The Other Woman's Shoes (5 page)

Martha drove them to her favourite tea shop in Holland Park, which was actually a bookshop, but at the back of the store there were two or three tables and one large comfortable settee upholstered in tasteful Liberty print. The overall ambience the store manager was trying to create was that of old-world dusty academia; in fact everything in the store was clean and brand new, which meant it looked charming but there was less chance of dust mites. Martha thought it was perfect. The only tea that was available was camomile or Earl Grey. As Eliza had left Caffè Bianchi in a huffy hurry simply because they couldn’t offer her so much as PG Tips, she settled into an armchair and prepared herself to be impressed.

Martha insisted on taking Maisie with her as she went to order two Earl Greys. Eliza thought this made Martha’s task unnecessarily tricky but couldn’t be bothered to say so. Instead, she picked up one of the glossy magazines that were spread across the coffee table for customer perusal, and immediately flicked to the horoscope page. It wasn’t her fault she was an Aquarian, it was beyond her control.

Martha carefully lowered the teas on to the table, lowered Maisie into a high chair, passed her a rusk and then sat, or rather collapsed, into the chair opposite her sister.

‘Listen to this, Martha,’ said Eliza with ill-concealed excitement. ‘“You certainly could be short of cash if you fail to pay attention to your finances. It would be a good
idea to double-check your bank statements.” That is
so
weird, because the cash machine has just refused me any money – I must be overdrawn again.’

‘There’s nothing weird about that, Eliza. You’re always overdrawn,’ said Martha matter-of-factly, glad that she’d picked up the tab for the drinks. ‘I don’t know why you pay any attention to those horoscopes, it’s hardly scientific.’

‘Well, you would say that, you’re a Virgo. Virgos are very sceptical.’

Martha raised her eyebrows but said nothing. It was a shame that Eliza relied on such mumbo-jumbo to find her direction in life. She seemed so together in other ways. Martha was far luckier. If she had a problem she did not consult horoscopes, tarot cards or tea leaves. She discussed it with Michael, and he was always so good about offering advice.

‘“If you were born between the tenth and the eighteenth of February you may be questioning if the partner who is currently by your side is still the one for you.” Now that’s spooky,’ said Eliza in awe.

‘Are you and Greg having problems?’ asked Martha, immediately fretful. She didn’t like the idea of anyone having problems; it didn’t suit her view of life, and she didn’t like the idea of her sister having problems most of all.

‘Sort of.’ Eliza sighed and sipped her tea. It tasted like cat’s piss and she missed the strong Bianchi espresso, but she wasn’t going to admit as much, least of all to herself. ‘We’re not arguing or anything,’ she confessed. ‘I’m just bored, I suppose. Do you ever feel bored by Michael?’

‘No, never,’ replied Martha, without thinking about the question.

‘And I find him really irritating at the moment. Does Michael ever irritate you?’

‘Never.’ Martha didn’t miss a beat. She didn’t have the confidence to find anyone irritating, so she certainly couldn’t imagine a world where her husband would irritate her. Well, except for the other Friday night, but that didn’t count. Martha didn’t know why that didn’t count but she was sure it didn’t.

‘See,’ said Eliza, believing that she’d proved her point. Martha didn’t see but didn’t know how to say so. ‘I think I’ve out-grown him. I think I’ll have to call it a day. Cash in my chips,’ added Eliza, resigned.

‘But what will you do without him?’ asked Martha, astounded and more than a little disappointed. She’d rather thought that Eliza and Greg were well suited to one another, and she’d been pleased that Eliza had managed to sustain a relationship for four years. Before Greg, Eliza’s relationships had only ever lasted a couple of months, at most. Greg and Eliza had always seemed so happy together, they certainly laughed together more than any other couple that Martha knew. And whilst Martha had long given up hope that Eliza would do anything as conventional as marry Greg (and therefore allow Maisie to be flower girl and Mathew a page boy – one of Martha’s greatest ambitions) she had thought that they’d last. Martha firmly believed people were better
in
relationships than
out
of them. It was neater that way; as it should be. ‘Won’t you be lonely without him?’

‘Well, I’ll still have my friends, my work, you. He isn’t
all-consuming, you know.’ No man had ever been so to Eliza. She was rarely in one place long enough to establish a relationship, let alone lose her heart. When she’d first started seeing Greg she hadn’t expected to stay in London for longer than six months – she was on her way to Australia – but staying just sort of happened. They were always having too much of a laugh for her to apply for a visa, and then she’d got a job in the music industry, the first job that held any real interest for her. She was doing really well. Not much more than a glorified gofer, but she was well liked and well respected. She took her work seriously – well, fairly seriously. She still wasn’t great on filing or invoicing or timekeeping, but she tried. She wasn’t sure if Greg ever took anything seriously. ‘He’s no longer what I’m looking for.’

‘So what are you looking for?’ asked Martha, wiping Maisie’s mouth without taking her eyes off Eliza.

Eliza beamed. She couldn’t wait to tell Martha about her recent emotional developments. The fact that she wanted a little more of what Martha had was bound to gain Martha’s respect and approval. ‘I’m looking for a man who wants to be a man, not just a boy. One with a proper job and his own flat. One that I could visualize shopping in Mothercare.’

Martha’s jaw hit the shiny (fake) wooden floor. ‘You do?’

‘I do. I want a man who buys a monthly Travelcard, rather than one who has to scramble around in his rucksack for loose change every single time he takes the Tube. For that matter, I don’t want a man with a rucksack, I want a man with a briefcase and a laptop.’

‘I see,’ said Martha, choosing her words carefully, trying not to betray her astonishment. ‘Well, I’ll say one thing for you, Eliza, you never cease to surprise me.’

‘I knew you’d be pleased.’ Eliza grinned, oblivious to Martha’s reserve. She checked her watch, realized she was in serious danger of being late for work for the third time that week, made her excuses, kissed her sister and niece and left the tea shop, relieved that she didn’t have to drink any more cat’s piss.

Martha finished her tea and then struggled to put Maisie back into the stroller. Maisie resisted by making her tiny body absolutely rigid, like a steel bar, refusing to sink her bottom into the chair. She wanted her mother to carry her. At only ten months, Maisie was able to communicate her needs and desires with astonishing clarity – something she must have inherited from her father, as Martha couldn’t imagine trying to force her will on anyone with such determination, even now. Maisie cried and screamed for a number of minutes, drawing disapproval from other tea-drinkers. Eventually she exhausted herself and collapsed into a sulky sleep. Martha felt the familiar knot of guilt tighten in her stomach. Maisie shouldn’t really be asleep at this time of day. She’d never have a lunchtime nap now, and if she didn’t have a lunchtime nap she’d be grouchy by the end of the day, and she’d need to go to bed early, which would mean she’d wake up early tomorrow, which would irritate Michael.

Oh dear.

Still, Maisie was asleep now and there was nothing Martha could do about that. Martha decided to try to
enjoy the rare luxury of peace and quiet. She would take the opportunity to browse around the bookshop.

Martha rummaged in her bag and pulled out a list of titles from her organizer, then proceeded to locate three of the books. Two were on the Booker prize shortlist that had just been announced, one was a Pulitzer winner. All should prove to be improving and educational. The writing styles would undoubtedly be graceful, confident and intelligent, as described by critics and advertised by the publishers.

Although they might be a little bit gloomy.

Martha shook her head as she thought that she’d got through just five books in nine months. She could remember the time when she’d read five books in a single month. Realistically, it would be unlikely that she would manage to plough though the three she’d just bought by Christmas.

Martha tried to remember what it was like to read a book entirely for pleasure, purely for entertainment. She looked at the huge stacks of books that screeched, ‘Have a laugh, read me.’ These were the ones with pink, turquoise or yellow covers, with little cartoon pictures of spangly handbags or overflowing champagne glasses. She allowed her finger to trace the embossed name of the author of one of them, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to pick it up. When would she have time to read something so entirely self-indulgent? She knew that the novels she had selected would at least be useful – they would no doubt be discussed at the dinner parties she attended.

Martha moved to the card rack. She fished in her handbag and produced another list. She needed a card for
Ed and Bel’s wedding anniversary, a ‘Welcome to your new home’ card for Michael’s aunt, a birthday card for Michael’s father. All tasteful. No bottoms, no breasts, no gags about wind. Her final purchase was a book for a little friend of Mathew’s. Mathew was going to a birthday party and would need to take a gift. Martha chose
The Hungry Caterpillar
, creatively stimulating and educational. Ideal. Martha always bought children books as presents.

Martha left the bookshop undisputedly on a high. She’d stopped fretting about Maisie sleeping at the wrong time of day and she knew that she was in plenty of time to pick up Mathew from playschool. She could go to the supermarket this afternoon. She’d managed to push the thought of Eliza’s imminent split from Greg out of her mind. She was very good at ignoring bad news. Retail therapy invariably helped and she was very pleased with today’s purchases, all of which were eminently considered. So sensible.

7

Eliza was woken up by something licking her face. If it was Greg he really had to see a hygienist. It wasn’t Greg, it was Dog. Dog was Greg’s spaniel, rescued from a dogs’ home two years ago. Dog’s life with Greg was anything but a dog’s life. Dog was spoilt rotten by both Greg and Eliza. Eliza worried that Dog was her child substitute, and she had no idea where Greg’s depth of feelings for Dog came from.

Dog was called Dog because they couldn’t agree on a name. Eliza had sighed and thought it was lucky they were never going to have a baby together, as it would probably end up being called Child, or Boy, or Girl.

‘OK, OK.’ Eliza gave in to Dog’s affectionate persistence. She swung her long legs out of bed and stretched her arms above her head.

‘Morning, Babe,’ mumbled Greg. He half opened one eye. ‘God, you look good, come back to bed.’

‘Someone has to feed Dog and take him for a walk,’ huffed Eliza. She wasn’t sure what she was most irritated about: missing out on a morning shag or facing the task of unearthing dog food in the filthy kitchen.

Eliza showered and dressed and then warily ventured into the kitchen. It always looked and smelt even worse than she anticipated, hygiene not being a great concern of Greg’s. She hunted around for an unpolluted fork and
thought despairingly about how depressing it was that one of the only washed items in the kitchen was Dog’s bowl and then only because it had been licked clean rather than felt the benefit of Fairy Liquid. Eliza scooped the foul-smelling dead horse into the bowl and gave it to Dog.

‘I shouldn’t have to do this, I’m a vegetarian,’ she yelled through to Greg who was, naturally, still in bed.

‘Since when?’

‘For ages, you just haven’t noticed.’

‘But you had a hotdog when we came out of that club the night before last.’

Eliza was momentarily stumped. ‘There’s hardly any meat in those,’ she called back defiantly.

‘And you had fish and chips last night,’ argued Greg. He now stood in the doorway of the kitchen, stark bollock naked, sleepily rubbing his eyes and lighting a cigarette. A complicated fusion of pleasure and displeasure shone and shot through Eliza’s chest. She couldn’t deny it – he was an adorable, sexy mix of boy/man. She fancied the hell out of him.

Literally.

If the hell-raiser were out of him, he’d be her perfect man.

Greg was tall and lean. He was in much better shape than he deserved to be, considering he existed entirely on a diet of takeaways, alcohol and tobacco. He wore his hair longer than was fashionable but somehow it suited him. He always needed a shave, even after he’d just had one.

He was so fuckable.

Although he did need a hair cut and their first-born would be called Child.

‘OK, I’m a pescarian then.’

‘I always thought you were Aquarius.’

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ commented Eliza. She reached for the previous evening’s
Evening Standard
and turned to the horoscopes. She was never sure if the day described was intended to be the same day the newspaper appeared, because that wouldn’t make much sense as everyone read the
Evening Standard
on their commute home from work, and by then there wasn’t much of the day left. Therefore the forecasts must be for the following day. To make sure, Eliza always read the newspaper on both days.

This is a great day for working at relationships. If you have identified areas that you need to pay attention to with a certain person, there’s no time like the present for getting going. Clear communication will only be possible if you are entirely honest, particularly with yourself.

The horoscope’s accuracy didn’t do much to cheer her up.

‘Look, I’m taking Dog for a run; you could make yourself useful by clearing away some of last night’s debris.’

As usual, Greg’s flat was littered with empty cans and chip wrappers. There were breakfast pots that had been accumulating for at least the last four days. Eliza was trying to ignore them but she was aware that the odds were she’d break before Greg noticed them and soon she’d don her rubber gloves. Greg looked around the kitchen in a manner that confirmed to Eliza that he genuinely couldn’t see the towering piles of dirty pots,
the overflowing black rubbish bag (there was no bin), the sticky gunk that decorated the lino or the grease on the hob. He did however see that the cereal box was empty.