The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  Martha waited until both children were safely, peacefully asleep. Jack was in the sitting room, clearing away the kids’ toys whilst half-watching cable TV. He flicked through the channels, finding entertainment when most would only be bored. He yelled through to Martha occasionally: ‘Come see Halle Berry; doesn’t she look different with long hair?’ or ‘Have you ever seen a polar bear fishing? Quickly come and see.’ Martha stood in the doorway and marvelled that he was tidying her children’s toys and that he wanted to share everything with her, everything from bathing the children to his opinion on which supermodel was most likely to go like a train. Moments like these made her sure that, however many AA manuals she read, she wasn’t going to avoid missing him.

  She downed her glass of wine along with the whiny ‘Why me? Why me’ voice that had of late persistently screeched from her heart. She picked up a colouring book of Mathew’s and roughly tore out three or four pages. Next she sought out a pen – not an easy task in these days of electronic communication. There weren’t any on the desk, the desk that she still thought of as Michael’s. The ones in the jam jar on the kitchen windowsill had dried up, and there were only pencils in the vase on the telephone table. Martha went upstairs to the bedroom and began to rummage through her knicker drawer. She had a vague memory that… Yes, she was right. A pen from Tiffany’s, a present for her thirtieth birthday. It had stayed in its box ever since, eternally awaiting the ‘special occasion’, hoping to avoid being left on someone’s desk or on a shop counter. Well, this was pretty bloody special. The perfect pen for the task. Martha began to scribble.

  49

  ‘You’re late, Michael,’ said Martha as she opened the door.

  ‘Don’t start, Martha, I’ve had a hard day at the office.’

  ‘Look, I’ve had a hard day too. I’ve been to the dentist and had a tooth drilled whilst Maisie balanced on my stomach and Mathew attacked the nurse. I’ve rowed over the phone with some NHS bureaucrat, for forty minutes, and all I wanted to do was change the time of Maisie’s appointment for her hearing test. And I’ve had a job interview. Just because my tools are jars of pasta and packets of crayons, instead of laptops and PowerPoint presentations, it does not automatically follow that my life lacks significance. My life is still as enormous as yours is,’ said Martha.

  ‘Right,’ said Michael, somewhat taken aback. He was quite unused to this new Martha that he’d encountered of late. He wondered if she’d attended some sort of assertiveness course in New York, or whether over there they pumped out aggression-inducing chemicals through their air-conditioning systems. He didn’t dare ask. The odd thing was he rather liked this confident, unabashed Martha. She reminded him of the girl he’d married.

  Michael looked around the kitchen, where they now stood, and craned his neck as he tried to see into the living room. Martha knew that he was looking for Jack, who had gone out for the evening. Jack didn’t like the idea of meeting Michael, and so far had avoided it at all costs. He knew that the middle-class, modern way was to shake hands, have a chat, behave in a civilized manner towards your girlfriend’s ex, but he wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t jealous of Michael, but he didn’t like him. He couldn’t forgive Michael for not loving Martha. He couldn’t forgive him for having the chance that he’d never have, the freedom to love Martha without any boundaries, restrictions or problems with immigration.

  ‘Jack’s not here,’ Martha said defiantly. ‘He’s gone out for the evening, but he’ll be back later tonight.’ She wanted to make it clear to Michael that she had no reason to hide Jack, and that he wasn’t secretly stowed upstairs. ‘There’s so much to discuss, we thought it better if he went out and left me to it.’ Martha adored saying ‘we’ to Michael and meaning her and someone else. A little bit of Martha would have liked Michael to meet Jack because she was sure that he would die of jealousy then. Not because Jack put his hands all over Martha’s body on a regular basis, but because Jack had amazing pecs and abs.

  Martha made Michael a cup of coffee and then they sat facing each other across the kitchen table. The decree nisi sat between them; they were meeting to discuss the final practicalities of the divorce. They were days away from the date when Martha could apply for the decree absolute. Then that would be it.

  Over.

  ‘I’ve made a list’, she said, ‘of the things we need to discuss. I’ve divided the issues into groups according to priority.’

  ‘Priority?’ asked Michael in a voice that betrayed a blend of amusement, astonishment and a dash of anxiety.

  ‘Yes, priority,’ insisted Martha, without giving away the fact that her stomach had jumped into her mouth and then sunk straight back down into the depths of her toes.

  ‘The children are our priority, surely,’ said Michael smugly.

  Martha took a deep breath. Of course she knew the children were their priority. They’d always been her fucking priority. The seemingly endless nights when she’d sat up listening to them cry. Fed them, changed them, winded them, held them, played with them and still, sometimes, they wouldn’t sleep. They were her priority when she took them to the swimming baths even though she hated swimming herself, found it quite scary. They’d been her priority when she’d given up her job and her body. They were her priority when she took them for their injections and cried on the inside as the cold, sharp needle sank into their lovely, chubby baby legs. They were her priority when she rowed with them every morning because they wanted chocolate for breakfast and they had to clean their teeth. They’d been her priority when her life had become a constant round of cleaning and wiping and comforting and disciplining. A battle against an intricate network of confounding equipment: highchairs that were always filthy, buggies that refused to fold, non-spill cups that did spill, building bricks that always found their way into the video recorder. They were always her priority.

  But they’d never really been his. Not if she was honest with herself. He’d never once got up in the night to comfort a crying child. Even now he had to ask where the nappies were kept, and he didn’t know what size Maisie took. He didn’t buy shoes or coats or vests, or any of their day-to-day needs. (Could any mother imagine walking past BabyGap and not yearning for the latest collection? Even if you can’t afford it, you want it. Apparently, that was a gene that Michael had missed out on). The children had been her priority when she’d said no to starting a fabulous new life in New York. Because even if she could have fought for the legal right to take them abroad, she knew that the best thing for her babies was to have a relationship with both parents.

  Martha thought she might explode with indignation that Michael should even hint that she ever had any other priority, but instead she took a deep breath and resisted. She wanted to concentrate on the list. If she managed to think of the list as an agenda at a business meeting and if she managed to think of Michael as a colleague, with whom she shared a joint project, they might just get through this evening without a row.

  Which would be a good thing.

  Martha was exhausted with rows. She thought she’d had enough rows with Michael to last them a lifetime.

  Her list wasn’t demanding or unreasonable, but she had decided what she wanted to save from the embers of their marriage. ‘I don’t want to have to leave the house, if at all possible,’ she said.

  ‘I agree; it’ll be better for the children if they stay here.’

  Martha looked at Michael and tried to hide her astonishment. She hadn’t expected him to concede quite so easily. ‘I’ve been looking at ways that I can take over the mortgage and increase it so that I can buy you out of your share. I’m not expecting any maintenance from you for me, but for–’

  ‘The children, absolutely. What do you suggest?’

  Martha named a figure. It was the percentage of salary that the divorce Website had recommended as reasonable maintenance.

  Michael said he thought it was a lot of money.

  ‘Not especially. That’s what the courts recommend,’ said Martha firmly.r />
  Michael agreed to it.

  ‘I’m going to get a job,’ Martha said quietly. She wasn’t sure what Michael’s response would be. While they’d been married he’d been very opposed to her working. He said that it wasn’t good for the children, besides which, it would mess up his tax returns.

  ‘Yes, you mentioned that you’d had an interview today. I think a job is a good idea, it’ll give you some independence.’

  Had anyone ever been so patronizing? But Martha held her tongue. After all, Michael was agreeing to everything that she was suggesting; she could hardly moan because she didn’t like the way he was agreeing. She waited to see if he’d ask what her job was to be. He didn’t. Martha sighed. Why should she be surprised at how little interest he had in her life?

  They slowly worked through Martha’s list. Dividing pension policies, shares, responsibilities for loans and the mortgage. It seemed inextricably complicated unthreading their lives. Luckily, their mortgage was reasonable because Martha had benefited from a big pay-off when she’d taken voluntary redundancy after finding out that she was pregnant with Mathew. That had been a piece of luck. The lump of cash had been used to reduce their mortgage. Martha had done her sums: she’d have to be careful, cut a few corners, but they’d manage. She’d sell the Range Rover, give half the money back to Michael, and still be able to afford a smaller, more economical car. She might even convert the attic and rent it out to a foreign student. It was a lovely room; it even had an en-suite bathroom. Besides, it would be nice to have the company and good for the children to be exposed to someone from another country and culture. She and the kids would be fine, no danger of starving.

  They came to the end of the list and both Martha and Michael sighed audibly. They’d managed to iron out the final details of their divorce without a row. It had taken a great amount of restraint on both sides, but they had done it. They looked at one another and smiled.

  ‘Silly to be proud of not rowing, isn’t it?’ said Martha, articulating what they were both thinking.

  Michael smiled and half-laughed. Martha was surprised to see evidence of her husband, the old Michael, flare up in this man’s face – the man she’d come to think of as a stranger. She breathed in and thought she might drown in the intimacy. The feeling lasted for a nano-second, then her husband disappeared again, leaving Martha feeling oddly bereft, leaving her wondering if she’d imagined him.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she offered. She’d kept well away from the alcohol until all the potentially inflammatory money-talk was over, but now she fancied a glass. She wasn’t sure if the drink was celebratory, or in commiseration.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ smiled Michael. He loosened his tie and threw it over the back of the chair, as he always used to. The gesture was disconcertingly familiar. ‘Did you have fun in New York?’ he asked.

  Martha knew he was trying to be friendly. ‘It’s amazing,’ she beamed.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Michael.

  ‘I can’t think why I hadn’t been there before. I should have joined you on one of your many business trips.’

  ‘Maybe you should have.’

  Martha was embarrassed. Michael had never invited her on any of his business trips. She hadn’t wanted to sound critical or regretful. It was just hard to find neutral territory.

  ‘Are you happy with Jack?’ And that certainly wasn’t neutral territory.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘You didn’t waste much time in replacing me,’ commented Michael.

  Martha thought about his comment. ‘I don’t see it like that. Jack isn’t a replacement. He’s – we’re – something in our own right.’

  ‘You’re saying you don’t compare him to me?’

  The words ‘frequently’ and ‘favourably’ shot through Martha’s head, but she resisted flicking them into their history. She said, ‘I try not to’, which was infinitely more conciliatory. There was enough hurt swilling around as it was. She didn’t want to hurt him more than necessary. It was true that Michael had crushed her dreams, cracked her heart and stamped on her life as she knew it. But if Martha was honest with herself – a skill she had rediscovered and relished – his exit had released her. She’d swapped her husband for fake tattoos, fairy lights, deep, loving, new relationships, toned thighs, scruffy jeans and a sense of self.

  They fell silent. Martha walked to the drawer to hunt for the corkscrew. She looked out of the window on to her beautiful garden. It was dark, but in the light from the kitchen Martha could just make out the spring flowers, daffodils and crocuses, were finally in bloom, the sunny yellows and sturdy lilacs danced prettily in the wind. Mathew’s swing moved a fraction. The garden looked happy and peaceful.

  Michael followed Martha’s gaze. ‘Eliza told me about Jack’s job in the US.’

  ‘Did she now.’ Martha was irritated but, luckily, she had her back to Michael and he wouldn’t have known unless he was watching her very carefully; then he might spot the fractional rise of her shoulders, as tension shot through her spine. Martha had decided to avoid telling Michael about her choice not to take the children abroad. She didn’t want him to misinterpret her actions. She hadn’t done it for him; she’d done it for them.

  ‘She told me that he asked you to go with him,’ continued Michael.

  Martha turned to face him. She put his glass of wine down in front of him and took a huge gulp of her own. ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘But you said no.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They sat silently facing one another. Martha couldn’t think of anything she wanted to say, or anything she wanted to hear.

  Conversely, Michael clearly had something he wanted to say and something he wanted her to hear. ‘Martha, I may be a million miles away from target here, and if I am, I apologize, but I have to ask; does this mean there is a chance for us?’

  Martha must have misheard. She didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean?’

  Michael looked directly at her and he had the bloody cheek to look at her with his shiny, smiley, deep-brown eyes. The eyes that she’d fallen in love with more than ten years ago. The eyes that Maisie had inherited.

  ‘I didn’t realize there was still an “us”,’ she said. Her voice treacherously cracked in the middle of her sentence.

  ‘Martha, there’s always been an “us”,’ implored Michael. ‘You, me, Mathew and Maisie.’

  Martha’s head was spinning. She blinked ferociously in an effort to keep those bloody tears at bay (what were they about?) and to try and remain focused. ‘But what about Eleanor?’ asked Martha. ‘Are you still seeing her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it an affair?’

  ‘Stop asking me that, Martha. Look, we’ve both made some awful mistakes in the last six months.’

  Had she?

  ‘We’ve both said a lot of terrible things.’

  That was true.

  ‘But it’s clear that we are supposed to be together, that we are happier together.’

  Was it? Martha didn’t know. Martha had waited for this declaration for so long. She’d waited from the moment that Michael closed the door behind him way back in September. Why had he chosen now? Was he being sentimental, or maybe had he and Eleanor had a row? After waiting for so long, why was it that Martha didn’t want to hear this? She’d thought Michael had looked happier since he’d left her, and that made a sort of sense. She didn’t want to hear that all this pain had been for nothing.

  ‘I thought that you didn’t want me, but when I heard that you’d turned Jack down, I realized that I still had a chance.’

  Martha stared at Michael, uncomprehending. It was impossible for her to follow his logic. What did he mean, she didn’t want him? Of course she’d wanted him. She’d begged him, literally prostrated herself, asking him to love her, not to leave her and her children. It was he who hadn’t wanted her. He hadn’t wanted her as she was: the housewife whose greatest ambition was having a lovely family and h
ome, whose greatest concern was Michael and his happiness. She’d felt safe with Michael. And soon safety slipped into dependency, and then nose-dived into over-dependency. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when her personality had merged with his, had been dominated and then eradicated. She’d bored him, and now she could admit that she’d been quite bored with herself, too. Now she didn’t want to be that boring person, but still she thought he was ungrateful. When he’d left she’d been faced with a huge void. She’d felt nothing. She’d had nothing. She’d been nothing.

  But now she was something again.

  She’d rediscovered herself. It hadn’t been easy. In fact it had been bloody. Jack had helped her find herself and she was grateful. She was just Martha. Not Martha, Michael’s wife; not Martha, Mathew and Maisie’s mother. Not even Martha, Jack’s girlfriend.

  It would have been nice if Michael had wanted to help Martha rediscover the more funky, hopeful girl that he’d fallen in love with, but he hadn’t.

  ‘Jack can’t know that when you get sunburnt, through flagrant abuse of the suncream manufacturer’s advice, you incorrectly insist that your red-hot limbs will certainly be “brown in the morning”,’ began Michael. Martha smiled. It was true that every summer she burnt herself, and her stubborn defence always was: ‘It’ll be brown in the morning.’ Michael had always nodded at this statement, indulging her, pretending to be convinced.

  Jack did know.

  ‘He doesn’t know that it’s funny that you always drop the soap in the shower,’ continued Michael. He was referring to the fact that Martha had tiny hands, and every single time she took a shower she would drop the slippery soap. Michael used to think her little doll-like hands were attractive and her dropping the soap made him smile. ‘Only the two of us know the mess in our home is made by Little Goblin,’ said Michael enthusiastically. Martha nodded and didn’t bother correcting him. Before the children were born, Michael and Martha had had an imaginary character that reportedly lived in the shoe cupboard: the Little Goblin. He was blamed for all mess, breakages and loss of keys. The truth was, nowadays the mess, breakages and loss of keys were likely to have been created by much more human ‘Little Goblins’; Michael didn’t know this.