The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  ‘How are you?’ He smiled his signature big, sloppy, relaxed smile. ‘You look different.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the hair.’ Eliza’s hand shot up to finger what was left of her hair. Did it make her look more grown up?

  ‘New coat?’

  ‘Yeah, erm, do you think it says young thrusting executive?’

  ‘Not really, Liza. It says – now, look, don’t be offended, but did your mum help you pick it out?’

  Eliza laughed and nodded her head.

  ‘So besides the terrible haircut and awful fashion fauxpas, how are you?’

  She should have been offended but she wasn’t. ‘Fine. Fine. Cool, cool, really good, cool,’ she twittered. He smiled again and his smile massaged her shoulders.

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘And you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not too bad, you know?’

  No, she didn’t know. What did that mean? Was he missing her? Was he heartbroken? Was he indifferent? Was he shacked up with a six-foot-two, size-eight nymphomaniac and her willing best friend?

  Why did she care?

  ‘The tour, was it…?’

  ‘A hoot, yeah. A real laugh. Back to the real world now, though.’

  ‘The real world? Selling hats?’ Eliza sniggered. She sounded unkind, which had not been her intention; she’d wanted to sound amusing.

  Greg shrugged. ‘I like it.’

  Eliza felt chastised and just wanted to leave. Her reaction to uncomfortable situations was always to leave. How many of the men she’d dated so far had said they liked their work? None of them. The most positive thing she’d heard them say was that ‘it paid well’, or that it was ‘a way of keeping busy’.

  Eliza would have made her excuses and run away but Greg asked, ‘How’s Martha?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘She’s great.’

  Greg looked puzzled. ‘I’ve called her a couple of times just to see if there’s anything I can help out on.’

  ‘Yeah, she mentioned it, but there’s no need to worry, Martha’s great. Really good, she’s shagging and it suits her.’ Once again Eliza wanted to kick herself – why did she say such stupid things? ‘I’ve missed you.’ Like that, for instance, that was a stupid thing to say.

  Because it could only lead to:

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  And what do you say to that? Eliza looked at the pile of Boots carrier bags that had been customized especially for the season of goodwill. They wished her ‘a Happy Christmas and a Peaceful New Year’. These didn’t seem like even remote possibilities.

  ‘How are the Bianchis?’

  ‘They miss you too.’

  ‘I miss them.’

  God, this was a stupid conversation. Why was she rooted to the spot? Why didn’t she just turn and walk away?

  Why didn’t he just kiss her? He hadn’t looked away from her for a second, and although she was bouncing her eyes around the store as though she had a particularly dreadful astigmatism, looking to the floor, the ceiling, the make-up counter – anywhere but at Greg – still he managed to more or less hold her gaze. At least it was a valiant attempt.

  ‘Don’t you miss it, Liza?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It. Us. The things we used to do.’ Eliza immediately assumed he meant the things they used to do in bed and so was surprised when he said, ‘Things like send silly postcards to each other.’

  ‘Forget birthdays,’ she added snidely.

  ‘Wear nothing but each other’s sweat.’

  ‘Forget to pay credit-card bills.’

  ‘Feed each other with our fingers; use each other’s bodies as plates.’

  ‘Do the weekly shop at Cullen’s, instead of a supermarket, which would have been eminently more sensible.’

  ‘Oh sensible, yeah.’ He smiled to himself and Eliza knew without him having to say it that it wasn’t as though either of them was particularly famed for their ability to be sensible. ‘Read by candlelight,’ he added.

  ‘Let wax melt into the carpet,’ she countered.

  But she sounded angrier than she was.

  Greg gave up. ‘I better get going, I’ve still got loads of shopping to do. I s’pose, as you’re really sensible now, you did all yours in November.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ lied Eliza. She was wearing mittens, which was lucky because she could cross her fingers without him seeing; she was superstitious about telling lies without crossing her fingers. That seemed really dishonest.

  ‘Right well, err, have a nice Christmas then.’

  ‘Yeah, and you.’

  Greg leaned in to kiss Eliza. Was he planning to kiss her cheek or her lips? She moved her head swiftly to remove any doubt. She thought that the disappointment might incite spontaneous tears if her cheek were his target. That had to be the hangover, didn’t it? That’s why she felt so overly emotional. The kiss landed on her ear lobe. It lasted about a nano-second and was the most erotic kiss Eliza had received in three months. Greg whispered into her ear, ‘You can change your clothes and your hair, Eliza, but you can’t change your heart.’

  Eliza sprung away. ‘You can change your mind,’ she asserted.

  ‘Yes, but not your heart.’ He turned and slipped back into the crowds of Christmas shoppers.

  Eliza watched him disappear. Greg was a man and therefore wouldn’t give a rat’s arse if someone noticed his new haircut, but… He paused, turned round and shouted, ‘By the way, Liza, the hair, I think it’s cute.’

  Yessssssssss!

  Bugger.

  28

  Martha spent her December doing exactly what she did every December. She bought Christmas cards and posted them way in advance of the deadline, as recommended by her Majesty’s postal service. She shoved her way through crowds of frantic shoppers with long lists and little time. She chose thoughtful gifts for her family and friends. She wrapped them in an extravagant number of sheets of tissue paper and attached a ridiculous amount of bows and ribbons. She threw a party for the children and their friends. She bought a turkey, baked a cake and made a pudding. She went to the carol service at Westminster Abbey. She made Mathew an innkeeper’s costume for his nativity play. She hung stockings.

  Keeping busy in this way made her life bearable.

  The only differences between this December and every previous December of Martha’s life were that this year she fought a great deal with Michael (because being elegant, charitable and generous was proving to be quite difficult in practice), and she had lots and lots of sex with Jack (because being desirable, cute and fascinating was proving to be a doddle).

  She fought with Michael because he turned down Martha’s offer to spend Christmas Day with them. Whilst Martha was accepting of Michael’s rejection of her, she was still reeling from the shock of his being able to walk away from their children. Didn’t he want to see their faces as they destroyed her handiwork of paper and ribbons? They fought because Michael wanted to take some of her Christmas decorations to decorate his flat. They fought because he bought her an extremely expensive gift for Christmas, when normally they gave each other tiny tokens. What was the meaning of the gift? Was he paying her off? Was it reconciliatory? He said not. Was it to salve his conscience? They fought because he said he was enjoying the season and Martha thought that was demonic.

  The horrible tinny renditions of ‘Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ that were pumped out in every department store depressed her. The angelic voices and faces of the children’s choir in Westminster Abbey failed to lift her. She received a number of cards still addressed to her and Michael, as many of their friends didn’t even know that they were divorcing, and this embarrassed her. All of the cards wished Martha ‘a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year’, as was traditional; it just seemed spiteful.

  They didn’t fight about Jack. Martha called Michael and told him about Jack. Her motives for doing so were complicated. She told Eliza that she wanted to be honest and straightforward;
she wasn’t one for skulking. After all, Michael had said he didn’t want her. He’d told her she was free to do as she pleased. But a little bit of Martha – just a tiny bit – was sure that Michael would find the reality of her dating different to the theory. Martha didn’t reveal to Eliza her more ignoble motives for her call – that she wanted him to be jealous. Michael was not in the slightest bit concerned that she’d met someone so quickly; in fact, his response was one of relief and encouragement.

  Martha had found that particularly insulting.

  Throughout December Martha continued to look after her children and, naturally, she did an admirable job, better than admirable. She read to them, played with them, dressed them, taught them, guarded them. She cooked and cleaned and entertained. These things ensured her life was meaningful. But it was only when she was with Jack that Martha relaxed. Her life was bearable, even meaningful, without Jack, but with him it was pleasurable too. There was joy in her day if he texted, or rang, or, best yet, visited. Jack was the excitement. He was the bit that was about her. And if there were half a dozen other women thinking the same thing about him, well, that was a risk Martha would have to take. She needed him.

  They had a great deal of sex.

  They had great sex – that was the deal.

  Martha hoped that somehow his beautiful cock would plug her enough to stop her optimism leaking away. She felt lonely a lot of the time, but when she was with him she felt a lot less lonely, and when they made love she felt nothing but wonderful. It was a relief.

  ‘Is this just about lust?’ Eliza demanded.

  ‘Lust and fun,’ twinkled Martha, giggling.

  Eliza wasn’t sure if Martha was making the distinction. She was acting like a porn star. She was wearing clingy tops and low-cut or see-through shirts. OK, they were the same sort of stuff that Eliza and all her mates wore, and OK, admittedly, they didn’t look too whorish because Martha was as lacking in the cleavage department as Eliza was, but it still made Eliza uncomfortable. Besides which, Martha kept talking about sex. ‘Have you ever taken photos?’ ‘Have you ever made a film?’ Jesus, Eliza was beginning to feel prudish.

  ‘Tell me about the fun,’ Eliza asked sceptically. She’d heard more than enough details on the lust and wasn’t sure if she could stomach much more before she imploded with jealousy.

  ‘We’ve watched some great movies on DVD.’ Naked. They watched films naked, films that Martha had never even heard of. The best bit was that they ate popcorn off each other’s bodies. This from a woman who used to lock the bathroom door when she took a shower and used to sleep in pyjamas. Now all she slept in was sweat. ‘At night he lulls me to sleep reciting Spike Milligan’s “Silly Old Baboon”. Do you remember? We read it as children.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it,’ Eliza said impatiently.

  Jack usually recited Spike after he’d shagged Martha’s brains out, at least twice, but Martha sensed Eliza’s unwillingness to hear that type of detail.

  ‘I’ve played video games with him.’ Martha now knew what a console was and whilst it was unlikely that she’d ever remember the name of the speedy, spiky hedgehog, let alone help him save the world, she had played Rez, which was as near as she’d ever get to going to a trippy, ravey gig. They’d been naked for that too. But again, Martha thought this was a fact best kept to herself. ‘We put a bet on it being a white Christmas, in a betting shop. Have you ever been in a betting shop?’ They’d been dressed that time; after all, it was December.

  ‘What’s so special about Jack?’ demanded Eliza.

  ‘Haven’t I told you?’

  ‘No. Well, you mentioned that you turn to goo when you think of him, he has a large and expert penis, he kisses a lot, and it’s convenient that he works in Holland Park. Oh yeah, you said he dresses well and it’s good news that he doesn’t drink because he can give you lifts home, but no, beyond that I’m not sure if I know anything about him.’

  ‘How odd of me,’ said Martha. She was genuinely surprised. ‘Well, where to start? He’s a fantastic friend. Nothing is too much trouble for his mates. He’s never, ever been unfaithful. Not even kissed anyone else when he’s had a girlfriend.’

  ‘That’s rare.’

  ‘Rare? I thought it was extinct until I met Jack.’

  ‘But, he does have this naked-friends thing going on, so he has a free pass when he hasn’t got a steady girlfriend.’

  Martha chose to ignore the interruption. ‘He had a less than easy upbringing. He could have ended up tough and cruel, he could have been a crook, but he took a more honourable path. He’s worked for everything he has; nothing’s been handed to him by adoring and rich parents. The only thing his parents could bequeath him was examples of right and wrong, which his father and mother personify respectively. He left school at sixteen, but he’s doing the same job as friends of mine who are Oxbridge graduates. He sold fruit and veg when he was a teenager to save up for a bike. He loves his cats, and he plays with my children with a tenderness that could split my heart. He’s special because when he walks into a room he holds his head up high and he has every right to do so.’

  ‘It’s pitiful, Martha, that you don’t see; there has to be a catch.’

  ‘It’s pitiful that you never see anything other.’

  ‘It just seems very quick to me.’

  ‘I realize what it looks like from the outside. But I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone thinks.’ Martha hadn’t realized this was the case until she said so, but having said it, she was sure.

  ‘Look, you’re scaring me. One moment you’re a Stepford wife, and the next you could be teaching Pammie A a thing or two about bedroom tricks. I’m not saying you suited being a Stepford wife – you didn’t – but you’re not behaving like yourself at all. I think you’re in shock.’

  Martha turned to Eliza and slowly said, ‘I feel like I am being more myself than ever before.’

  Eliza was disconcerted that such a little voice and little sentence could hold such force and conviction. She made a mental note to look up Post-Traumatic Stress on the web. Maybe Martha was suffering from that. ‘What about his other naked friends?’ she asked desperately. ‘Does he ever talk about them?’

  ‘I never ask.’

  Jack didn’t tell lies to Martha. Sometimes she wished he could lie to her, it would be much easier. She’d once made the mistake of asking him if he’d slept with a friend of his. She’d liked the girl until she heard his reply, which was yes. Jack had kissed Martha as he told her the truth, and Martha couldn’t work out if the kiss was to silence her or comfort her. It did both. Jack had pulled Martha to her feet and then picked her up in the way that you carry a bride over a threshold. He rocked her to and fro. Martha had closed her eyes and held her tongue. Maybe they could get over the threshold. If she didn’t ask too many questions. If she didn’t demand too many replies.

  ‘It’s simple, Eliza. It’s straightforward. We’re having fun and the way I see it, we can continue to have fun indefinitely. There’s no reason why not.’ Martha was parroting the conversation she’d had with Jack the night before; in fact it had been Jack who’d suggested that they have fun indefinitely.

  Martha had asked, ‘Is indefinitely the same as for ever?’

  And he’d replied, ‘Maybe, Baby.’

  The ‘maybe not’ had been left unspoken.

  They had lots of fun, and Martha reminded herself that this was probably because neither of them wanted to fall in love. Sometimes Martha thought she might want that. She’d try to imagine what it would be like if she could magically fast-forward her life to a point where he asked her to marry him, and they would all live happily ever after; it would be a neater life. Then she’d remember it didn’t make any difference. Marriage wasn’t a guarantee. Husbands could still up and off. The bit of paper that she’d always believed was an unrepeatable lifelong commitment – the only available magic in a secular world driven by technology, profitability and bottom lines – was, after all, a bit of paper. How
do you trust in this century? The century of mobile-phone theft and Internet porn? How do you believe that there is someone out there who transcends all that is mechanical, all that is diabolical, all that is robotic, and is love?

  Martha knew there weren’t any guarantees, just lots of get-out clauses. Naked friends was just one. For ever was a long time; maybe indefinitely was a good offer. Indefinite fun. It sounded OK. Why over-complicate it?

  Martha held her arms wide open and Maisie stumbled from her aunt towards her mother, one unsure foot in front of the other.

  ‘That’s a girl. Steady as you go,’ Martha encouraged Maisie. ‘Look up, not down.’

  Maisie and Martha were both learning to walk. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time, there was no other way. It was best not to think about anything else other than the here-and-now. Martha just had to concentrate on being happy.

  It was because of Jack that Martha noticed posters on the Tube advertising new bands or restaurants. She read new books and talked about them. She even re-read her old favourites, which meant that she never had time to hoover in the cupboard under the stairs any more. Because Jack was in her life she found the courage to visit stores that she’d never even dared look in the window of, and they turned out to be anything other than horrible. The girls in Miss Sixty seemed to think that she was entitled to try on the funky ‘distressed’ jeans. In fact, they envied Martha’s size 26 waist and asked her which diet she followed. She told them the cabbage soup one; she thought it would sound churlish to say the deserted-wife diet. In Diesel, the male assistants positively flirted with her – well, at least the straight ones did – and she smiled back in a sort of flirtatious way. No one seemed to think Martha’s status as a mother and soon-to-be-ex-wife disqualified her from looking cool. In fact, when she did say the children were hers the response was always amazement. ‘Really, I thought you were their aunt or nanny or something’, followed by admiration: ‘Wow, how did you get your figure back?’

  And Martha knew they were sales assistants, paid to flatter and make her feel good so that she’d whip out her plastic. They probably worked on commission, but still it was nice. The snobby sales assistants in the designer sections of the large department stores had never made her feel good.