The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  It was nice to share the old jokes. Over the last few months they’d been so angry with one another and themselves, humiliated by their failure, disillusioned and disappointed, that it had been impossible to spend any time together relaxing like this. Michael sat facing her, smiling gently, as was his way. He had been such a gentle man when she’d first met him.

  His smile acted like a key, turning slowly in a lock and allowing a door to be prised open. Suddenly, Martha was submerged in memories that she thought she’d buried. Their first holiday together: a terrible, cheap package holiday, because in those days they both earned peanuts. They’d walked miles each day to find a quiet beach and to avoid the lager-lout, tabloid-reading tourists. Martha’s new sandals rubbed, causing blisters, and walking hurt, but she didn’t tell him – she’d wanted to appear fitter, braver, and more adept than she was. They’d eaten in a tapas bar – the same one every night, because the entire island was overrun with appalling anglicized restaurants offering ‘genuine English breakfast with white-sliced, and fish and chips’. They’d avoided the purple liqueurs as well, and noisy, packed clubs; they’d just wanted to be alone. They’d gone back to the hotel early and made love. They’d been to a water theme park and taken photos of each other bombing down slides, photos Martha had ripped up last autumn, though the images were still with her.

  They had loved each other. Very much. He proposed on a beach in the Bahamas; he’d worked out where they’d watch the sunset from. They’d once looked at stars through a telescope together. He’d held her hair and hand when she had food poisoning. They’d painted the children’s nursery. They’d danced. They’d watched the fireworks welcome in the new millennium from London Bridge, and then they’d walked home. It had taken them until four in the morning. There were so many memories. Ten years.

  Michael must have been thinking along the same lines because he interrupted her thoughts. ‘Do you really want to start all over again on memories?’

  Martha didn’t say ‘We’ve already started.’ Nor did she say ‘But we can never catch up.’ These were the two thoughts that surged into her head almost simultaneously. Then again, Martha firmly believed in quality, not quantity.

  Michael and Martha had walked down the aisle together. That would always be important, vital. They had loved each other. Martha wanted to remember these things. She still loved him.

  In a way.

  But was it enough?

  One day she’d tell Maisie and Mathew. She’d say ‘We did love each other.’

  Jack didn’t know about Little Goblin, but he had already learnt that Martha was never simply hungry – she was always starving – never cold – but always freezing – never warm – but boiling. Her dash from one extreme to another made him laugh. Better yet, they’d found their own space. Their own sayings. One time, Martha had wanted to emphatically tell Jack that he was ‘so not just a pretty face’, but she’d muddled her words and instead she’d said ‘you are just so not a pretty face’. It had become a catch phrase between them, and always induced a disproportionate amount of laughter. He knew what her favourite book was. He brought her a glass of water to bed every night as she had a slight allergy to her pillows and always woke up coughing. It didn’t matter if she woke him because they would reassure each other that ‘it was not the cough that carried her off but the coffin they carried her off in’. It didn’t sound like much, but it was their familiarity. When she made love with Jack, she not only tasted his cock but his thoughts too. He kissed her eyelids and could see her clearly, all of her. He moved her ground, gave her especially good thoughts and memories. He was quickly becoming her universe. He’d even cut back on his mildly annoying habit of constantly quoting from films that she’d never heard of.

  But Jack was leaving.

  And she’d be alone again.

  She thought all this as she drank her glass of wine and Michael waited. They were drinking out of wineglasses that Martha had bought to replace the ones he’d taken, but earlier on they’d been drinking out of coffee mugs that they’d bought together. It was all so confusing. Much messier than she’d ever wanted her life to be.

  ‘I miss the kids, Martha.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ nodded Martha sadly, and the surprise was that she didn’t have to fight the urge to yell ‘Well, whose bloody fault is that?’ She just felt sorry for Michael. ‘What happened, Michael? Why did you leave?’

  Michael looked pained. It was clear she was putting him on the spot, but she had to understand. It had been months now and she still didn’t get it. She was probably being dense. It was probably simple to him. The way in mathematics some people think that quadratic equations are pure and beautiful, while others are blinded by them and shake and cry at the very thought. To move on it was necessary for her to totally understand when they’d taken the wrong road.

  ‘You know how we used to comment on couples in restaurants who ate together but didn’t say a word to one another throughout the whole meal?’ Michael started.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was scared we were becoming like them.’

  Martha nodded. It was true. Her life had been like the children’s goldfish (unimaginatively called Goldie – although, more amusingly, Jack called it Horn). It, too, simply spent its days, pointlessly circling around and around, forgetting that it had just visited the same place only seconds before. It gawked at life, other people’s lives, but didn’t comment, let alone participate. Martha had felt like that goldfish. ‘You could have said. We could have fixed it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Martha confidently. ‘Sometimes I’m rummaging through a drawer and I come across something that you bought me, earrings or a scarf, thoughtful gifts that remind me that you loved me.’

  ‘I did, Martha. I do.’

  ‘And I want to scream that things have changed so much. What we had was bona fide.’

  Michael no longer recognized his wife’s language, but he did recognize her mind. She was saying it was too late. She was sorry, but he’d left it too late.

  Martha wished it wasn’t. She wished that this hadn’t happened, and that she and Michael could have been in love for ever. She wished it so much she wanted to curl up in a ball and never have to stand up again.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be too late,’ said Michael.

  Martha started to cry. She was surprised that there were any tears left in her. Where did they come from? Martha had spent years and years believing that everything Michael said was gospel. She’d thought he was right about where they should live, what she should wear, even what wines she should drink, so she thought it was the ultimate irony that she couldn’t believe him now. However much she wanted to.

  ‘You broke my heart, Michael. Accept some responsibility.’

  50

  ‘And you’re happy with that decision, are you?’ demanded Eliza.

  Martha moved the phone away from her ear and glared at it indignantly, sticking her tongue out, which was very immature, but made her feel a lot better. ‘Are you saying you think I made the wrong decision?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Not necessarily? Since when have you been a big fan of Michael’s?’

  ‘I’m not, necessarily. It’s just–’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’ve managed to give two men the big heave-ho in almost as many weeks. D’you think that’s a considered decision?’

  ‘What century are you living in, Eliza?’

  ‘I’m not saying women can’t manage without men–’

  ‘Good.’ God, was there anything more annoying than a newly engaged woman? Eliza believed that the answer to everybody’s problems was finding the love of your life. She was evangelical.

  The worst of it was, Martha agreed with her.

  Providing of course that he didn’t bugger off to the other side of the globe, which actually hurt a lot and caused problems rather than solved them.r />
  ‘Look, Mar, I’m just saying that… oh, I don’t know. I’m just saying I’m sorry that it’s all so complicated.’

  ‘Yeah, I am too.’

  ‘It’s not going to be an easy day for you today, is it?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  Jack was catching the 19.50 flight to New York. Martha had decided that she wasn’t going to go to the airport with him. Her mum and dad and Eliza and Greg and even Michael had all offered to look after the children so that she could go and wave him off, but she’d declined. Martha hated goodbyes and however much she practised, she could never think fondly of them. Goodbyes were cruel. They were sad. She didn’t want to stand in the terminal and cry.

  What was there left to say?

  Over the last few weeks Jack had said some of the sweetest things to Martha, he’d given her plenty of pure and strong memories to look back on. Enough, but not too many. She was not going to live a life of regret and recollection. She was going to live a full life. Jack had never judged or categorized Martha. He hadn’t looked at her and thought ‘failed marriage’ or ‘single mum’ or ‘bored housewife’. He only saw Little Miss E., sexy, feisty, funny Little Miss E. who should be in clubs and bars and flagship fashion stores just as often as she should be at the local park or sitting through an NCT meeting. Jack had made her feel beautiful and strong and important, and the best thing was that she didn’t think she needed him to keep up the belief. She could do it on her own.

  She had to.

  ‘Mum and Dad mentioned they might pop over to yours today,’ said Eliza.

  ‘Did they now?’ Their intentions were transparent. Martha felt mildly guilty that she was such a worry to them but, mostly, she was just happy that they would be popping by. She wanted to be consumed by their unconditional love. She thought it would be more bearable watching the clock nudge around to ten to eight if her parents were with her and she had to pretend that she wasn’t watching the clock.

  ‘Greg and I aren’t up to much, either. There’s not a lot to do on a Friday night, is there?’ said Eliza. ‘So we thought we’d swing by, too. Maybe bring a takeaway over for everyone.’

  Martha was grateful. She knew Eliza had a thousand more interesting alternatives on a Friday night. ‘Thanks, Eliza, that would be lovely.’

  ‘What do you fancy: Indian, Thai?’

  ‘Bring Thai.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right.’

  Martha allowed the children to stay up later than normal. The excuse she used to them and herself was that their grandparents and aunt and uncle were coming to visit. The truth was, she didn’t want to be alone, not even for half an hour. Besides, she had no energy to fight with them about cleaning their teeth. The children realized that this was as good as it got, if you were three and under (staying downstairs after 7 p.m.) and therefore were behaving impeccably. Mathew was patiently helping Maisie to put plastic shapes into the correct holes, and he told her the names of the shapes she was playing with. It probably didn’t matter that so far he’d told her a triangle, a star and a square were all ‘rounds’. Martha put a couple of bottles of wine in the fridge but resisted opening one; she could wait until the others arrived. She surveyed her home. She was very grateful that she wouldn’t have to move. It felt like a happy home. Not at that exact moment, perhaps, but mostly.

  The early evening sunset filled the kitchen with orange light. Martha stretched to see the skyline; her view was mostly of houses and flats but, undaunted, a little bit of sunset forced its way through the congested London sky and promised 7 million people that summer would arrive eventually. Martha saw a plane overhead. She checked her watch. Of course it wasn’t Jack’s plane, it was far too early, she was being melodramatic. But she wondered who was on that plane, and who was being taken away from their loved ones.

  Or perhaps towards. Because Martha still did believe that – somehow – everything turned out OK. Maybe her OK wasn’t just yet. But she did believe in it, she had to.

  Martha had spent the afternoon tidying up. She was no longer obsessive about cleanliness or neatness. She didn’t waste time mopping her cream carpets with bleach, or washing the inside of vegetables, or alphabetically arranging her cookbooks but, because her mum was coming to visit, she’d pushed the vacuum around and cleared away the plates from the children’s tea. It hadn’t taken long. She’d also had calls from Claire and Dawn. Claire had carefully not alluded to the fact that Jack was leaving, but had frequently repeated an invitation for Martha and the kids to join her family for Sunday lunch, an invite Martha intended to take up. Dawn was more forthright, and asked Martha if she felt like shit; then she’d said, ‘Don’t answer that, of course you do.’ Martha had also gone on line and paid a couple of bills, but still the afternoon had dragged.

  Martha picked up a magazine and started to flick through the glossy pages. She no longer had to sit and count on her fingers the blessings in her life; instead, she was imbued with a general sense that she was surrounded by good things. The same good things – her children, her family, her friends. She was grateful for her time with Michael. It hadn’t worked for them, but it didn’t mean that what they’d had was meaningless. Their time together had meant a lot to her. It was still a mystery as to why it hadn’t worked; both of them had wanted it to, albeit at different times. But would the benefit of hindsight or time travel have put her in a different place? She doubted it, because she felt as though she was in a place where she belonged. She felt strong and brave in her new place, a place she would have liked to share with Jack.

  She had no idea how she would fill the time until her family visited. She had no idea how she’d spend the rest of her life.

  Martha wondered what she’d do with all the time she used to spend with Jack, the time that they’d filled with play and prattle. He’d told her about over- and understeering on cars, pixels in TV screens, how engines worked; and she’d told him about hyperbole, the conventions of Greek Tragedy and that cabbage is good for cracked nipples. Together they’d played I-Spy. They’d divided all their friends and families into types according to the world of Winnie-the-Pooh (because it was true that everyone in the end can be boiled down to Pooh, Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet, Kanga or Roo; there might be Owls too, but Martha hadn’t met any). They’d talked about which Superhero they would want to be (Jack wanted to be Superman. Martha opted out; she thought it was a lonely life being a Superhero).

  The truth was, Jack and Martha weren’t the sort of people who could change the world in any profound sense. If they could have, they would have found the cure for killer diseases and written a five-point plan for world peace. But they were just ordinary people. The best they could hope for was to avoid heart disease and obesity by eating sensibly, and to take some of the menace out of the school playground by bringing up at least two children with a set of values that prioritized love, honesty and respect.

  Martha thought it was enough. Her life was important enough.

  ‘We let ourselves in, darling,’ said her mum. Suddenly Martha was aware that Eliza was putting food in the microwave. Greg was opening wine, Mrs Evergreen was kissing her and the children, and Mr Evergreen was checking on the garden.

  ‘Where are the coasters?’

  ‘Have you been pruning?’

  ‘Do you want a spring roll?’

  ‘Have the children been good today?’

  The chatter was constant. It was clear that there had been a tactical agreement that any direct allusion to Jack was forbidden. His name was all the more glaring for its absence. They’d all come to fill her life with their love and concern, which would no doubt mean that there would be some sort of family squabble at some point in the evening, nothing serious, something about what to watch on TV, or who should nip to the garage to buy chocolate. Little things that showed that they cared about one another, rather than the reverse. Martha brightened and realized that she was looking forward to her Thai takeaway and the evening in with her family. She was looking forwa
rd to her life.

  She was going to see an Elvis impersonator. She would chat to slow old ladies in the high street who had no one else to talk to, because she’d have time to do so. She was going to put a fireplace in her bedroom. She was going to cry when her friends had their babies and not be embarrassed that she was a hysterical female and far too emotional. She was already wearing unsuitable clothes; she might take the children to Australia to visit an old school friend who’d emigrated there years ago. She was going to learn to snowboard. She was going to buy a new dining-room suite. She was going to do a flower-arranging course, no apologies. She was going to take a photo of the children every day if she felt like it, even if they were all the same. She was going to start her new job, she was going to skip meals, she was going to eat chocolate, and tomorrow she’d have fried eggs, if she felt like it.

  Martha was so engrossed in her survival strategy that her father almost had to shake her to get her attention.

  ‘Martha, ’phone for you.’

  Martha took the call in the hall. It was the least noisy part of the house. The children were overexcited at seeing nearly all their favourite people in one room at the same time, and so were insisting on acting like children. The adults seemed to be following their lead.

  ‘Martha?’ His voice was quilted with kindness, and now as always, Martha felt at once loved and loving, sexed and sexy.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Yes, you silly bugger, I know that.’ Martha wished he hadn’t called. She’d just been starting to feel brave. She didn’t want to have to go through a goodbye; she’d been very clear about that.

  ‘I’m at the airport.’

  ‘I know that, too.’ Martha sniffed silently and hoped he couldn’t hear her breaking heart and her screaming soul.