The Other Woman's Shoes (38 page)

‘No, he’s a man, I’d be more worried if he did,’ giggled Martha. ‘Look, I have to go. Give the kids big kisses from me.’

‘I will.’

The line went dead. The sound of a disconnected phone was never a comforting one. Eliza wondered exactly when she and her sister had body-swapped.

And was it an irreversible transaction?

Eliza put the TV on again, but Mathew was too crafty to be palmed off that easily; he demanded compensation in the form of a Milky Way. Eliza tried to tell herself it was OK as long as she got him to clean his teeth afterwards.
She gave Maisie her beaker of milk, thus snatching five minutes of relative calm.

What had she been thinking of? How had she ever imagined that this life would suit her? There were some women who were cut out to be wives and mothers and run homes with clockwork precision. Just as there were some women who were indeed suited to hosting sensational dinner parties and managed to do so on a regular basis without so much as breaking a nail, let alone requiring the intervention of the fire brigade. She wasn’t one of them. She was a fantastic music-video editor (well, assistant; one day she
would
be a fantastic music-video editor). She was creative, responsive, tactful and organized at work, but she simply could not transfer those skills to running a home and a family.

She’d lived with Martha for six months now, and it had been a fruitful and interesting experiment. A change rather than a rest, but now all she wanted to do was get back to her own life. The life where she could spend her tiny wage on whatever she liked. Silly things, clothes, glittery nail varnish or fake tattoos. Last time she’d bought a fake tattoo, Martha had assumed it was a toy for Mathew. Eliza had felt too stupid and too old to use it after that. Eliza wanted the life back where she didn’t have to ring to explain that she was working late and wouldn’t be home for dinner. She understood that Martha required this information to run an efficient household, but Eliza simply didn’t want to be part of an efficient household. Eliza longed to come home loud and drunk and not have to worry about waking the children. She was finding it hard
to constantly have to worry about spelling out expletives rather than saying them. When she dropped a jar of extremely expensive Estée Lauder hand cream she’d had to shout S, H, one, T, B, U, double G, E, R, I, N, G, S, H, one, T, which simply didn’t offer the same therapeutic relief as just screaming out swear words. Eliza longed to eat a pot of yogurt without having to share it. It wasn’t that she was greedy, it was simply that yogurt tended to be less appetizing if it had baby snot and saliva in it, and just about everything in this house had baby snot and saliva in or on it. Dog appeared positively sanitary by comparison. Eliza missed Dog.

And she missed Greg.

God, she missed him. It was a relief admitting as much. Eliza knew she’d missed him almost from the moment that she’d closed the door of their flat behind her, but she hadn’t wanted to admit as much, least of all to herself. She’d missed him at every dinner table she’d sat at since, munching her way through delicious food and tedious conversation. She’d missed him every time she’d let someone else kiss her, run their fingers through her hair. She definitely missed him when she’d endured Charlie’s duff shag. She’d missed him every time she made a joke that she had to explain because no one got her sense of humour the way he did. She’d missed him when she bought a new CD, watched a new film, set the alarm clock.

Eliza sighed. She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t, she didn’t have a home any more. Greg was home. Their scruffy, tiny rented flat, full of mess and noise and love, was home. But it hadn’t been their flat for a long time.

42

‘’Ello, stranger. Signora Bianchi! Signora Bianchi! Look oo iz ’ere!’ Signor Bianchi wore a smile that tickled both his ears and, surprisingly, even managed to drown his vast moustache. He was collecting coffee cups from the bar when Eliza pushed the huge double buggy up towards the door. He abandoned his task and rushed forward to help her. ‘Let me ’elp you with dat. Signora Bianchi!’ he yelled over his shoulder with a tone that was excitement, but could have been mistaken as impatience.

Signora Bianchi emerged from the back of the shop, the area that was used as a mini kitchen. When she saw Eliza she threw her arms in the air and her fat flesh shuddered with excitement. ‘Our little girl!’ Her beam, which was broad, flashed and then instantly disappeared as she snapped, ‘Where you bin, eh? We bin worried about you.’ Not able to maintain her anger, she enveloped Eliza in a huge hug and pulled her into the enormous bosom. Eliza thought she might suffocate, but she couldn’t think of a better way to die. She choked back her tears. Signora Bianchi had emerged from behind the counter. Eliza felt honoured. ‘And who are de bambinos?’

‘My sister’s children. Mathew and Maisie. I’m looking after them whilst she’s on holiday.’

‘You are?’ asked Signora with surprise. She immediately recovered herself. ‘You are, of course, you are a good girl.
Greg, he tell us about de ’usband.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Bastardo. Come on, bella bambina, out of the pram, let Mama Bianchi see what she can find for you.’ Neither child had ever visited Caffè Bianchi before, but Mathew was shrewd enough to know that ‘let me see what I can find for you’ was code for the offer of a treat. Sweets or ice cream were imminent.

The huge double buggy wouldn’t fit conveniently anywhere in the narrow café. Eliza thought she might scream with frustration. She firmly believed that buggies, car seats, stair gates, etc. were all designed by mean, childless men whose main aim in life was to add to the stress levels of hassled mums. Signor Bianchi silently took charge. He carefully collapsed the buggy and took it out the back to store. He ushered Eliza on to a stool, and Signora Bianchi proceeded to make her a very milky cappuccino. She firmly believed Eliza needed the protein, she didn’t look well. Eliza smiled gratefully, and graciously accepted their help. The children were suddenly behaving like angels as they fell under the spell of Signora Bianchi’s home cooking. She handed them gooey, creamy pastries.

‘It’s difficult, eh, bein’ a mama?’ asked the Signora with a knowing wink.

Eliza mutely nodded her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I adore them. But visiting, even visiting frequently, is quite different to living with them. I used to think Martha exaggerated how hard it was being a full-time mum, but it’s impossible to exaggerate. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a mum.’

‘Not everyone is,’ smiled Signora kindly. ‘It’s no shame. You are an important, creative executive with biiiiiiiiggggg
job in the West End.’ Signora Bianchi waved her arms majestically to demonstrate just how big Eliza’s job was. Eliza shifted uncomfortably; she wasn’t sure if the Signora’s description of her job was strictly accurate. Although, thinking about it, the job was important, it was important to Eliza. ‘You work too ’ard, you look tired. You eatin’ properly?’ demanded the Signora.

Eliza smiled weakly. It was wonderful to be quizzed as to whether she was eating properly or not. Of course she was, she was dining at the finest restaurants in London a couple of times a week and Martha was never going to let her starve. But it was fantastic to be asked, it was a thrill that someone cared enough to worry about her. It felt more normal: Eliza was used to being a worry to everyone. She hadn’t realized what a strain it had become being the one who was less of a concern to her parents.

The problem was obvious. Whilst Eliza had thought she’d win everyone’s respect by leaving Greg and looking for a life a little more akin to Martha’s, she hadn’t realized that, in fact, she’d stunned her family by trying to squeeze herself into a life that she was patently unsuited to. They knew for sure that Eliza would not make a good wife to the captain of a golf club or a board director, although as the girlfriend to a struggling musician she was unsurpassable. Eliza was Greg’s muse, his inspiration, his manager, and his PalmPilot when necessary. Besides which, she was his love. And he hers. Or rather, he had been.

The Evergreens had thought it a shame that Eliza had undervalued her own choices so much that she’d decided to swap tack mid-course, but they had also known enough
about her character not to comment. They believed that, ultimately, she would find her own way again and they simply hoped that it wouldn’t take her too long, or be that awful thing that everyone dreaded – too late.

It had taken six months, countless dates and several badly designed baby accessories for Eliza to realize that a man with a pension policy and health-care insurance wasn’t necessarily the answer to her dreams. A wedding ring was not a lifebelt.

She admitted that a dishwasher was a useful accessory, but not as important to her as cable TV. She believed that supermarket shopping was better value for money and offered more choice than her local garage shop, but it wasn’t where she wanted to spend her Saturday afternoons. She’d like to own a car that could transport her from A to B without trailing petrol, but her dream car was still a pink Mustang, not a dark five-door saloon.

Eliza took a long slurp of her cappuccino; it tasted delicious. The Bianchis looked on with approval. ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ announced Eliza.

Signor Bianchi looked at the tiled floor; Signora Bianchi continued to stare at Eliza with her huge chocolate-brown eyes, slowly nodding her head up and down. ‘We know,’ tutted the Signora, ‘everyone know.’

‘I don’t want the things I thought I wanted. I want… I… I…’ Eliza stumbled on her words, swallowing her pride was choking her. ‘I want Greg.’

She wanted scruffy, sexy, smiley Greg. Because Greg cared about words and thoughts and music and the things she cared about. He didn’t give a monkey’s arse if Siberian-goose feathers were a better filler than Hungarian-duck
down for a quilt. He wasn’t fussed that he could have made a killing on some posh wine or other, if only he’d taken the ferry to France and filled up his car. So what if he should have invested in health in 1999 and not technology? They were unlikely ever to have enough money to buy any type of shares. She now knew what it was like to mix with people who bemoaned the lack of a good cleaner – mind-blowingly dull. These things may well be important, but not to her, not to Greg. The interest charged by the West on debts carried by the Third World
was
important, and Greg had once attended a rally demonstrating against that debt. Her sister’s happiness
was
important, and hadn’t Greg visited and called to try to cheer up Martha?

‘Does he still come in here?’ asked Eliza.

‘Yes, every day,’ smiled Signora Bianchi, and then suddenly her smile vanished. ‘Ohhh,’ she said, pulling her mouth into an oval with such ferocity that it looked as though she was in serious danger of swallowing her several chins.

‘Has he been in today?’ begged Eliza with barely contained excitement. If he hadn’t, she might see him and then she could explain that she’d been wrong, that she’d made a mistake, that she was really sorry, and that she didn’t mind about pizza boxes.

‘Yes, he bin today already,’ Signora Bianchi confirmed. She turned away from Eliza and started to wipe the bar surface.

‘What?’ demanded Eliza. Signora wouldn’t answer; Eliza looked to the Signor but suddenly he was preoccupied with the children. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

‘He come in every day and recently, the last week or maybe two weeks, he sometimes brings in a lady.’

Eliza felt desolate. The welcoming café suddenly felt like a cold, damp hell.

43

The weather was rudely cold and inhospitable. Martha had imagined that New York, New York – so good they say it twice – would only ever have sunny pavements; except of course when the snow settled for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day, as per all the films she’d ever seen set in the Big Apple. She’d packed in accordance with her imagination, and without consulting the weather forecasts on the Internet. The rain bounced off the pavement and back up their trouser legs – she didn’t care. They’d taken shelter in a Starbucks coffee house and were trying to pretend that there weren’t any branches of Starbucks in London, when in reality there was one on every street corner. They’d made the necessary jokes about living in a global village and the world becoming a smaller place. Still, whilst Martha admitted that the menu, branding and staff uniforms were identical to those in the Starbucks back home, she thought that the experience was entirely different.

Martha threw herself into a large, squishy leather armchair and put her feet on the coffee table in front of her. Slobbing out this way always brought to mind the shrill questioning of her teachers at primary school: ‘Would you put your feet like that on your furniture at home?’ No, categorically no; that was why sitting like this in a café was so liberating, and why Martha was prepared to pay three
dollars per coffee for the experience. Martha watched the floor show (the other customers) as she waited for Jack to come back with their drinks.

There was a beautifully preserved woman in her sixties who was reading Anais Nin and had, contrary to popular belief about the habits of US citizens, decided to grow old gracefully rather than hand her savings to a surgeon who would scoop up her jawline. There was a homeless guy who spoke with a heavy Irish accent, although Martha couldn’t tell if it was real or put on for the benefit of tourists. He played the harmonica badly and so everyone gave him a dollar just for him to go away. There were a number of cool and clever-looking couples. Kids reading books or playing with GameBoys. They wore beanie hats, sweats with slogans and baggy jeans.

Martha realized that if any of the other customers were gazing around the coffee house, she’d look like she fitted in. Which was a good thing, because she felt as though she should fit in here – a coffee house full of fun, trendy people and women destined to grow old with no regrets. Martha was wearing a denim hat, a tight red T-shirt with the words ‘Drunknmunky’ emblazoned across the place where her boobs would be if she had any, and tight Diesel pants. She looked funky. Hot. Damn hot. Martha tapped her finger in time with Nina Simone crooning in the background.