum requirement,’ agreed Martha.

  Both girls fell silent and Martha wondered if Eliza would finally admit to herself that this pursuit was ridiculous. If she’d acknowledge that her perfect man was Greg and go home to him before going home to him ceased to be an option.

  The silence stretched between them until Eliza finally said, ‘So who’s next on the list?’

  17

  Martha moved around the almost empty gallery and tried to concentrate on the exhibits. A fortnight after Michael left, her mum and dad absolutely insisted that she have some time to herself and offered to look after the children on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for as long as was necessary. Mr and Mrs Evergreen hadn’t said much to Martha about Michael’s departure, and his name was all the more glaring for its absence. Martha was grateful for their silence, although she wasn’t sure whether it was due to calculation or coincidence; it gave her time to scrabble around for a crumb of pride, which had been all but obliterated.

  The Evergreens’ silence was a result of the fact that they didn’t know what to say. They liked Michael, they loved Michael; he’d been like a son to them for so many years. The couple couldn’t understand how one daughter had thrown over her soulmate, and the other had been thrown over by her husband, and all in one single evening. It had never been so complicated in their day. There may not have been dishwashers or DVD record players, or whatever they were called, but there weren’t the relentless expectations either. People had seemed so much more content, appreciative.

  True, Martha and Michael had married young, but then, so had Mr and Mrs Evergreen. True, it wasn’t always easy being married; everyone who had ever been married had, at some point or other, asked herself or himself if it was a completely unnatural state to live in. There were always other temptations, other possibilities, other lives to lead, other skirts or trousers to chase. But, on the whole, the advantages outweighed the disadvantages. Surely, nothing in this world could beat the wonderful sense of satisfaction in looking back at a life you’d shared with someone. Someone who had made it better. What was Michael thinking of, leaving his children? Their grandchildren! The poor man must have had a breakdown. And poor Martha was so thin and so bemused. And to be frank, they were too. Neither Mr nor Mrs Evergreen could see what could possibly have made Michael leave.

  Not happy, Martha had said. Well, why on earth was he not happy?

  They felt neutered watching their big girl diminish into a little girl again. They’d always been so proud of how sensible and single-minded Martha was. She’d wanted her ears pierced – but only the once. She’d worked very hard at school and at university, only ever had one boyfriend at a time. They loved and were proud of Eliza too, of course, but she’d always been a bit more of a worry, she never knew what she wanted, never had. Eliza had flounced and floundered from one group of school friends to the next, from one lot of several boyfriends to the next several, from one career to the next, and yet she never seemed satisfied or content.

  They’d been quite hopeful when she’d finally found a job editing pop videos, whatever that entailed. It didn’t seem very stable and she’d come to it very late in life – twenty-seven was hardly the optimal age to put your first foot on the career ladder – but she did seem to enjoy her work. Not that they could bank on it lasting. After all, she’d always seemed happy with Greg. And whilst Greg was definitely unconventional, he was a well-mannered boy and Mr and Mrs Evergreen had liked him. They were sorry he’d no longer be in their lives. All this coming-and-going. It was so much easier in their day.

  Whereas Martha had always been contented. She was happy to be a wife and mother, which was unusual nowadays and such a relief. One daughter frequenting clubs and dodging marriage vows – despite being the wrong side of thirty – was enough for any couple. Who’d have thought that Martha’s single-mindedness was going to become such a problem? Martha’s entire identity revolved around her husband and children. She’d never wanted to be defined in any other way than as a wife and mother – now when such a big chunk of that identity had been whisked away, she suddenly seemed ghoulishly lacking.

  Mr and Mrs Evergreen found it hard to discuss Martha’s situation with her, as she would barely acknowledge that there was a situation. Her tactic to date had been to carry on as before Michael’s departure. Except she wasn’t seeing any of her friends. Her self-inflicted solitary confinement was a worry to the Evergreens. And they kept asking her what she wanted, but she didn’t have any answers. It appeared that all she was capable of was waiting for Michael’s next move. The Evergreens feared he might not make one. So quietly but firmly, they’d insisted on taking over the childcare for a couple of days a week so as to give Marth
a a reasonable shot at thinking in a logical and uninterrupted fashion for stretches longer than three minutes.

  Or, at the very least, she’d have the luxury of going to the loo unaccompanied.

  Mr and Mrs Evergreen were right – to an extent. Having time alone did allow Martha to think over her situation with Michael. But then, even when she was knee-deep sorting washing or up to her elbows in baby rice she was thinking about her situation.

  She thought of nothing else. She thought so much that her head ached – but she was no closer to understanding any of it.

  Martha knew her parents meant well. And it was undoubtedly a relief to be able to go out of the house, close the door behind her and walk down the garden path without the handicaps of a double buggy, a changing bag, sets of spare clothes, tubs of puréed organic vegetables, a comfy blanket, a cuddly rabbit, and so on.

  But once she closed the door she wasn’t sure where to go. The only places Martha usually visited were playgroups or supermarkets. The first time she went out on her own, her arms felt strangely weightless; she rushed to the shops to buy things to carry, to fill the void. She bought trousers for Mathew, a hairband and a small, oddly lifelike, cuddly puppy for Maisie. She bought nail varnish for Eliza, some bulbs for her father’s garden, the latest Jamie Oliver book for her mother. She was spending her way to a national debt. Sometimes it worked and blunted the pain, and sometimes it didn’t – it just made her think that her life was trivial. She wondered how much she would have to spend in a day to validate her existence.

  ‘Weather’s been changeable, hasn’t it?’ said the smiley assistant in BabyGap. She and Martha were on nodding terms with one another, as Martha was a regular customer. ‘Are you getting a cold – you’re looking peaky? How are you?’

  Terrible, flattened, annihilated.

  Talking to her friends about Michael’s departure would somehow concede defeat, but suddenly she saw the attraction of immersing herself in the comfort of strangers. Maybe their distance would provide a perspective that she, so up close, couldn’t find. ‘My husband’s left me.’ Martha said this without an apology, simply with bewilderment.