The Other Woman's Shoes (12 page)

Typically, it went something like this. As Martha pushed open the front door Eliza handed her a glass of wine and demanded, ‘So what the fuck has the Guru had to say for himself tonight?’

Eliza had taken to calling Michael ‘the Guru’ since he had explained to Martha that he was ‘going through some sort of crisis and needed to find some answers about himself’. ‘No kidding, we bloody knew that already,’ Eliza had shouted when Martha had related the comment. Martha always regretted telling Eliza what Michael had said. Eliza invariably trivialized it. Perhaps something was lost in the retelling because, when Michael had said as much to Martha, Martha had thought he’d initiated a very positive breakthrough.

‘Please don’t swear so much in front of the children.’

‘They’re in bed.’

‘Well, in front of me then,’ Martha had urged.

‘I can’t help it, Martha, he makes me mad. You can’t just up and off, after ten years, and give no reason for it.’

‘He has given a reason: he said he was unhappy.’

‘And why is he unhappy? When did he realize he was unhappy?’

These were, of course, questions Martha had asked
herself – more or less constantly – since Michael left. She was no closer to stumbling on any answers.

Eliza fumed. What was all this talk about being happy, for God’s sake? He was married, wasn’t he? He couldn’t expect to be happy all the time. Didn’t he know anything about the real world? And to add insult to injury, since he’d walked away from his wife and children, there was the way he handled the subsequent situation. Or, rather, the fact that he entirely ignored the situation. Martha’s every moment was consumed by thinking about their relationship, trying to understand it, rationalize it, excuse it and fix it. Whilst Michael claimed that he was too busy at work to give his floundering marriage any real thought.

‘If this had happened to me there wouldn’t be any of this “talking it through” bollocks. It would be straight down to the Citizens Advice Bureau for the name of a good family solicitor,’ shouted Eliza.

‘But we’re not alike, and it didn’t happen to you, and you aren’t me,’ argued Martha.

Thank God, muttered Eliza to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to be sympathetic. ‘OK, so tell me what was said tonight.’

‘Actually, I’m much closer to understanding why he is unhappy.’

‘And why is that?’ (Gritted teeth.)

‘Our constant rowing and my being a nag distresses him. Also, he doesn’t see enough of his friends.’ (Brave, bogus smile.)

Eliza was momentarily speechless, and then she resorted to her favoured form of expression. ‘Jesus, what fucking bullshit, Martha.’

‘Eliza.’ Martha pointed frantically to the ceiling. Eliza’s profane outburst was surely enough to make their grandparents spin in their graves, so it was certainly more than enough to rouse the curiosity of a light-sleeping toddler.

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

‘Well, we have argued a lot recently.’ Martha was in the habit of agreeing with Michael. She’d done so for a long time.

‘You argued because he was always out,
and
you’d been left on your own to manage the children,
and
Mathew has been a handful,
and
Maisie has had colic,
and
Michael has insisted you get down the gym in order to achieve the perfect figure,
and
he sent you around estate agents to find the perfect dream home,
and
it’s all been too much for you.’ Each ‘and’ was delivered in an ever shriller tone of mounting indignation.

‘Maybe, but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like my rowing and complaining. That’s why he’s been going out so much.’

‘Didn’t it cross his mind to stay in and help you?’

‘No.’

‘And what’s that nonsense about not seeing enough of his friends? He wouldn’t see anything of his friends if it weren’t for you. You’re the one that invites people over for dinner, you plan picnics at the weekend, you arrange trips to the cinema, you remember your friends’ birthdays and the names of their children.’

‘I know, but he wants to see more of his male friends on his own. He does work very hard, terribly long hours.’

‘Yeah, most of them in restaurants.’

‘It’s progress,’ insisted Martha.

‘Oh whoopee do,’ sighed Eliza.

Martha looked hurt and Eliza regretted her flippancy.

‘I need to fight for him,’ Martha insisted.

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s my husband and that’s what people do. They fight for their husbands.’ Although she doubted Eliza would be able to understand. She’d never been married. Surely she was right, as his wife and the mother of his children, surely she should do absolutely anything, anything at all to try to save her marriage. Even if it sometimes felt that she was the only person in the world old-fashioned enough to believe this.

She loved him.

Whilst hating him.

Loved or hated him? It was almost impossible to know.

Eliza was so frustrated. Frustrated with Michael, primarily, for being such a weak, disappointing bastard, and frustrated with her sister for pandering to his behaviour. Eliza hadn’t been aware that she resented Michael’s lifestyle so much. It had occasionally crossed her mind that her sister had somehow been transported back to the 1950s, but she hadn’t questioned Martha’s role – in fact she’d sometimes coveted it. Certainly select bits of it. Not having to work had its advantages. Eliza envied Martha for not having to worry about the moods of a premenstrual boss, not having to battle with commuters every morning and evening, not having to raise pesky purchase orders that never tallied with the subsequent invoices. In comparison, pottering around with the children in the park, painting pictures, baking cakes, it all seemed a doddle. Besides which, Martha had always appeared happy. Eliza hadn’t
wanted, or needed, to interfere. After all, what did Eliza know about marriage, especially someone else’s?

But even a blind, deaf, mute alien could now see what her sister apparently couldn’t. Michael was now being an unreasonable, irresponsible, arrogant twat.

Oh, she felt better for saying that, even though she’d said it only in her head.

On an almost daily basis, Eliza encouraged Martha to change tack. She argued that Martha had tried being bright and beautiful, rational and reserved, tolerant and stoical, but Michael hadn’t responded. So why not try something more confident and seize back some control? (By which Eliza meant Martha must stop acting like a doormat, though she managed to resist saying as much.)

‘You should make yourself unavailable. You should go out more. You can’t stay tied to the telephone for the rest of your days.’ Martha shot Eliza a horrified look. ‘Not that this – err – issue will last the rest of your days but… err…’ Eliza gave up; her grave was deep enough.

‘But where would I go and who with? I don’t have any real friends.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Well, none I can talk to at the moment.’

‘That’s because you’ve chosen not to tell them about your situation. If you were more honest with them you might find you had more support.’ And in fact Eliza was slightly fed up of being the only person who Martha turned to, to obsess about her situation. Eliza was Martha’s sister and as such her best friend, but as her sister, she was also entitled to dish out the healthiest dose of straight-talking.

‘But it would be so humiliating. Michael is bound to come home soon. I couldn’t stand a lifetime of condescending looks, of their sympathy and smugness. Imagine if everyone knew I’d taken him back after such a–’

‘Brutal rejection.’ Eliza finished the sentence for her. ‘I don’t think you’re being fair to your friends. I think you’ll find people are a lot more sympathetic than you imagine.’

But Martha couldn’t tell anyone. She felt such a failure, such an idiot. She didn’t even know why he’d left. She didn’t understand it. She knew she wasn’t perfect, but who was? She’d always tried her best. Tried so damned hard. They’d said ‘until death do us part’. They’d said ‘for better, for worse’. She’d meant it. Surely if the worst they’d had was a few sleepless nights and a bout of colic they should have been able to get through this. Rows are healthy. You read of couples who stand by each other through appalling situations – illness, redundancy, infertility, death. Some couples weathered storms – how was she going to admit that he’d buggered off at the first sign of drizzle? She worried that if she told people Michael had left simply because he was unhappy, they would assume she was hiding some crucial piece of information. They’d suspect that she’d had a torrid affair, or that she was an alcoholic, or that she was hiding a gambling addiction, or something equally dramatic.

Or worse. They’d mistakenly think that Michael was a spineless, irresponsible coward, because from the outside – if you didn’t really know Michael – Martha could see how someone might jump to this conclusion. After all, it wasn’t really very nice leaving your wife and kids, was it? It would have been more responsible and more
courageous to stay and try to put things right. Martha didn’t want people thinking she was married to a spineless, irresponsible coward. Besides which, by not telling anyone Martha could try to pretend it wasn’t happening. If she didn’t answer the telephone or accept any invites, if she stayed indoors and alone, she might just be able to make time stand still. She just might.

‘I don’t want to go out with anyone else. I don’t want to see anyone else,’ Martha repeated.

Eliza sighed. She fundamentally disagreed with her sister and wondered when it would become appropriate to say so. Was a marriage worth fighting for just because it was a marriage? She bit her tongue. ‘Well, OK then. But maybe you shouldn’t let him off the hook so easily. Maybe you should demand some answers. Make him think about what he’s doing,’ she suggested.

Martha was desperate and tired. Her patience was slowly beginning to ebb away. Perhaps Eliza was right that Michael would respect her more if she were more exacting. And Michael did need help. Martha was considering the serious possibility that he’d had a breakdown, it sounded more feasible than the body snatchers having got him. It was true that she was getting nowhere fast with this current strategy. Every time Martha ticked off a day in her diary she felt and feared her marriage was slipping from her grasp.

So Martha changed tack. She took the fourth date as an opportunity to quiz, grill and cross-examine Michael relentlessly. She clawed at the open wound that was their separation and found that she’d shown the measure of
her hurt and frustration even before the waiter took their order. This new approach didn’t help either; if anything it made matters worse. Martha hadn’t thought it was possible, but Michael became more and more distant and withdrawn over the evening.

‘When did you stop loving me?’ she demanded repeatedly. She believed that if she knew this much she’d be able to fix things. She’d be able to go back to the time and the Martha that he did love.

‘I haven’t.’ He sighed and he wished Martha would leave off. He hated having a responsibility to this woman. This woman he wasn’t
in
love with any more. He hadn’t wanted his life to turn out this way. He’d wanted to stay in love with her but he wasn’t.

‘So you do still love me.’ Martha couldn’t hide her eagerness.

‘Yes, in a way. You’re my best friend.’

‘That’s enough, isn’t it?’ Martha begged, hopefully.

Why did she do this to herself? Michael wondered. ‘No. I don’t want to stay with you just because I’m used to you,’ he sighed reluctantly.

His words punched her in the stomach. Martha was flattened. She was lying face down in the boxing ring, the taste of blood in her mouth, the voice of the referee ringing in her ears. Martha took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was down, but not out. ‘What did I do wrong?’ she cried miserably.

Michael didn’t answer.

‘Am I a bad mother?’

‘You’re a perfect mother,’ he affirmed.

‘Am I a bad wife?’

‘No, you’re a perfect wife.’

‘So loving me, my being your best friend, my being a perfect mother and wife, and the fact that we have two children together isn’t enough for you?’ demanded Martha.

‘No, it’s not. Something’s missing.’

‘You greedy bastard.’ Martha wasn’t sure how it happened. It must have been reflex but she threw her glass of wine at him.

That was their last date.

Martha couldn’t see the point in arranging another. She doubted Michael would agree to go out with her again. He hated scenes and wouldn’t be able to forgive her for the spectacle in the restaurant. Besides which, when they’d been to the cinema together the previous week, he’d flinched when he accidentally touched his knee against hers, his wife’s. Martha thought she might vomit with the pain.

That night she lay in bed alone, no longer even expecting or hoping to sleep. What he’d said about her being a perfect wife and mother but that still not being enough for him was worse than his leaving. It was crueller than his complaints. If he thought she was the perfect wife and mother but still didn’t want her, then what he was saying was her best simply wasn’t good enough. She’d spent ten years trying her best, wanting to impress Michael, wanting him to feel proud of her, wanting him to validate her – and she’d failed.

The last four weeks had been pure hell.

After the wine-throwing incident, Martha had sworn to
Eliza that she wouldn’t make contact any more with Michael, and that she’d simply wait until he contacted her. Eliza hoped he would because Martha hoped it, but she wasn’t banking on it. Martha had shown remarkable restraint for all of four days (it felt like four years) and then today the estate agent had called Martha asking if she could clarify why there was a delay on the exchange of contracts. Was there a problem he could help with? Martha had wanted to shout, ‘Yes there is a sodding problem, but no, you can’t help. Not unless you can turn back time.’ Instead she called Michael.

She hadn’t planned to be at all emotional. She’d vowed she wouldn’t cry. She would try not to berate him about his lack of responsibility (because whilst most of Martha had been shocked and horrified at herself, for flinging wine in a restaurant, a tiny little bit of her found it liberating, she could easily imagine it becoming addictive). She would quell her anger. She’d be aloof, calm, entirely Lauren Bacall. So she was as surprised as Eliza was to find herself regressing to hysterical sobbing and pleading for Michael’s return.