The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  She searched her mind for something to say. ‘Did you get any cards?’

  ‘Cards?’

  ‘Valentine cards.’

  ‘No.’ Tom thought that this was a peculiar question for his date to put to him, but politeness forced him to reciprocate. ‘Err, and you?’

  ‘No, not really. Well, yours, and one from Mathew, my nephew, but no, not really.’ Eliza sighed, her disappointment at not receiving something else was enormous. So enormous that she didn’t quite grasp just how rude she was being to Tom.

  She remembered how last year Greg had taken her on a picnic. As it was February, he hosted the picnic in their front room, but it was a genuine picnic. He’d bought a stack of flowers from New Covent Garden and put them in every available vessel around the flat. He’d painted a huge sun on the wall. It was still there; the landlord would be furious and unlikely ever to give Greg his deposit back. He’d spread a rug on the floor; there was a hamper with crusty loaves, ripe cheeses, black olives, hummus and KitKats (Eliza’s favourite chocolate). He’d insisted on wearing beach shorts, and playing a stupid game where he blew imaginary sand off the food and took his clothes off because the imaginary sand had got caught in his shorts. He kept moving the rug because the imaginary tide was coming in. Eventually they shuffled into the bedroom, which had been Greg’s plan all along.

  Then there’d been the Valentine’s before last, which was possibly even more fabulous. They flew to Venice to watch the carnival. It was sensational, a riot of colour and noise and smells (some of which were pretty unpleasant, but most were food-related and lovely). They travelled on a budget airline and stayed at the local Youth Hostel. They didn’t have much money, but they had a lot of imagination and a really good time. The whole trip probably cost the price of tonight’s dinner.

  Eliza was wrenched back to the present. ‘Oh my God, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look. It’s him.’

  ‘Who?’ Tom started to crane his neck in the direction that Eliza was staring.

  ‘Don’t look!’ she squealed.

  Tom immediately snapped his head back to face Eliza. He did it with such speed that he’d have to visit his chiropractor asap. He probably had whiplash.

  ‘Who is he with? Do you know?’ demanded Eliza.

  ‘Have I got permission to look now?’ asked Tom reasonably.

  ‘S’pose. Who is she?’

  Tom carefully turned and looked in the direction of Eliza’s outraged glares. He shook his head indicating that he didn’t know who Michael was with.

  Michael leant across the table to hand something to the woman. Eliza couldn’t see what was in the envelope. Tickets maybe. To a concert or show? Perhaps flight tickets? Poor, poor Martha. The woman leant across the table and kissed Michael. She was definitely showing more cleavage than necessary, and she definitely let that kiss linger longer than necessary.

  Eliza suddenly went off the idea of a champagne sorbet.

  40

  ‘Great gift,’ marvelled Eliza.

  Martha was surprised that her approval was so robust, but she was grateful. She’d had a fantastic night at the Sanderson; she didn’t want Eliza’s predictions of doom to dampen the afterglow. ‘Yeah, I haven’t had anything so unique bought for me since 1994.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Michael bought me a purple suede mini-skirt. It was about the width of a belt. I didn’t really have the legs to carry it off, but I let him part with the forty-five notes – which was an enormous amount of money back then – because I was so flattered that he thought it would suit me.’

  ‘Did you ever wear it?’

  ‘Only in the bedroom,’ Martha giggled. When had Michael stopped thinking of her that way? Martha remembered making love to Michael on sofas and tables and chairs, right at the beginning. But then as beds became more freely available they only ever made love in bed, and eventually they stopped doing much of that. Except for Fridays. The odd thing was, whenever they did make love they’d ask themselves, and each other, why they didn’t do it more often. Michael and Martha knew each other’s body inside out. Michael hit the spot with frightening intensity every time. Martha knew exactly how fast, how hard, how long it took to arouse Michael. So when had the intimacy dissolved into laziness?

  With Jack Martha performed. She felt beautiful, interesting, undiscovered. She was a paradise, not a paradise lost. Suddenly Martha froze. It was possible that one day Jack would buy her shoes from Dr Scholl the way Michael had started to buy her below-the-knee skirts. It was possible, but not probable. Martha would not think like that; it was not inevitable that a paradise known had to be a paradise lost.

  ‘What about you? How did you fare?’ She changed the subject.

  Eliza hesitated. The most significant event of her Valentine’s evening was the fact that she’d seen Michael. Should she tell Martha? Would Martha get any consolation from the fact that Michael’s spotting of Eliza had almost certainly ruined his evening?

  Luckily, Martha was so pumped with lust that she wasn’t really capable of thinking about anyone other than herself and Jack for any length of time. ‘I almost feel guilty about how happy I am,’ trilled Martha. ‘Surely I should feel more miserable, not quite so thrilled at the prospect of life? But I am thrilled. It is thrilling. There’s so much more out there than a man that doesn’t care about me.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’ asked Eliza. God, Jack really must be a magician in the sack.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good, because I think there’s something you should know. What I mean is, I think I’d want to know, if I were you.’

  Martha already knew that she didn’t want to know but that she probably needed to.

  ‘I saw Michael, last night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Embassy.’

  It was Valentine’s night. Martha didn’t need to ask if he was alone. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Blonde, young, tall.’ Martha sighed at the predictability of the situation. Michael had turned her into a cliché. ‘Not as slim as you,’ added Eliza hopefully.

  That was supposed to help.

  ‘Do you know who she was?’

  ‘Well, I embarrassed him into an introduction.’

  Martha was almost amused. She’d have liked to see Michael’s expression when faced with feisty Eliza.

  ‘I didn’t make a scene, Martha, because I knew you’d kill me, although I wanted to pour his soup into his lap.

  He’d chosen soup. It must have been French onion, which was the only soup Michael would eat. ‘So what was her name?’

  ‘Eleanor.’

  Martha stopped breathing. It didn’t mean anything to her. That was better – or was that worse?

  ‘I said all along that he was having an affair,’ continued Eliza.

  ‘A Valentine’s date does not mean he was having an affair. I was on a date.’

  ‘Martha, it’s obvious.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Men never leave unless they have another home to go to. Another woman is always the reason they leave.’

  Martha flicked a dishcloth over the kitchen surfaces. She refused to meet Eliza’s eye. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t believe that about the man I loved. If you’re right, I’ve been a fool, and on top of everything else, I can’t admit to being a fool. What would you like for supper? We’ve got quiche, and I could do some jacket potatoes or perhaps pasta,’ suggested Martha, and in this way she made it clear that the conversation was closed.

  ‘Were you going to tell me that you were seeing someone else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’ Michael sighed and Martha could hear his frustration through the miles of telephone cable. She knew that her late-night call was annoying him intensely; she also wished she’d been able to stop herself making it. But she hadn’t been able to. ‘When were you going to tell me?’ she repeated.

  ‘When the time was right. Soon,’ he added. It was clear t
hat this call was making Michael uncomfortable. ‘Look, Martha, I knew you’d be hurt. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

  ‘When did you meet her?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does. To me, it matters.’ Martha was indignant. Of course it fucking matters, you moron, was left unsaid.

  ‘I’ve known her for… I’m not sure,’ he stalled. ‘Over a year.’

  ‘So you have been having an affair.’ Martha managed to make her inquiry sound matter-of-fact, as though she was discovering nothing more sinister than the fact that someone had been on a diet: so you have been using skimmed milk.

  ‘No. She was just a friend.’ He sounded angry, insulted.

  Martha had little patience, she owned the monopoly on feeling insulted. She lay in bed and wondered what she ought to ask next. She wondered if it mattered and whether he’d tell her the truth anyway. ‘Why haven’t I heard you mention her name if she was a friend?’

  ‘She was a friend of a friend. She’s Karen’s friend. She wasn’t a very close friend.’

  ‘She’s clearly that now. How long have you been seeing her?’

  ‘A few weeks.’

  ‘How many weeks?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t keep count.’

  ‘Two, three?’

  ‘More than that.’

  ‘Before Christmas, after?’

  ‘Before, maybe. Stop this, Martha.’ Michael sounded confused. He didn’t like being confused, that was when things were said, things later to be regretted. ‘I don’t owe you any answers. You’re sleeping with Jack,’ he argued, in an effort to recover some composure.

  ‘I’ve never lied to you about Jack. Why did you lie to me about this Eleanor woman?’

  ‘Because you kept going on and on about an affair. I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I said I’d known her for ages but just started slee– seeing her.’

  ‘And lying to me was supposed to help me trust you, was it?’ snapped Martha; then she hung up.

  Still, she wanted to believe him.

  And she nearly did.

  Martha lay awake and stared at the ceiling. She wished that Jack were there in bed with her so that he could wrap his lovely taut body around hers. His skin was clean, cool, firm.

  It was easiest not to think about the possibility that the man she had loved for ten years was sleeping with someone else.

  She still didn’t want to believe it was an affair, however many people insisted that there was no other explanation. It might have started after he’d left Martha, the way it had with her and Jack.

  Why wasn’t that much of a comfort?

  He’d said he thought he could be happier living in a different way. He’d said he’d be happier alone than he was with her. God, that had hurt. An exquisite white hot fork of lightning pierced her entire body every time she replayed those words in her head or understood their consequences in her heart.

  But it didn’t hurt as much as admitting that someone else was making him happier.

  It was death by a thousand cuts.

  How did this woman make Michael happy? Did she laugh at his jokes? Assuming, of course, that he was telling jokes again. He’d stopped telling Martha jokes long ago. Did she cook better than Martha? Did she dress better? Think more logically? Would she be able to bear him more beautiful children? That thought slapped Martha like a bucket of freezing water. She looked at the photo of Mathew and Maisie that stood on her bedside table. She stretched out and caressed their faces beneath the shiny glass; she could feel their warmth and wonder beneath her fingertips. Mathew’s curly, blond hair and chubby cheeks must have been especially designed to melt her heart. She leaned forward and kissed his cherry lips. Maisie’s smile spread from ear to ear; the chocolate smudges did not distract from her radiance. Children were beautiful. Her children were amazing. Spectacular. Martha smiled to herself. None of it mattered. However this woman made Michael happy was all right by her, because Martha was all right by Martha. Martha believed Jack was right and Michael was mistaken. She was a fabulous person. The most fabulous was possibly a stretch, but she was pretty, good, kind, honest, even funny when she had the time. She cooked well, dressed well, thought well; her children were unsurpassable.

  What Martha wanted now, more than anything, was to talk to Jack. She looked at the clock; it was very late, after midnight. If she called and he was grumpy because of the late hour she’d be wounded. Or if she called him and he wasn’t alone she’d be devastated. Inconsolable. But Martha didn’t think he would be grumpy, and she did think he’d be alone. She believed it would be OK. She trusted him.

  ‘Do you think I’m a fool to believe in loyalty, wonder, fidelity? Still believe in it?’ she asked without bothering with any conventional introductions and health inquiries.

  ‘No, Babe, not at all,’ replied Jack. There was absolutely nothing in his tone that suggested Martha’s inquiry was off the wall. She loved him for that.

  Well, not really loved– that was just a turn of phrase. She wasn’t saying she loved Jack. Was she? Jack struggled in the dark to look at his alarm clock. Eleven minutes past twelve. Poor Little Miss E., obviously a bit stressed about something. He absentmindedly started to tickle his cats, who always slept with him, and thought hard how he could make things better for her.

  ‘But do you think I’m stupid, gullible even, for still believing that he hasn’t been having an affair?’ she asked.

  ‘Babe, you wouldn’t be as cool as you are if you were a cynical old cow. And you are cool,’ he reassured.

  ‘It’s just that I don’t want to stop caring despite the statistics, I don’t want to stop searching for, well–’

  ‘Love.’

  ‘Yes, despite the logistics.’

  ‘Hey, Martha, you’re a poet and–’

  ‘I don’t know it.’ Martha was beginning to feel a bit better.

  ‘Oh glum feminine angst!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh glum feminine angst! It’s an–’

  ‘Anagram, of “something meaningful”,’ guessed Martha.

  ‘Correct.’

  Martha smiled to herself. ‘My fingers are cold,’ she muttered down the telephone line.

  ‘Should I come over? I could rub them between my hands and keep them warm,’ he offered.

  ‘Yeah, do that.’ Martha beamed. That was exactly what she’d hoped he’d say although she hadn’t known it until she’d heard the words. The odd thing was, it felt as though he was offering much, much more. More than ‘I’ll love you for ever.’

  March

  41

  ‘Mathew, have you seen the lid to Maisie’s beaker?’ asked Eliza.

  Mathew didn’t reply; it was possible that he hadn’t even heard the question, so firmly was he ensconced in his own world, inhabited solely by Teletubbies.

  Eliza repeated the question three more times. Each time, her demand became more irate as she battled against Maisie’s screams and the volume of Mathew’s video. Eliza stomped towards the television set and hit the power button, nuking the Teletubbies. However, this did not create the desired effect. Instead of getting Mathew’s attention, Eliza’s actions were the catalyst for the most enormous tantrum.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ sobbed Mathew, ‘I didn’t loo- loo- lose the beak- beak- beaker lid.’ He could hardly get his words out between sobs. He threw himself backwards, bashing his head on the floor. Eliza winced and the cries exploded with renewed force. She was relieved when he rolled over on to his stomach and banged his tiny fists into the carpet, thus proving he wasn’t seriously hurt, although he was giving the impression that he’d be psychologically damaged for ever.

  Whilst Eliza didn’t really think that the tantrum was proportionate to the level of her transgression (she’d only wanted to get his attention, she wasn’t going to censor Teletubbies for the entire duration of Martha’s holiday), but she had to admit he had a point. He had not lost the beaker lid, Eliza had. And the lack of a beaker lid meant that Eliza
could not give Maisie her morning milk, and so she was screaming too. There were at least five beakers in the house, but three were missing. They’d gone AWOL, along with Laa-Laa, an indispensable tool to lull Mathew to sleep, the Calpol essential for relief during teething – particularly relief for Eliza – three socks, the rain cover for the pushchair, and oh so many other essential bits and bobs that Eliza had lost count. One other beaker was in the dishwasher, and the final one was in Eliza’s hand – but that was the one with the offending missing lid. Eliza should have put the dishwasher on last night. She opened it up and the smell of yesterday’s supper (fish curry) hit her in a nauseating tidal wave. Eliza slammed the dishwasher closed again without retrieving the beaker.

  Eliza checked the calendar. Three days down, four more to go.

  Why, oh why, had she agreed to babysit for an entire week while Martha and Jack went to New York? What had possessed her? True, Martha needed a break, deserved a holiday, but chances were Eliza would have a breakdown before her sister returned, and what an indescribably terrible way to use her own precious holiday allowance. Today, Eliza had read to the children, she’d played picture dominos with Mathew, she’d participated in an endless game of chase and a mindless game of taking clothes pegs out of one jar and hiding them down the back of the settee (the clothes pegs were at hand because Eliza was using them as her first line of defence against the horrible nappies). She’d dressed both children, successfully fed Mathew his breakfast and was currently working on Maisie’s. It was still only ten to eight.

  The phone started to ring. Eliza knew that it would be Mrs Evergreen offering to help. Eliza would have loved to accept Mrs Evergreen’s offer; in fact she’d have been more than happy to move out and allow her parents to move in and take over all responsibilities. They were, after all, grandparents, they probably enjoyed changing nappies. However, she knew that she would assure her mother that ‘everything was under control’ as she had yesterday (when in reality everything was underwater or at least her mobile phone was – Maisie had dropped it in the bath). It was a matter of pride. Eliza snatched up the phone.