The Other Woman's Shoes (26 page)

Besides all of this, Eliza was heartily fed up with the
Christmas shoppers. Why had they left it until December 22nd to do their entire Christmas shop for every single one of their friends and family and colleagues and acquaintances? Obviously she herself had had no choice, she’d been so very busy at the various parties, receptions, lunches and dinners that the media industry swamped this time of year with. Oh God, she felt far too hungover to try to tackle this seriously.

Eliza was also a bit fed up with Martha at the moment. It simply wasn’t the same staying with her since she’d met this Jack Hope. Martha was never free for girly chats any more. Well, admittedly, she would ask if such and such a pair of trousers looked good with such and such a top, and she might want to talk about new tunes, but she didn’t seem to need Eliza in the same way as she had back in the early autumn. Eliza was no longer called upon to hand out tissues, dab eyes and soothe hearts, although Martha now asked her to babysit with indecent regularity. And the other day she’d dashed into Eliza’s room and asked if Eliza had a spare condom. Bloody hell. To be honest, Eliza was finding it all a bit embarrassing. Knowing her older sister was having sex was only one step removed from knowing that her parents were. Horrible thought. Traumatic.

Speaking of her parents, Eliza was also fairly miffed with Mr and Mrs Evergreen. The fact was that it was patently clear that Martha was OK. She was getting more sex than a particularly randy adolescent bunny, and she’d never looked better in her life – her new shaggy crop really did suit her, as did the new clothes and jewellery. But were Mr and Mrs Evergreen convinced? They were
not. They insisted on calling Martha every day to ask how she was. Martha went to great lengths to reassure them that she was ‘very happy’, but they couldn’t accept this. So they added insult to injury by ringing Eliza at work just so that she could confirm that Martha ‘really was OK and not trying to protect us. Because she’s very considerate like that.’

Bloody hell, what about Eliza? No one asked if she was OK. She wasn’t getting stacks of sex; in fact she wasn’t getting any sex. She wasn’t blowing a small fortune on clothes every single Saturday. Her hair wasn’t growing into an oh-so-wonderful-suits-you-why-didn’t-you-always-wear-it-like-that style. In fact the reverse was true. Whilst Martha was experimenting with a wilder, unbridled look, Eliza was battling to tame her feral locks. She’d rashly had her hair cut into a severe crop. It was supposed to draw attention to her elfin features, but she looked as though she’d just done a six-month stint in Holloway. It didn’t work and she wanted to cry every time she looked in the mirror.

Just because she’d left Greg, it didn’t follow that she was over him. They were together for four years, after all. And they may not have been married but they were as good as. To all intents and purposes he was the first proper love of her life. And if the men she had dated since were a representative selection – and she feared they were – there was a serious possibility that he would be the only love of her life.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

There he was. Just standing at the checkout in Boots,
buying shaving cream as though that was a normal thing to do. But it wasn’t normal. Not when him standing there stole her breath away; her lungs collapsed as though they were deflating balloons. Eliza had been on eight dinner dates and six lunches. She’d visited the cinema four times, she’d seen three concerts, she’d been bowling twice, and she’d even played a game of squash; not one of the eligible men that Martha had introduced her to had caused a fanfare to explode in her heart, or even done as much as put a swing in her step. She was not passionate about any of them.

And she was putting on weight.

‘Wow, Greg.’ She leaned in to hug him because it was more natural to touch him than not to. Greg looked and smelt and felt familiar, yet strange. Familiar, like home. Strange, like a beautiful new piece of furniture in the home.

‘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.