The Other Woman's Shoes (8 page)

‘I want to get married,’ admitted Eliza. She dragged her eyes from the carpet and stared at Greg. Her look was defiant, this wasn’t a romantic proposal; it was a challenge.

Greg knew this instantly. He could see the gun that was being held to his head as clearly as he could see his own reflection in the mirror.

Eliza waited. It was possible, just possible, that he’d say, ‘OK let’s do it.’ She’d even do the Vegas thing and be married by Elvis, if that’s what he wanted (although she secretly longed for a replica of her sister’s fairytale wedding).

‘I see,’ muttered Greg. ‘I think I need a drink.’

That’s not the proper answer, steamed Eliza silently. She angrily tried to force the zip of the case to close. It wouldn’t – she had to sit on it. She jumped on top of the case and bounced up and down, and centimetre by centimetre the teeth of the zip locked together.

Greg came back into the bedroom. He was carrying a half-empty bottle of whisky and two glasses. Eliza noticed that the glasses didn’t even match – typical. Greg handed her one glass, which she mutely took. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle with his mouth and sloshed generous measures into both glasses.

He had beautiful fingers.

‘So tell me again. Why do you want to get married? Because you want matching crockery and cutlery, and private health care and a mortgage?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Eliza. She knew that she wasn’t being very clear, but she couldn’t find the words. ‘I want a grown-up life,’ she offered.

‘And we’re not that?’

‘No. We’re not.’

‘I thought we were, Liza. I thought being helplessly in love was grown up.’

Eliza didn’t know what to say. She normally loved it when he called her ‘Liza’. It was so intimate because no one else ever shortened her name, never had; today she thought he was being impertinent.

Greg stayed silent for a moment and then said, ‘We should drink a toast. What do you think we should drink to?’ Eliza couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘How about, “to the end of our affair”?’ he said and then clinked his glass up against Eliza’s.

‘Er. To the end,’ mumbled Eliza, embarrassed at the unconventional nature of the toast.

Greg took a sip and then a chance. ‘Will you sleep with me one last time? For old times’ sake.’ He smiled a slow, lazy smile, which drew lines around his eyes. Still, he didn’t look his age.

Or act it, Eliza reminded herself. ‘No,’ she said as firmly as possible.

‘No,’ he repeated quietly, and dropped his head to stare intently at the glass of whisky he was holding. He swirled round the rich, amber liquid, which chased and caught the light of the late afternoon sun that was drifting into the room. The mood could have been romantic. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ he asked, forcing his gaze back upwards.

‘Yes,’ said Eliza. She examined her emotions. She was expecting to feel relieved, even a little bit jubilant. She didn’t. She felt horrible. But, she reminded herself, this was her first step on the road to respectability, and everyone knows that the first step is always the hardest.

That’s why it hurts.

Not because she’d just thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to her.

10

Martha felt wonderful. Absolutely brimming with happiness and, good Lord, excitement even. It had been a while, but now she felt marvellous. Today had been perfect. Today was the type of day when you saw a space in the supermarket car park and you managed to reverse into it, first time, no hesitation. Today was the type of day when you were able to buy absolutely every ingredient on your list for your dinner party. Even chioca. The type of day when the children played happily together (Martha had a convenient memory and had already forgotten the torturous early morning), and your sister called round unexpectedly and you had a really lovely time just doing ordinary things like eating breakfast and buying the weekly groceries.

Today was the day when the estate agent called up to tell you that your offer on your dream home had been accepted. Hurrah!

An absolutely perfect day.

‘Michael, isn’t it wonderful?’ Martha didn’t pause for his response because she knew it was wonderful and she knew that Michael would think so too. ‘It will solve all our problems. A live-in nanny, pure bliss. Somewhere to air the towels and bed linen. A decent-size garden. A Wellington room.’ Martha pronounced the words ‘Wellington room’ with the same enthusiasm other women
reserve for thanking sex gods for multiple orgasms, but Martha didn’t know that – she’d never been with a sex god and she’d never benefited from multiple orgasms.

Martha had returned home from the supermarket and immediately called the estate agent, as she had four or five times a day since they’d made the offer on the Bridleway. Martha was used to receiving the polite but uninspiring response, ‘They’re still mulling it over.’ She wasn’t aware of the estate agent’s exasperated eye-rolling at his colleagues, or of the fact that they all chorused ‘Mrs West again’ every time the phone rang. Martha would politely and somewhat hopelessly respond, ‘Oh well, let me know as soon as you hear anything.’ Her comment was accompanied by a brave smile and a renewed silent prayer: ‘Please, please let them accept our offer.’

So it was more than a surprise when the estate agent deviated from the established conversation pattern. ‘Ahh, Mrs West. I was just about to call you.’

‘Were you?’ Please, please, please God.

‘They’ve accepted your offer.’

In those four, or technically five, words, all of Martha’s Christmases and birthdays came at once.

Martha had unpacked the shopping, fed the children, played with them all afternoon, taken them to the swings, fed them again, bathed them, read them a story, prepared dinner for six, showered, washed her hair, got dressed and made up, all in an unprecedented state of exhilaration.

It was the perfect day.

Martha allowed her chatter to run on and on as she dashed around the kitchen, completing the final preparations for the dinner party. She asked Michael whether
she ought to put champagne in the fridge so that they could celebrate the offer’s acceptance. She commented that another plate was chipped. She rooted in the vegetable rack, remarking on the freshness or otherwise of each vegetable; but she wasn’t really concentrating on her own chatter. All she was thinking about was the Bridleway. The new house. Their dream home. Martha and Michael’s dreams were about to come true. The offer had been accepted. The solicitor had been instructed that it was all systems go, and that they must exchange and complete as fast as humanly possible. Martha had actually rung their solicitor at home, on a Saturday, because she was too excited to wait until Monday – she would never normally have been so bold, even if she and Michael did pay a fortune for her services. Martha was smiling from ear to ear and could not imagine ever stopping smiling.

Michael wasn’t concentrating on Martha’s chatter either. He had no view on whether Martha should put champagne in the fridge. He couldn’t have cared less that another plate was chipped, and the vegetables, for fuck’s sake, were, after all, only vegetables.

‘I wonder where everyone is? Ed and Bel are normally so prompt. Maybe the traffic is bad? Dom and Tara are always late – that doesn’t surprise me in the least. Do you think I should call?’ Martha was desperate to tell someone her news. Tara would have such good ideas for the kitchen; she’d recently had hers completely renovated. Martha coveted Tara’s taps.

‘No.’

‘No, you’re right, it looks a bit rude if I hurry them. I’m sure they’ll get here in their own time.’

‘They’re not coming.’

‘Who aren’t? Ed and Bel, or Dom and Tara? Oh Michael, you could have told me earlier, I’ve cooked for six. Did they ring? Is it babysitting problems?’ Martha continued to dash about the kitchen as she fired these questions. She decanted a bottle of red that needed to breathe, she poured olives into a bowl, she polished the champagne glasses for the second time, and she tried to ignore the surge of irritation that she felt slither up her spine. Lovely as Michael was, he simply didn’t understand the logistics of how Martha managed their lives. He should have mentioned that they’d had a cancellation. She hated wasting good food, not to mention precious preparation time. If she hadn’t been in such a good mood she might have said something.

But then, she probably wouldn’t have.

‘So who can’t make it?’ Martha was already wondering if she had any last-minute stand-ins. Would Eliza and Greg behave if she called them and invited them over? Or would they insist on smoking pot and ranting on about the unfair lack of facilities in state schools?

‘None of them are coming.’

‘None?’ Martha didn’t understand. She stopped dashing and stared at Michael.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I called them and cancelled.’

‘You cancelled?’ Martha thought she’d misheard, then all at once she understood. ‘Oh Michael, you sweetie, you want us to celebrate on our own.’ She moved towards him and went to put her arms around his neck. She pushed
aside the thought that he should have told her so that she could have saved a fortune and an awful lot of time. It was a very romantic gesture.

Michael took hold of Martha’s arms and slowly, carefully, put them back by her sides. He wasn’t looking at her. ‘I’m leaving, Martha.’

‘We’re going out?’ she asked, hesitantly, because there was something in Michael’s voice that didn’t say celebration. In fact, his body screamed hostility, frustration, shame and solitude.

Michael sighed very deeply and stared at his mobile phone. He had been fiddling with it for a while and had finally plugged it into the re-charger. ‘I’m leaving you, Martha. I’m moving out.’

The world stopped orbiting.

Martha stopped breathing.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it beating in her skull.

She’d heard his words, or thought she had, but she couldn’t have. They were all wrong, they didn’t make sense. They swam in front of her but still eluded the part of her brain that might decipher them, the part that could reassure her heart that she must have misheard Michael.

‘Isn’t it good news about the house?’ stuttered Martha. She waited for his beam, his nod. She wanted to tell her heart, ‘False alarm, just a joke.’

‘It’s over.’

‘What are you talking about?’ The voice didn’t sound like Martha’s. It was high pitched and very frightened.

‘I… I…’ Michael hesitated. He looked around the
room and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m going to a hotel.’

‘A hotel? But I don’t understand.’ And she really didn’t. ‘What’s wrong?’

Cough. ‘It’s… it’s difficult to say–’

Suddenly Martha didn’t want to hear – hard as it might be for him to say, she had the feeling that it would be much, much harder to listen to. She had to stop him. ‘Well, don’t say it. Don’t say it. Stop being silly. Let’s get on with supper,’ she said quickly. She picked up a tea towel and started rubbing the already immaculate kitchen surfaces. Silly was one of the words Martha often used when talking to the children; the inadequacy of it suddenly hit her.

Michael ignored her interruption. ‘It’s not you, it’s me. I just…’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Just what?’ she asked automatically, as a result of years of self-training in taking a polite interest. In fact, she didn’t want to know.

‘I need some space,’ he stumbled.

And Martha thought all the clichés were true after all. ‘You’re going to get space. There’s plenty of space at the Bridleway. What are you talking about?’

‘I can’t do this any more.’

‘What? What can’t you do?’ Martha demanded. Her voice was now even quieter than usual. ‘Live happily with your wife and children?’

‘I’m not happy.’

Martha swayed. She felt behind her and lowered herself into a chair.
He’s not happy
.
He’s not happy
. But she was always asking him if he was happy. ‘Are you happy, darling?’
she’d sing. ‘Of course I am, which man wouldn’t be?’ he’d reply, often accompanying his words with a quick peck on the cheek. She tried hard to make him happy. ‘Aren’t we lucky,’ he’d volunteer. Often. He often said, ‘Aren’t we lucky.’ Lucky was like happy, wasn’t it? Or at least part of it.

‘I realize this must be a shock.’

Michael’s lips moved and Martha watched them, but she didn’t know who was talking. Not Michael, that’s for certain, not her Micky, not her sweet Mikey. The intruder was wearing Michael’s shirt and jeans, admittedly. And he was wearing Michael’s watch but not his smile, and his eyes, which occasionally flicked over Martha, were dead. There was no love in them, and Michael’s eyes had always oozed love and concern. What was this imposter saying now?

‘I’m not in love with you any more, Martha. Feeling as I do, I think it would be unfair to commit to the new mortgage.’

Martha’s head exploded. She felt an intense pain inside her brain, and she thought that her head would split wide open, shatter into splinters, and tiny shards of skull would lodge in the kitchen walls. It wouldn’t be a loss. It was a useless head, anyway, and a pointless, hopeless mind that hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t suspected a thing. Indeed, quite the opposite. Martha had thought,
believed
, that she was safe from such excruciating, searing, clear pain. Because they were happy. Happily
married
, and that was like an insurance policy, wasn’t it?

‘But you’re
already
committed to me. Mortgage or no mortgage. I’m your wife,’ Martha insisted. She was
desperately trying to be logical, but she felt like Alice in Wonderland, confused, shrinking and falling.

‘I know that,’ sighed Michael, and then he too flopped back into a chair. He obviously couldn’t get comfortable, or maybe he wanted to make it clear that he really was going, because he immediately leant forward and perched on the edge of the seat. He held his head in his hands.

Martha thought, as she often thought, that he had beautiful hair. Blue black. His eyes were his best point, the eyes that had shone with love and concern, but his hair was lovely too.

They sat in silence.