The Other Woman's Shoes (17 page)

Michael’s visits to see the children had been less than satisfactory. He often arrived late, he always left early. His excuse was invariably the same: he was tired; he was so busy at work. Somehow Michael had managed to claw his
way up to the moral high ground. He repeatedly insisted that Martha was hysterical and impossible to talk to.

Which was true, and therefore it was rude of him to draw attention to the fact.

Martha was frustrated, angry and bewildered – which tended to manifest itself in hysteria. She bounced from tears, to remorse, to fury, as though she were a premenstrual, pre-exam, mid-acne-outbreak adolescent. Despite this rainbow of emotions, she still could not bring herself to regret the wine-throwing incident.

Michael thought this was proof of her hysteria.

Eliza thought this was progress.

Martha didn’t know what to think.

‘I see you’ve bought a computer,’ commented Michael on this particular evening. He and Martha were standing in the kitchen, but to know that she had a computer he must have been into the dining room. Martha wasn’t hosting any dinner parties at the moment, and the family had taken to eating in the kitchen – it was cosier – so the computer was set up in the dining room. Eliza had wanted to put it in Michael’s den, but Martha wouldn’t hear of it. She preserved the den as though it were a shrine, even though dusting the collection of over 100 Matchbox cars was a fiddly job. So, then, it was yet another contradiction that Martha felt ever so slightly irritated that Michael had been poking around the house. Which was silly, of course. It was, after all, still Michael’s house, it was still their home and Martha wanted it to be so.

It was just that recently it had seemed more hers than theirs.

Of course he could snoop wherever he chose, including in the dining room. After all, Martha had no secrets.

Except for the stack of washing that needed to be ironed, which – as luck would have it – she had hurriedly stashed in the dining room; it was a bit shame-making that Michael would know that she was behind on her ironing. She had never let things slip so dramatically when he lived at home but, recently, doing the ironing no longer struck her as a genuine priority. Martha blushed on the inside; she didn’t like him thinking of her as less than perfect.

Suddenly, somehow, his presence seemed a little intrusive.

‘No, actually, I didn’t buy it. Eliza bought it for me. Don’t you think that was generous?’ smiled Martha, trying to put the vision of crumpled washing out of her mind.

‘Well, she is living here rent-free.’

‘Would you like my email address? I’m finding surfing on the Internet fascinating, and there are some great educational sites for Mathew.’ Education was Michael’s big thing as far as the children were concerned. She didn’t bother to explain that she wouldn’t dream of taking money for rent off her own sister. ‘And I have a mobile.’ Martha held up her handset.

Michael took it from her and swiftly appraised it with an expert eye trained in assessing gizmos and gadgets. ‘Top of the range. Has Eliza won the Lottery?’

Martha was hurt. She’d secretly hoped that Michael would be impressed with her modernity. He spent hours on the Internet and she’d thought, hoped, he’d be pleased with her for taking an interest in something new. He’d
often suggested that she needed a hobby. Although Lord knows how Martha had been supposed to find time for a hobby when Michael lived at home. But he didn’t congratulate her, or ask for her mobile number, nor did he seem to notice that she was wearing make-up. Which was a shame, because he’d often encouraged her to make more of herself, and now that she had made an effort… he was oblivious to it.

Martha shoved the thought from her mind and tried to tune into what he was saying, tried to find it interesting.

Michael had talked a lot about money recently. He’d asked how much Mathew’s new shoes had cost, and muttered that it seemed to be only five minutes since they’d bought the last pair. Which was almost true; that was growing children for you. He’d checked the phone bill and observed that maybe Martha should make an effort to call her parents after 6 p.m. When she told him what she was buying Maisie for her birthday he remarked that their daughter would be happier with a cardboard box, and it would be a lot cheaper. It was a comment that’s often made about children, but in Maisie’s case it wasn’t true: she really didn’t like cardboard boxes; she really liked plastic toys with bells and buttons.

‘I’ve sent out the invites for Maisie’s party next week,’ said Martha. ‘We made them ourselves – Maisie, Mathew and, well, me. Me mostly, but it was very jolly.’ Martha showed Michael an invite. It was a piece of pink card cut into the shape of a balloon; Mathew had added glitter and stickers, Maisie had added fingerprints and saliva. They’d had a lovely, squabble-free afternoon making them and Martha was really proud of the results. But looking at
them now, as Michael was looking at them, they looked tatty and amateur.

‘Very nice,’ murmured Michael, just as he had muttered that the weather was ‘very nice’, the biscuits Martha had baked were ‘very nice’, the colour she’d painted the hall was ‘very nice’. Martha wasn’t sure how it was possible that the words ‘very nice’ could sound so bored, so critical.

Martha had been thinking a lot about Maisie’s birthday. Every little baby’s first birthday was obviously a very significant date, but to Martha this particular birthday was monumental. How was it possible that only a year ago Michael had counted the seconds between Martha’s contractions, told her she was a clever girl, told her he was proud of her, cried with pleasure when the midwife put Maisie into his arms… and now he lived alone in a hotel? How was it possible? Martha didn’t know the answer but she was determined to correct the situation. She was determined to get Michael to come home. To put a stop to this silliness.

She had planned a surprise for Michael. Three years ago her grandmother had died and left her and Eliza a small inheritance. Michael had insisted that Martha open a post-office account and put the money there. He’d insisted that she didn’t squander it on kids’ toys or clothes. He’d wanted her to buy something important and meaningful with it. Something of her own to remember her grandmother by. Which was lovely of him and proved that he’d once loved her very much.

Which surely meant he could love her again, didn’t it?

Martha had thought that she’d spend the money on a
special piece of furniture once they’d bought their dream home; she’d thought a family dining table and set of chairs would be appropriate. However, Martha was beginning to get nervous that if she didn’t do something radical they might never live in a dream home, not the Bridleway, not any sort of way.

So that morning Martha had been to the post office and withdrawn all the money. Then she’d visited a travel agent and booked a one-week holiday for all four of them at Disneyland Paris. She’d spared no expense. She bought first-class train tickets. She chose the best hotel, bought day passes for the park, and secured a babysitter for two of the evenings so that she and Michael could dine alone. She’d booked the train for the day after Maisie’s party, so they’d travel on her actual birthday.

Surely Michael would be moved. It was exactly what they both needed, all needed. Michael just needed to remember how wonderful it was being a family. The last few months had been cruel and angry and not representative. They needed to have some good times to restore the family equilibrium, jog the memory away from past troubles. They’d often talked about taking the kids to Disneyland. They’d agreed that the flight to America was far too long for young children, and so they’d planned to go to Paris when Maisie was two and a half and Mathew four. Martha and Michael had agreed on this plan because the children would appreciate the trip more at that age; Mathew might even remember it when he got older. They were great planners.

But now Martha had decided to throw caution to the
wind. She was certain that this trip was her ace card in winning the game of bringing Michael home.

The tickets sat behind the mug stand, on a unit, in the kitchen. Martha felt her eye being irresistibly drawn to them; she was so excited. She couldn’t wait to present him with the tickets. She’d spent the day in a state of heightened anticipation, simply imagining the pleasure on his face.

Michael had come round to read the children a bedtime story. Martha’s plan was to offer him a glass of wine and then spring the surprise gift on him. She knew he’d be delighted with the gesture and the actual holiday. It was odd how the household responsibilities seemed to have naturally divided over the years. Michael always booked the holidays; it was his job. Martha was sure that he’d be thrilled to be treated in this way, for someone else to take over his responsibility. The same as she would be thrilled if he ever cooked a meal for her. Or emptied the dishwasher. Or put petrol in the car.

In fact one of Martha’s biggest fantasies was Michael bathing the kids, drying them, putting on the creams and nappies, massaging in the vapour rub, battling to clean their teeth, warming their milk, putting them into their pyjamas, feeding them milk, reading them a bedtime story and getting them to settle in bed. Since he’d left home, he had on three occasions arrived in time to read a story, but in almost three years of parenthood Martha had never known him to complete the full routine from bath to bed.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she offered.

‘Yes, that would be very nice,’ replied Michael.

Martha wished his brain would tell his face that he
thought the idea was
very nice
because, to be honest, he looked as miserable as ill-fitting shoes.

God, where does this impatience come from? thought Martha. I haven’t even had a glass of Chardonnay yet.

She carried on with her plan. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Maisie’s birthday,’ she said. She felt a flutter of nervous excitement; she loved giving gifts, she really did. She liked choosing the gift, wrapping it up, adored attaching bows and ribbons and always used far too many. Her gifts often ended up looking like Easter bonnets made by eight-year-olds. She loved springing surprises, and she had an overwhelming conviction that this was going to be the best gift, a real cracker, a gift that was going to draw her family back together.

‘Yes, I want to talk about that too,’ Michael said, and then he fell silent, not showing any inclination to talk about anything at all.

Martha took this as her cue. ‘I’ve planned a –’ she gushed.

‘I want a divorce,’ he interrupted.

‘Surprise,’ she completed. The word hung uselessly in the air.

‘After the party,’ he added finally.

He said he hated having failed at his marriage, but it was better than failing at life, because you only get one life, and his just wasn’t any fun any more.

The wedding photo was a lie. The house was a lie. Their holidays together were lies. The children and hamster probably didn’t exist. What was this man saying now?

He was telling her that it was expensive to stay in a hotel; he was saying that he thought he ought to rent a
flat, which seemed horrible, final. He was telling her that he’d been unhappy before he’d left and that the rows since he’d left had exasperated him further. He couldn’t imagine how they’d ever find a way to a reconciliation.

She heard herself tell him about Disneyland Paris. He spat out a peculiar sound, like a sea lion, a shocked indignant sound, and he replied that he couldn’t bring himself to spend seven hours with her, let alone seven days, not now. She heard herself shout that he had to spend seven days with her because she was his wife, his wife, his wife.

He repeated that he wanted a divorce. That she hadn’t been listening to him, not for months now. She repeated that she was his wife, his wife. He shrugged and looked pitying.

Finally she stopped repeating the word. It sounded ridiculous, she’d said it so often. Wife was apparently a defunct currency.

He was right; Martha hadn’t been listening to him. She was sure that this separation was just a silly spat. An early mid-life crisis thing. A tiff that had got out of hand. An issue that they could, and would, solve. They were married.
Married
. People didn’t just stop being married. Well of course they did, but not people like Martha. Not Martha. Martha had always believed marriage was for ever. That’s what she’d believed and she’d believed it with her heart. Her
heart
. Until that moment Martha hadn’t given that much thought to her heart, beyond keeping it in good repair by choosing low-cholesterol spreads and knowing she should be drinking red wine rather than white (but still drinking white anyway – it didn’t stain her teeth). As
for the notion that the heart was more than an organ that pumped blood around her body, that it was a source of great romantic emotion, well, it wasn’t scientific, was it?

She hadn’t understood what people meant when they said they were heartbroken, particularly as the phrase was often used of a minor disappointment. ‘They didn’t have the shoes I liked in my size, I was heartbroken’; ‘Someone scratched his car, he was heartbroken’; ‘Man U are two-one down to Leeds, it’s heartbreaking.’ The constant repetition had absolutely silenced the expression. And anyway it wasn’t
scientific
.

She heard her heart shatter. She felt it crumble to dust. At that moment Martha wondered how she’d ever be able to tell the children that the world was a good place, that telling the truth was best, that being kind was essential, that a happily-ever-after was possible. As unfashionable as it sounded, she’d always believed in goodness, truth and kindness. She thought she was living in the happily-ever-after. But what was the point of giving to charity, helping old ladies in supermarkets, always having time to listen to your friends, cooking, cleaning, caring and cherishing your husband if things could still turn out so ugly? Her belief in people, in goodness, in truth, in kindness, in her life was entirely based on the fact that she and Michael were happy.

And now he’d pissed on it. The whole show. He’d pissed on it.