The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  Since Michael’s departure, Martha had skipped her monthly hair appointment; sometimes it had been all she could do to get dressed in the morning, and the level of commitment necessary for grooming – visits to the beautician, hair appointments and the like – was beyond Martha’s resources. But just before Christmas she decided that she did need to do something about her hair. When she mentioned, just in passing to Jack, that she was going to the hairdresser’s, he asked, ‘What are you having done?’

  ‘Oh, probably the usual, a trim. I’ve worn my hair this way – well, a bit neater and shorter than this but more or less this way – for ages now. For ever actually. I am thinking of growing it.’ Martha hadn’t realized she was thinking of growing it until she heard herself say so.

  ‘Cool,’ smiled Jack, ‘you’d suit it shaggy and a bit messier. Then again, I bet you’d look gorgeous however you wore your hair.’ Then he kissed her, and then they had sex on the kitchen table.

  The kitchen table!

  Martha contemplated that the most fun she’d had on the kitchen table in the past was making the invites for Maisie’s party. There was no competition.

  Jack always wanted to know what she’d bought in the shops that day, what she and the kids had for lunch. He asked her what her plans were for the weekend, what she’d bought as Christmas presents for her parents. He asked her what he should read, whether she liked the Fun Lovin’ Criminals CD, their second album, 100% Colombian. He assumed she’d have a viewpoint, and she was surprised to find that she did. He was the only person she knew who didn’t think of her as Michael’s, which somehow (and she couldn’t explain this either) allowed her to talk about anything from the mystery of why there was an increase in peanut allergies (Martha and Jack agreed that they hadn’t known anyone with a peanut allergy when they were at school), to whether she thought it would be erotic to wear a blindfold during sex (yeah, probably, just the once, just to try). The sheets they loved on soaked up her pain and past like blotting paper.

  And whilst they talked about everything, Eliza warned Martha not to talk to Jack about her relationship with Michael. She said he’d tire of it. And Martha did try to keep that sad, messy side of her life quite separate from the fun, indulgent bit. She didn’t want to pollute the fairytale world they were constructing, but it was hard not to talk about it after, say, she’d just had a conversation with Michael that went along the lines:

  ‘We need to talk about money, Martha.’

  ‘Oh.’ Martha rarely thought about money.

  ‘Yes. As you know, I’m renting and that’s certainly not cheap.’ Whose fault was that? ‘And this place is far too big for just the three of you.’

  ‘There’s four of us including Eliza.’

  ‘Well, Eliza isn’t a permanent fixture, is she?’ Who was? ‘We have to put the house on the market.’

  Martha called Jack, and he told her that he’d had a dream about Kylie the night before, and at the critical moment of penetration, Kylie had turned into Martha.

  It cheered her up.

  ‘Don’t worry about him, Little Miss E. He’s the same old show.’

  ‘That’s a song title – Basement Jaxx.’ Martha grinned; she was getting the hang of this, she had the measure of him.

  ‘No, it was me. I meant it for real.’

  And Martha would call Jack if she’d completed all the tasks on her day’s list and was lapsing into grim feelings of purposelessness because she was reminded of how her role as a wife had been wiped away. If, like at Mathew’s playschool nativity play, she ached with loneliness and an unbearable, overwhelming feeling of emptiness because Mathew was the only one there without a daddy and Martha the only one there without a husband, she would ring up Jack.

  ‘God, life sucks, doesn’t it? “Your father was a hamster, your mother stinks of elderberries”,’ said Jack.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Monty Python, Babe, don’t you recognize it?’

  ‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’ giggled Martha, and for a moment she forgot that her life had veered away from her plan. For a moment she just enjoyed herself.

  ‘The roads, the sanitation,’ replied Jack, and then he suggested all sorts of other roles Martha could play besides housewife: nurse, schoolgirl, straightforward tart.

  He wanted her. He lusted after her. She made him laugh. He thought she was sexy. He thought she was clever. He thought she was interesting. And if he thought it, this beautiful, intelligent Sex God, then maybe, just maybe, it might be true.

  He always called when he said he would, which was often several times a day. He always visited when he said he would, which was frequently, and he’d arrive bearing dinner, instead of expecting Martha to cook for him. It was the party season so it was nearly impossible to secure a babysitter, but Jack didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t think staying in with Martha was boring. He didn’t rush to do other jobs, to call friends, to go on line, he didn’t read trade journals and ignore her. At first Martha found these stretches of time that they spent together – doing, well, nothing really, nothing very constructive – intimidating. She wanted to dash about the kitchen and bake cakes, or wrap Christmas presents or clean cupboards. She liked doing things that proved, categorically, that she was useful, purposeful. But Jack seemed happy just hanging, as he called it. Chatting, laughing, telling stories, just being. Sometimes, if they were feeling really energetic, she might get out an old photo album and entertain him with photos of herself at college.

  ‘You haven’t changed at all, have you?’ He smiled.

  Martha looked at the photo that Jack was holding. A slim giggling girl beamed back at her. The girl was wearing a clingy white T-shirt and a pair of ripped and faded jeans, she was sporting huge hoop earrings, which had been fashionable in the early nineties, she wasn’t wearing socks, just trainers. The girl was in a bar with a group of friends. Martha knew when the photograph had been taken: just minutes after she’d finished the last exam in her finals. That girl believed all of life’s tests were over; that’s why she was giggling with such confidence and abandon.

  Little did she know that her life was going to be a series of tests. And that she’d fail the biggest one before she was even thirty-three. Martha hadn’t been able to hold her marriage together despite trying so hard, despite wanting it so much. Martha felt a huge wave of nausea wash over her body. She felt like she’d let down the girl in the photo. Her life was a catastrophe, she’d flunked.

  As though Jack were reading her mind, he carefully repeated, ‘You haven’t changed at all, have you? You look just like you did then.’

  Martha was wearing jeans and T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing any socks or shoes but her nails were beautifully manicured with a deep scarlet polish. She did look a bit like the girl in the photograph. ‘Do I ever look that carefree? That optimistic?’ she asked him. She knew he’d tell her the truth. They’d promised never to tell each other any lies. Martha believed in Jack’s honesty not least because he said honesty made his life easier and he was a big fan of easy lives.

  ‘Yeah, Little Miss E., you’re always laughing. You’re one of the smiliest people I’ve ever met. You’re very chilled and, considering what you’re going through, I think you’re amazing the way you’re managing to remain relaxed and relatively carefree. But there’s only you who can say if you honestly feel optimistic. Do you?’

  She paused and considered the question, and then answered carefully. ‘Sometimes.’

  She felt optimistic when he slid his hand under her top. His hands were huge and her body was slight so they wrapped all the way around her ribs. He started to kiss her, gently chewing and sucking and pulling on her lips. And then not so gently. Her body responded immediately, arching towards his. They were lying on the floor; they rarely sat on the sofa or chairs but preferred to loll about like teenagers. He pulled her closer, rolled on to his back and in one swift movement she was lying on top of him and then he pushed her body away so she was astride him. His hand was still fl
at on her ribs. He moved his thumb a fraction so it touched the curve of her breast. A bolt of excitement shot up from between her legs through her body, she grinned her encouragement, and leant in to try to kiss him again, but he held her at a distance, making them both wait. His hands started to move, they were everywhere, grabbing her arse, teasing her nipples, caressing her neck. She pulled her top off and sat facing him, half-naked.

  ‘I love your fantastic pert tits, they are so sexy,’ he said as he leant in to suck them. And whilst Martha had never been a fan of her tiny boobs, suddenly she was proud of them. She looked down at her magenta nipples erect under his attention and had to agree: they were sexy, she was sexy. They slipped out of their clothes, neither of them paying much attention to who was undressing who; the important thing was to feel their skin against the other’s as quickly as possible. He flung her about, but in a way that made her feel safe and protected, not abused or endangered. They ran their fingers and tongues over one another, hers along the shaft of his penis, over his balls, grabbing his buttocks. His hands were between her legs, inside, outside, inside again. When their fingers couldn’t touch enough of each other, couldn’t cup, grasp, grab enough, they used the flat of their palms, then the soft underside of their forearms, then their whole bodies to rub up and down each other. Riding, writhing, climbing to breathtaking, awe-making, fan-fucking-tastic orgasms.

  At times like those Martha felt optimistic.

  29

  Jack had asked Martha if she wanted to come out with him, Dave, Drew and Drew’s girlfriend, Sara. They were going clubbing. Martha agreed before she’d had time to consider the implications of agreeing. She thought that was best. If she’d given it any real thought she’d have been so entirely overwhelmed with primal terror that she would most certainly have opted for another night in front of the TV watching repeats of The Bill.

  A club.

  With his friends.

  For Martha, this was like telling an agoraphobic that a nice trip to the Sahara would be a fun experience. A club was a minefield. A real club was much more risky than a tacky Salsa bar. Martha had a feeling that a bit of random hip-swaying would not be enough. And what if his friends didn’t like her? That sort of thing could ruin a relationship. Jack was exceptionally open-minded and accepting; Martha was suddenly struck by a fear that he was in fact simply being charitable and that, after all, she was a geek, a freak. His friends would certainly notice this. How do people dance nowadays? Martha used to be quite a good dancer, for someone who was tone deaf. But that was a long time ago. In her day (and she was well aware that starting a sentence with the words ‘in my day’ put her on a par with her grandmother, but in her day), it had been enough to blow a whistle and wave your hands in the air – in a way that was reminiscent of someone frantically trying to put out a chip-pan fire. It had worked. She wasn’t sure if it would be adequate now. She asked Eliza, ‘Have you heard of a club called Fabric?’

  ‘Oh yeah, it’s v. cool.’

  Her comment hardly encouraged Martha. ‘Erm, what sort of music do they play?’

  ‘It’s a mixed bag. There are a number of different rooms all playing different tunes, house, hip-hop, breakbeats.’

  ‘Oh.’ Well, that’s cleared that up.

  ‘It’s huge, it’s really easy to get lost.’

  Martha might have to resort to that. Was it worth asking? ‘And – erm – what sort of clothes do people wear?’

  ‘Anything goes.’

  Very helpful.

  Martha assumed, even with her limited knowledge, that ‘anything’ did not include a smart navy twin set or a nice pair of suede pumps. Martha looked in her wardrobe in disgust. She couldn’t remember or even imagine how she’d ever found any of her old gear acceptable. And Jack had seen all the new stuff. What to wear?

  Unfortunately, one of Jack’s many qualities was that he was very prompt. He arrived when he said he would, which was about an hour before Martha was expecting him.

  ‘Are you going in that? I’m not complaining, you look stunning.’

  Martha had answered the door in her underwear and she still had a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

  ‘Very funny. Come in before I catch my death of cold or, worse still, Mrs Benton at number four calls the vice squad. She’s very hot on Neighbourhood Watch. I can see her nets twitching already.’

  Jack laughed, as though he thought Martha really was funny.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know what to wear.’ Martha immediately regretted confessing this and wanted to rip out her own vocal chords. Such an admission exposed her as uncool, not very together.

  However, Jack just smiled. ‘Naturally, you’re a girl. Come on, show me the choices.’ Jack followed Martha upstairs and she punched the air because not only had he called her a girl (which was only insulting when you were one, once you were a woman you hankered after this politically incorrect endearment), but also he cared what she was going to wear.

  Naturally, as Martha had been married for several years, she was very used to the process of getting ready in front of someone. It went like this. She would try on several nearly identical outfits (black, knee-length, cap-sleeved dresses if they were going out to dinner, or Gap jeans and crisp white shirts if they were going to the cinema). After trying on all the nearly identical outfits several times, Martha would naturally select the one she had tried on first. She’d look in the mirror and be happy with the choice.

  For about ten seconds.

  Then she would turn to Michael and expect him to bolster her flagging self-esteem.

  ‘How do I look?’ she’d tentatively ask.

  ‘Nice,’ he’d reply, and sometimes he’d even look at her.

  Martha was never convinced. If she looked nice she wouldn’t have to ask.

  Martha knew the routine so she was stunned when Jack actually flicked through the hangers in her wardrobe whilst saying things like ‘That’s very sexy, have you tried that on?’ or ‘You always look stunning in that one, and I love it when you wear it with boots.’ He didn’t mind that she tried on numerous combinations and on more than one occasion made suggestions like ‘Try that top on again but with the skirt.’ He said she looked drop-dead gorgeous in the outfit they finally agreed on. Martha was beginning to worry that Eliza was right after all; he was too good to be true. Obviously he was gay.

  But then he cupped her boob, kissed her neck and made them late because they shagged each other senseless in front of the mirror.

  As they approached the club, Martha was instantly reminded of one of the many reasons she’d given up clubbing. It was December, she was scantily clad and there was a queue stretching all the way to Newcastle. The bouncers were textbook. Huge, about six feet in both directions, wearing black, and they’d taught Vinny Jones how to enunciate. Obviously they were not letting the freezing would-be-clubbers in, even though chances were the club was empty inside; its rep entirely depended on the length of the queue and the difficulty of gaining access. The only thing that pleased a bouncer more than making the punters queue unnecessarily was seeing their aggrieved faces as members or those on the guest list hopped to the front. Martha had thought this practice insulting and unfair, until she discovered Jack was a member and she enjoyed a fleeting feeling of importance as her gang swept up to the red rope and were quickly ushered inside.

  Jack’s mates were nice. They seemed to think that Martha was perfectly entitled to be there. No one suggested that she went home and started scouring the grill. They laughed at her jokes and not her dancing, they didn’t mind that she drank white wine, or anything else she liked, as long as she stood her round, and they took it as read that she was ‘with Jack’. Jack led Martha around the club by the hand. Not obviously, not stamping his ownership of her, but in a quiet, private manner. He’d hold his hand out behind him and wave his fingers until she caught it, then he’d squeeze it tightly. He chatted to her whilst pointing out B celebs, introducing her to people he knew, discussing the tunes. He kissed her neck
and lips, told her she was stunning, he made sure she had a good time.

  Dancing turned out to be fine.

  Fun.

  Fantastic, actually.

  Martha was gratified to note that the aciiiiiiiiiiidddddddd hand-waving popular in her day had made a sort of comeback (if it had ever gone away, perhaps it had just kept going, she’d never be sure). A bit of waving your arms in the air and shaking your booty appeared to be all that was required.

  Jack was such a good dancer that Martha wondered if she should be intimidated; surely she should be, and surely she would be – if she didn’t keep having such spine-tingling, hair-raising, eye-popping flashbacks. It was impossible to forget that less than a couple of hours ago this man had slid himself inside her as he’d looked at her with outrageous, tormenting intensity. After that intimacy it would seem a little inappropriate to worry about the modernity or otherwise of her moves on the dance floor. They moved together, coolly swaying their hips as though they were joined. They incited looks of both admiration and envy and Martha knew they looked good together. They looked as though they belonged together, as though they were together.

  Martha was startled when she looked at her watch and realized it was way past midnight. Jack saw her checking the time and said, ‘You’re right. We’ve the babysitter to think of, we should start making tracks.’ Such consideration. Martha could have kissed him.

  So she did.

  Drew and Sara came too as they wanted to cadge a lift off Jack; Dave stayed on at the club as he was on the promise of a totally different kind of ride. Drew and Sara took immediate advantage of the back seat and giggled and chatted with each other in the way couples do when they want to block out the rest of the world. Martha smiled happily. Their exclusivity gave her and Jack time to talk. She collapsed back into her seat and turned to Jack.