The Other Woman's Shoes

by Adele Parks

  ‘I’ve had a really excellent night, Jack.’

  ‘It was cool, wasn’t it, Babe?’ smiled Jack, resting his hand on Martha’s thigh.

  Martha revelled in the moment. She checked her body. She started with one foot, carefully rotating it, nothing. She lifted both feet a couple of inches off the ground and then lowered them again. Her legs didn’t ache. She rotated her neck, it didn’t click, and it didn’t sting. Finally she leaned forward to stretch her back, it wasn’t throbbing.

  ‘What’s up, Babe, too much exercise?’ asked Jack cheekily.

  ‘No, the opposite,’ smiled Martha. She’d been wondering where all that suppressed irritation that she used to live with was now hidden. There was no sign of a tense headache, or a pain in her lower back; she didn’t have heavy legs. ‘I feel so comfortable, really happy,’ she beamed.

  ‘Yeah, these are great seats. Recaro sports seats are an improvement to the Subaru Impreza WRX. The old Impreza turbos didn’t used to have seats as good as this.’ He adored his car, but… Martha considered punching him. He should have understood her. She meant emotionally comfortable, not his bloody car seats. She turned to glare at him. He was grinning again.

  ‘Oh, I see, a joke.’

  ‘Joke, Babe,’ he confirmed. Then he added, ‘We’re cool, Babe.’

  Cool. Jack-speak for comfortable.

  It was a perfect night. It wasn’t stressful or complicated. No one rowed or bickered. It wasn’t demanding. No one needed escorting to the loo – well, except for Sara, but that was so they could talk about make-up, not because she needed her bottom wiping. No one demanded anything of her or expected anything of her. No one was disappointed in her. Everyone seemed to want to be with her. Especially Jack.

  On the journey home it started to snow.

  ‘We might win our white Christmas bet,’ said Martha with excitement.

  ‘We might, Babe. Stranger things have happened.’

  Flurries of flakes danced in the car’s headlights, as though they were driving in a Hollywood film. Next we’ll be having sex in front of the open fire, thought Martha (which actually proved a correct prediction). Martha thought that the flakes looked like dancing fireflies. Jack said they reminded him of that moment in Star Wars.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Millennium Falcon as it jumps into hyperspace.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Still, it was romantic watching the snow. Martha was being romanced and she loved it. They fell silent again; the only sound was the swish of the wind-screen wipers and the crunch of the car tyres packing the snow into the road. Martha hoped the snow would last long enough for the children to see it in the morning. She considered waking them up when she got home so they could have their first-ever glimpse.

  ‘You are not a job, or money in the bank, you’re not even a beautiful snowflake,’ said Martha.

  ‘Fight Club?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You just quoted from Fight Club, Martha. Or to be exact misquoted,’ said Jack, grinning. He was obviously astounded and impressed.

  ‘I did, Jack,’ laughed Martha. She felt as though she belonged in an elite club.

  It was a perfect night. All of it. Well, except the bit when Jack was getting petrol and Drew asked her, ‘So, are you two an item yet?’

  ‘No. I’d definitely know if we were,’ said Martha, smiling, rather pleased with her quick answer. She knew that it was the kind of cool answer that Eliza would be proud of.

  ‘So what’s the difference between you two and a couple?’ chipped in Sara. They’d only just met, but they were both female and therefore knew, absolutely knew that they liked each other, really liked each other, and therefore could cut the small talk. If they’d been male, it would have taken another fifteen years before they moved the conversation on from designer beers and the hilarity of Yoda twirling his light sabre in Attack of the Clones. ‘I mean, you seem really good together. You go out together, you have a laugh, you chat, you obviously care for each other.’

  ‘Well, we’re exactly like a proper couple in every way except that we can sleep with other people if we want to,’ explained Martha.

  ‘Do you sleep with other people?’ asked Sara, not sure whether to be impressed or horrified.

  ‘Not really. Well, no. Actually, I don’t.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Oh.’

  So it was a perfect night, apart from that.

  30

  Martha woke up on Christmas Day and wished it was all over. She wished it was the end of the day, and that she was falling asleep with a hideously distended stomach and a woozy head. It wasn’t the children’s tantrums that she was dreading. It wasn’t the threat of family bickering. It wasn’t the near-certainty that she was about to unwrap an unimaginable number of bottles of bath salts and packets of pot-pourri, even though she still had a drawer stuffed with last year’s supply. These minor irritations were all part of Christmas and, in a way, Martha rather welcomed them because they were certainties. The thing that made her wish the day was over was the horrible expectancy.

  She blamed Hollywood.

  Because it was Christmas Day, she knew that her mother and her son, and to a lesser extent her father and even her sister, had expectations of Michael. In truth, so did she. If they were in a film, he’d arrive with a huge bag of gifts for everyone, really thoughtful gifts. He’d tell her it was a terrible mistake, that things had got out of hand, that he couldn’t live without her. They’d forget all the awful things they’d said to each other because both of them were sensible enough to know that things said in anger were never meant. He’d fling his arms around her and say he was never going to let her go again. Martha couldn’t help but think of the Christmases gone by. They’d been so happy. Martha couldn’t remember them ever having a single row on Christmas Day. How many couples could say that? Last year had been wonderful, hadn’t it? Martha thought so. But maybe Michael didn’t.

  It sickened Martha to think that even now, if it were possible, she would scrub it all out. Erase the last three months. She’d forgo the new wardrobe, the hilarious nights spent with her girlfriends, the size-eight figure, and even the fantastic sex with Jack. She’d swap it all to be just where she was before. In Michael’s arms. In Michael’s esteem.

  She’d rewind to put her family back together.

  That’s what Christmas did to you.

  And bloody Hollywood.

  God, this was confusing. Why couldn’t she think badly of him, or well of him, for longer than five consecutive minutes? How was it possible that sometimes Jack disappeared from her mind completely, and yet in another way she felt he was with her all the time?

  Michael had visited Mathew and Maisie on Christmas Eve morning, before Mr and Mrs Evergreen had arrived. Eliza had called him a coward and said that it was pretty crap that a grown man couldn’t face a pair of oldies square on, which, as Martha pointed out, was hardly likely to encourage him to join them on Christmas Day. He’d made his plans very clear; he was going to his own parents for Christmas Day. Martha sent her love and carefully chosen, elaborately wrapped gifts.

  But, despite the facts, there was still the expectancy.

  Mrs Evergreen knocked on Martha’s bedroom door and walked straight in. ‘Happy Christmas, Darling. Mathew has already opened his stocking. I tried to convince him it’s too early to get up but–’

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, look what Father Christmas has brought me.’ Mathew’s excited voice cut across his grandmother’s. He charged into Martha’s bedroom and jumped on to the bed.

  Martha swung her legs out of bed and pulled her face into an expression of curiosity, although in reality she had picked out all of the children’s presents, alone. And neither Father Christmas nor the biological father had contributed to the process. ‘Where’s Maisie?’

  ‘Eliza is giving her breakfast. Come on, Love, put your dressing gown on and let’s go downstairs, your dad is making a fried breakfast and heating croissa
nts.’

  This year it had seemed sensible for Mr and Mrs Evergreen to stay at Martha’s for Christmas – Eliza was already there, as were the children’s toys. Despite not being on their own turf, they were still clearly in charge. Martha was grateful and surrendered herself to their care.

  As usual, the Evergreens had a hearty cooked breakfast, then champagne and croissants. One of the advantages of all the family staying at Martha’s was that nobody had to worry about staying sober to drive home, so the alcohol started to flow even before daylight. They opened their stockings. Father Christmas had been particularly creative this year. He’d opted for lager-and-lime flavoured condoms, a fake tattoo and a copy of the Kama Sutra for Martha (‘Thanks, Eliza’), a desk tidy and a new leather wallet for Eliza (‘Thanks, Martha’), rather than the more traditional chocolate coins and satsumas of years gone by. However, Mr Evergreen did still receive socks and golf tees, and Mrs Evergreen padded coat-hangers and little sachets of lavender.

  Mathew fought to open everyone’s presents, whilst Maisie didn’t want to open even her own. She sat under the Christmas tree playing with her oldest toys and seemed to be showing a sudden but particular affection for those that were cast-offs from Mathew. They all went for a walk to the local park and pushed the children on the swings whilst the turkey cooked. When they got home Martha found she couldn’t hold out any longer; she called Michael.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Martha, with all the sincerity of a satan-worshipper promising a Jehovah’s witness that yes, she would read the little pamphlet.

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘That’s lovely, Martha. Quite a twist on the traditional greeting, which, if I’m not mistaken, goes something along the lines of “and a Happy New Year”.’

  ‘Yes, and it concludes “To you and yours”. Well, you bastard, for your information, yours are having a wonderful time.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Were you ever going to ring to wish your children a happy day?’

  ‘Yes, I was, Martha. But it’s only eleven-thirty.’

  Martha was a little surprised to hear this. Of course, Mathew had been up since five and the rest of the family had had to succumb to the pressure of his jubilation at about ten past five. Everyone had finished breakfast by eight. Martha had assumed it was later in the day, and that was why she was so furious with Michael for not calling. Aunty Flo from Australia had called. Her friends Claire and Dawn had called.

  ‘The children have been up since the crack of dawn, and if you had any idea about your children you’d know that. You bastard.’

  ‘Marvellous, Martha, yet more of your tirades of abuse. I’d really prefer it if you didn’t swear.’

  ‘I do know that you’d prefer me not to swear, Michael, you selfish wanker, but sometimes I find it helps me through the day.’

  ‘Look, Martha, I’m not having the best Christmas either. My parents are arguing over the temperature they ought to set the oven at, my grandmother is insisting on retelling her stories of Christmas during the Blitz for what really must be the tenth time today, and Harry and Becky have just arrived with their kids. I miss mine.’

  ‘Not enough to call, though.’ Martha hung up because she didn’t want Michael to hear her cry. What bit of evolution dictates that being elegant, charitable and generous was impossible on Christmas Day? Martha didn’t get to church because she sat on the sofa sobbing, wondering how, if he was so unhappy, he could still prefer being there rather than here with her and her wonderful children.

  Fuck, this was cruel.

  By the time Eliza, her parents and the children came back from church Martha had reapplied her make-up and pinned her smile back on.

  ‘Those are the last tears I’m going to cry over him,’ she whispered to her mum. Her mum hugged her and had the good sense not to comment how unlikely that was.

  Greg visited to drop off presents for everyone, which clearly delighted Eliza, although she tried to appear annoyed and intimate that his presence was intrusive. She claimed that she was furious with her mother for insisting that he join them for dinner.

  ‘Where’s your Christian spirit, Eliza?’ hissed Mrs Evergreen. Eliza didn’t reply; she was far from religious and the only spirit she had at Christmas, or at any other time, was the liquid bottled variety. ‘We can’t let him go home alone on Christmas Day. You, more than anyone, must know that there’ll be nothing in his fridge.’

  Eliza popped her head around the sitting-room door. Greg was lolling on the floor with Mathew. It looked like Greg had worked out how to play the electric guitar Mathew had been given. Everyone else had tried to make music with it earlier that morning but with zero success. Maisie was sat propped against his legs, gurgling happily. Mr Evergreen was forcing a beer on Greg, clearly delighted to have another male to even up the numbers. He was feeling vulnerable – so much hysteria, so many tears, and they hadn’t even listened to the Queen’s speech yet, which was guaranteed to set off Mrs Evergreen. Even Martha was smiling as she answered Greg’s questions. The first proper smile she’d treated them to all day.

  Eliza knew when she was outnumbered.

  Besides, she wanted to see what Greg would make of the mince pies; she’d made them herself. No, really, even the pastry. Well, she had at least rolled out that pre-packed stuff she’d bought at the supermarket. There was no need to create unnecessary work.

  Martha was pleased to see Eliza laugh and joke with Greg; it was a little bit like the old days. It was funny to see Eliza evict Mathew from his preferred seat next to Greg so that she could sit there. She’d had to bribe him with pulling all the crackers on the table. Martha was very happy for Eliza, who was obviously going to get her Hollywood ending this Christmas. Providing, of course, she didn’t do anything really silly again, and with Eliza there was never any guarantee that she wouldn’t do something really silly. It was crystal clear that Greg made Eliza happier than anyone else had ever been able to. And from what Martha could glean, Greg was still entirely smitten with Eliza. She supposed it was better that one of the sisters was happy.

  ‘Is that your mobile?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘Oh, must be.’ Martha jumped up.

  ‘Hello, Babe.’

  ‘Jack!’ Her nipples sprang up at the sound of his voice, which she felt a little bit bad about. It was Christmas Day, and she was within her parents’ earshot.

  ‘Are you having a good Christmas, Little Miss E.?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now.

  ‘Just wanted to call and see how you were getting on. How are the little dudes? Are they having fun?’ Martha took the rest of the call outside the dining room. When she returned, her mother was serving up the Christmas pudding and no one alluded to the call.

  ‘Ouch, I think I’ve swallowed a filling,’ yelled Martha.

  ‘No, that will be the sixpence,’ said Mrs Evergreen. ‘You have to make a wish.’

  Martha suspected a certain amount of fixing the odds so that the ‘lucky sixpence’ ended up in her serving. The rest of the family all smiled politely, but obviously suspected the same. Martha made a silent wish. She wished that Eliza would ‘see sense’, because she didn’t have a clue as to what to wish for herself.

  January

  31

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a roaring success as a method for you, was it?’

  ‘No, I can’t say it was. Mar, I don’t think I can go on much further with my search,’ groaned Eliza.

  ‘You’ve dated some of the most scintillating and eligible men in London, Eliza,’ insisted Martha.

  ‘I know. That’s what worries me.’ The girls giggled and then paused to sip their coffees.

  ‘So, if making a list of your criteria for a desirable man is failing so dismally for you, why do you think it will be any more productive as an exercise for me?’ asked Martha.

  ‘The productive bit is knowing and asserting what you want. The tricky bit is actually getting a man to meet the brief.’

>   ‘I’m fine as I am. I’m having loads of fun with Jack, and I’m not looking for anything more than loads of fun.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eliza sank into one of her silences that definitely meant she disagreed. She didn’t disagree that Martha was having fun with Jack – that much was obvious. What worried her was that when it stopped being fun, which undoubtedly it would – and probably sooner rather than later – Martha didn’t have a back-up plan, and everyone should have a back-up plan. It was clear to Eliza, and to every adult in the Western world other than Martha, that this party with Jack wouldn’t, couldn’t, last. Martha was bound to fall in love; worse still, she’d show it; worst of all, she’d tell him; and then he’d run a mile. Eliza agreed with Martha, he was gorgeous. He was witty and winning and hot; that was the problem. A man like that was not going to take on a ready-made family, he had too many options, too many possibilities.

  It was possible that his role in life was as a Sex God destined to service the women of west London. But why put such a small geographical limit on it? He’d service women north, south, east and west of London, and all over Europe, and also the States. He’d give pleasure where he could. He had no concept that each time he gave pleasure he gave pain too. Because, from what Martha said, after they’d done Hope, they did hope he’d be around for longer than the time it took to have breakfast. It was human nature that hope slipped into expectation, and where was Martha in all this? Heading for meltdown, that’s where. Eliza just thought it would be a good idea to have a back-up plan. Maybe if Martha made a list of the criteria for her perfect man she would have to notice and concede how far away from that ideal Jack was.

  ‘You said that you might take other naked friends when all this started,’ Eliza insisted.

  True, Martha had said that, but she’d never believed it. She wasn’t the type. She was a serial monogamist, as unfashionable as it clearly was. She’d said she might take up the naked-friend option just as a way to excuse Jack for doing the same.