The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  All right, she had.

  Still, being this excited, feeling this alive, was a good thing, surely.

  Martha didn’t have time for a long soak in a bath scented with Body Shop sensuous oil, or to exfoliate, rub on anti-cellulite cream, moisturize body and face and apply full make-up, like girls do when they have a hot date. She didn’t pay any attention to her underwear, or even her outerwear. Mathew was running a slight temperature. Nothing to worry about, but enough to make him grumpy and clingy. She ran in and out of his bedroom trying to pacify him with stories, cuddly toys and Calpol. She’d just tried on two almost identical black tops, and two very similar white tops, when Maisie threw up in bed, necessitating a change of sheets.

  ‘Is she very sick?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘No, just over-fed and over-excited,’ replied Martha as she whipped off the sodden sheet.

  Eliza hovered in the doorway trying not to balk actively.

  ‘Mathew, have you been feeding Maisie Smarties?’

  ‘You said, nice to share.’ Mathew turned his huge blue eyes on his mother, totally disarming her.

  ‘I did, Darling, and it is.’ Martha crouched down to her son’s height and hugged him. Maisie launched herself on to her mother and brother for a spontaneous group hug. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t go out,’ said Martha, suddenly pickled in guilt.

  ‘Don’t go, Mummy. Stay with Mathew and Maisie,’ begged Mathew. It was amazing how he could spring from rapture to despair in the blink of an eye.

  Martha looked at Eliza and waited for direction. She was late anyway and hardly looked her best. If the children really were ill she’d never forgive herself.

  Eliza was sure that this Jack Hope spelt trouble. Martha was so obviously out of her depth. She could push the advantage and persuade Martha to stay in. They could open a bottle of Chardonnay and a box of chocs. They could have a lovely evening.

  She sighed. ‘Come on, Mathew, let your mummy go and get ready. Leave that, Martha, I’ll change the sheets. If you don’t get a move on you’re going to be really late.’

  The thing is, Martha looked so happy.

  Happier than Eliza could recall.

  Martha couldn’t remember what he looked like. Not exactly. She remembered that he was gorgeous but, God, what if that had been beer goggles, and he was grotesque rather than gorgeous? What if she didn’t recognize him? What if he was a prat? What if he thought she was a slut? She had acted like a slut. Would he be able to tell that she wasn’t really, and would he care? What if he was tedious or arrogant? Maybe he only appeared interesting because Michael was the benchmark. Martha giggled at her mental dig at Michael; there was something very attractive about cruelty.

  Her hair was still damp, and she was wearing a bit of mascara and lipgloss, jeans and a black shirt. Martha groaned – she could hardly be accused of going over the top. What was she doing? It was only three months since she and her husband had split up, what was she doing meeting other men? Wasn’t she rushing things? And normally she was so cautious. Surely it should feel odd.

  But it didn’t.

  She pushed against the heavy wooden door. Funny he’d chosen here to meet. All Bar One. She’d expected him to select some funky bar in the West End. One with a dress code that she would fail. This All Bar One was an old-time favourite of Martha’s; she used to come here a lot before the children were born. It was somewhere she felt comfortable.

  Well, normally she felt comfortable. Not today. Today her heart was in her throat.

  Then she saw him.

  And now her heart was in her knickers. Which Martha thought was very odd indeed.

  He was standing by the bar. He’d obviously just arrived because he was paying for his orange juice. He grinned. ‘Can I get you a drink? You look beautiful.’ He kissed her on the lips as though that was the most natural thing in the world.

  He was stunning. How could she have doubted it? Why hadn’t she mentioned to Eliza how fantastic his body was? Incredible shoulders, and look at those forearms. How could she have forgotten those eyes? A distinctive fusion of greens and yellows. They reminded her of walking in a forest on a summer’s day. They were the same colours as the leaves on tall oak trees, when dappled with sunshine. How was it possible to have eyes like a summer’s day?

  It turned out that he really was interesting, it hadn’t just been the wine. He was intelligent, concerned, inquisitive and experienced. Like the first time they’d met, they talked and talked. They talked about his work (he was a Web designer, fairly senior from what she could glean), and his friends (who were his life blood), and his father (who’d brought him up), and the rest of his family (who he’d left behind).

  He was frighteningly trendy. He talked about being ‘down on the street’ and although he was being a little figurative, it was clear that he was achingly hip. He wore Diesel clothes; he didn’t fasten his shoelaces, but tucked them into his trainers because this, apparently, was cooler. Martha knew Mathew would be thrilled to hear this and she wondered how long she could keep this nugget of information from him. Jack listened to bands that Martha hadn’t a hope of knowing. He had a vocabulary that she was unfamiliar with, but just about understood. He ‘got into the zone’. She was a ‘hot babe’. His friends were ‘dudes’. A really cool jacket was ‘bitchin”. He played video games and was in love with Ulala; Lara Croft was a has-been. He was happenin’. And she wanted to be happenin’ with him.

  And yet the strangest thing was that he was 100 per cent gentleman. Almost otherworldly in his courteous, gallant approach towards her. He wasn’t smooth. Although he was practised. He hadn’t learnt to open doors for women at prep school; in fact, the only thing he’d learnt at his state school was how to force open car doors. He opened doors for women because he liked women. He wasn’t shy. He entertained her with stories about how he’d lost his virginity at fourteen (or, rather, flung it away, but she was touched to note that he’d taken his jacket off so that his girl could lie on it). He had few formal qualifications and yet his mind raced and challenged as though he’d been a member of the Oxford Union for years. He listened with sincerity. He questioned with regard. He talked with animation.

  She was falling in love with him.

  No, that last bit couldn’t be true.

  It would be far too fast. It would be ridiculous. She couldn’t be falling in love.

  But it did feel like falling in love.

  He was funny, very funny. Sharp. And chatty and informed. He looked at her and his eyes seared her soul, scorching it with an exquisite mix of pleasure and pain.

  He was sooooo bloody sexy.

  ‘The blokes you were with in the bar the other night, who are they again?’ asked Martha, trying to keep her mind and eyes away from the contents of Jack’s trousers.

  ‘Dave and Drew. I work with them.’

  ‘I think you told me that,’ said Martha, and a small bell rang in the depths of her hazy memories of the Saturday night.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Sorry, I was drunk.’

  ‘I know.’

  They both grinned and Martha felt relieved not to have to be apologetic. Somehow everything she did or said seemed OK with Jack.

  ‘How are Mathew and Maisie?’ he asked.

  Martha was flattered that he’d remembered her children’s names.

  ‘Fine, gorgeous. Well, a bit sickly and a bit grumpy but, you know, fine, gorgeous.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t know. I’ve never had any contact with kids, not really.’

  ‘Don’t any of your friends have children?’ asked Martha, amazed. Her world was chock-a-block with small people.

  ‘Not many of my friends have girlfriends, let alone children.’

  Good, perfect. Martha didn’t want to sit around all day talking about kids; she could do that with all her other friends. Martha just wanted a bit of fun, a distraction.

  ‘We’re all resolutely single,’ he added.

  Resolutely. That didn’t sound good. Not that she wanted a r
eal relationship, just a bit of fun, a distraction. Sometimes it felt as though the organist was only just packing up the music from her wedding march.

  ‘I’m not looking for a father for the children. They have one. And I’m not looking for a husband because, technically, I still have one of those too.’

  Where did that come from? The glass of Chardonnay probably.

  ‘Are you looking for a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’ Martha hadn’t been looking at all, not actively.

  ‘That’s good, because I’m just out of a relationship and I want to be single for a while.’

  Martha was a bit confused. If he wanted to be single, why did he have his hand on her leg? Why had he kissed her when she walked into the bar? Where did she fit in? ‘Just out?’

  ‘Err, we split up in the summer.’

  Sounded like a positively respectable length of time to her. ‘Did she leave you? Do you miss her?’

  ‘Err, no, I was the one who finished it. No, I’m not heartbroken or anything. Not bitter and twisted. I’m just having too much fun with my naked friends so I don’t want a girlfriend.’

  ‘“Naked friends”?’

  ‘Like I was telling you on Saturday night.’

  Martha looked blank.

  Jack looked aghast. ‘You can’t remember, can you?’

  ‘What can’t I remember?’

  ‘About naked friends?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  He explained the concept. In a nutshell, he wanted affectionate sex with any one of a number of women at any one time, but he didn’t want to have to lie about it. He didn’t like lying. It confused things. He wanted to make it clear that naked friends were different from lays, because he, like most men given the opportunity, would lay just about any chick with a bod and a pulse. He was only “naked friends” with girls he liked, ones he could talk to and have a laugh with, not bunny-boilers.

  Martha was surprised to realize that she didn’t find the naked friends concept a complete turn-off. He managed to tell her that this was what he wanted in such a gentle, non-presumptuous manner that she really believed it was a great idea. In fact, it turned her on. She was flattered to be invited to be one. She didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t want to find anyone to replace Michael; she didn’t think it was possible. A husband, the father of your children, couldn’t be replaced. But how do you open up anything other than your legs after having loved and lost? How do you open your heart and mind? But she did want to be held. She did want to be touched, because when he stroked her cheek, or moved a stray lock of hair from in front of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear, it felt lovely. And when he kissed the tip of each of her fingers it felt very lovely. When he kissed her lips it felt very, very lovely.

  They’d come back to her place and were doing all the usual things, which was all very unusual for Martha.

  ‘Err, tea or coffee?’ she offered, smiling brightly, hoping the brightness would eclipse the nervousness.

  And she was nervous, because they were back at her place for hot sex, not a hot drink. They’d discussed it at length in the bar and agreed the exact terms, almost as though they were making a business transaction. Jack said he found Martha fantastically cute, and would happily shag her until the early hours. Martha was thrilled. She needed to feel wanted again. She wanted to feel needed. They each realized and acknowledged that there were other people competing for a share of their minds and hearts. They would respect and recognize the importance of these other people. Martha’s ‘other people’ were Mathew and Maisie. Jack’s ‘other people’ were an inexact number of other ‘naked friends’.

  It might not have sounded like the most romantic proposal Martha had ever received – it was far too modern to be romantic – but then Martha was fed up to her back fillings with romance. Wedding vows were very romantic, but had proved to be fairly tenuous when it came down to it. Martha liked this bargain. It sounded simple. It sounded uncomplicated, a win-win situation. It sounded as good as it gets when you are a hand-me-down, when you are spoiled goods. Her own husband hadn’t wanted her, who the hell could be expected to pick up the pieces? The intimacy Martha had been used to had been ripped apart and she missed it. She wanted to recreate it, even if it was just for a short time. She wanted her bed to be warmed by something other than a hot-water bottle. Even if it was just for the one night. Martha couldn’t look beyond that.

  ‘I don’t really like hot drinks, have you got any juice?’

  ‘No alcohol, no caffeine, you freak.’ Martha wanted to eat her tongue. Her comment had been intended to be funny but had come out sounding offensive. She looked at Jack; he was still smiling. His gentle, non-assuming smile. Martha, somewhat rashly, tried to make amends by breaking into song, the old Adam Ant song about a guy who didn’t drink and didn’t smoke. The question was, what did he do?’ She wriggled her body in a way that was supposed to be, at best, sexy or at least funny; she feared it was ludicrous. Her Adam Ant impression wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either, and Martha doubted it was original. Jack’s smile widened a fraction, but she got the feeling that he was just being polite and that her impression was so lousy that he didn’t really know who she was trying to imitate. She dived into the fridge and started to yell out the options that she offered Mathew and his tiny friends. ‘I have orange juice, Ribena, strawberry crush or milk.’ She was at least a great hostess.

  ‘Milk, please.’

  Martha felt everything inside her body tighten with delight. He sounded like a little boy. So polite, and such a childlike choice. Suddenly the glorious beauty of Jack didn’t intimidate her in the slightest; he was just a guy whose preferred beverage was milk. Impulsively, Martha dipped her finger into a tub of yogurt and drew a white line across the bridge of her nose, Adam Ant-style. She turned to Jack and yelled, ‘Stand and deliver!’ She couldn’t remember the words of this old Adam Ant song, so she la-la-laed the melody, almost in tune.

  This time, Jack’s smile cracked across his entire face and lit his eyes. It was possibly the biggest smile of the many that he had flashed all night. He looked around the kitchen and, as if by magic (and Martha would always believe it really was by magic), he located the mask from Mathew’s Batman costume and put it on.

  ‘Hey, you’re a dandy highwayman,’ said Martha.

  Jack started singing. Naturally, he did know the words. He bounced around the kitchen, making his thumbs and forefingers into guns. He blew on the tip of the finger on his right hand.

  Martha joined in where she could. ‘Isn’t the next line something about spending cash and looking good?’

  ‘“Looking flash,”’ sang Jack excitedly.

  ‘Yes, that must be right, it rhymes. Then isn’t it about grabbing attention?’ added Martha.

  ‘You’ve got that, Babe.’ And it should have sounded like a line, but it didn’t.

  Their kisses worked. Some people can kiss; others – and this is the shocker – can’t. It’s a gift. Martha could. Jack could. They could together. It worked. They kissed for ever. He kissed her lips and her jaw, her cheeks, her eyelids, her ears, her neck. He really seemed to be enjoying kissing her. He didn’t seem to have any concept of time and just meandered. There was no sense that he wanted to move on to the next stage, which was lucky because Martha wasn’t sure how you moved on to the next stage.

  Not exactly.

  She couldn’t quite remember.

  Well, it was a long time ago.

  She tried not to think about it. Chances were, Jack had a fair idea. His kisses varied in intensity, rushing from romance to raunch and back again, leaving her head spinning.

  And, err, her knickers.

  God, what type of knickers was she wearing? It was quite possible that they were Mothercare maternity-wear ones. She’d never got round to throwing them out and white cotton was, after all, the ultimate in comfort. Although not necessarily great in the seduction stakes.

  Although, arguably, by the time they got to the knickers stage, Jack w
as unlikely to back out.

  All the time he was kissing her he stroked her, as though he knew that he had to wipe away her loneliness. With each caress he carefully eased the isolation out of her body and the desolation from her mind. His touch repaired her, comforted her and soon – for brief seconds at a time – when Martha forgot to worry, his touch excited her. He expertly eased her from one position to the next, leaving her feeling tiny and doll-like, whilst making him appear powerful; the cliché made her want to sing and skip and dance. He touched her ribs and set them on fire. He traced his thumb across her hip bone towards the zip of her jeans and she arched her back, silently willing him to tug the zip down.

  My God, did she really intend to go through with this?

  He dragged his T-shirt over his head in one, swift, practised move. His torso was gorgeous, stunning. She’d never seen anything like it, not in real life, not on any of her friends’ dates, not on any stranger passing in the street, not even on adverts. He had broad shoulders, golden skin, defined abs, not a blemish. He had a small tattoo in the centre of his back. It looked fantastic. Martha hadn’t realized that she was the type of woman to be so turned on by physical beauty.

  Too right she was going through with this.

  Hell, she’d always fancied men because of their brains, not brawn. Then again, the evening she’d spent with Jack suggested she could benefit from both attributes. Was that possible? Was that fair? For Jack to exist, did it mean that there was someone hideously ugly and damned stupid trying (but failing) to pull in All Bar One tonight? Probably, maybe even more than one. Bugger fair.

  She couldn’t remember at which point he edged her trousers down, inch by inch, but certainly not before time. She was lying on the carpet in the living room, that much she could remember. It might have been the fact that she was lying on a carpet in the living room and trying not to make too much noise so as not to wake Eliza and the children, but Martha felt exactly as she’d felt in her late teens when she’d fooled around in silence with her boyfriend on her parents’ couch, conscious that even one over-enthusiastic groan would excite their unwanted attention.